Chapter Text
She has always surprised him.
Is still surprising him, even after all this time, after all they have been through together. She’s been a particular triumph to discover, to puzzle out, to learn over the years—and a frustration at times too, if he’s honest.
The living weapon he met in those early months, and once sought to wield himself, has long since become, in a word, more. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Hells, none of this was. Hands that were only supposed to shake once in agreement, now firmly clasped together, sweat-slicked and longing.
She has her more chaotic, unknowable, and frankly odd moments, but he has learnt how to deal with it all. She is silk laid over a serrated blade. However, she has become a kindred spirit in so many ways he was not expecting. A hand-crafted match.
Tonight, she’s here in his chambers once more, perched on one of his knees as she thumbs through a sketchbook on his desk. She had declined his offer of a proper chair when she arrived earlier via the terrace windows as per her custom—for once blessedly clean of the aftermath of her calling—instead opting to sit herself down on him and casually respond- ‘This will do’.
“As you wish, you infuriating woman” was his response, slipping a hand around her hip to steady her.
After making herself comfortable, she had begun by regaling him with the tale of how she dealt with a little problem of his for him the previous night—but sparing some of the grislier details of how she sent that thorn in his side to her Father’s embrace. One less irritation to concern himself with, thanks to her, once again.
And when she was done, he gave her his challenge. “Here. I have something for you to look at.”
And now, he sips at some whisky as he watches her study the schematics. He offers her no hints, but it does not take long for her to discover the amendments he has made. Her face lights up when she sees the first one, tapping the page with an elegant index finger.
“I see you have solved your potential problem with the exponentially high-power requirement at high velocity. The low friction spherical joints should take care of that.” She flips to another page. “And there is no longer a balance issue here after reducing some of the central component’s weight—which will lower the centre of gravity.”
He did not doubt she would discern the revisions. The truth is this—he isn’t testing her per se; it’s more that he is posing a question, a scenario of sorts that he knows she will quickly reason the answer to. He enjoys the certain…reflected pleasure of it all. The feeling of being listened to—she absorbs almost everything he tells her about his work—understood, even appreciated, touches him in a way he does not know how to parse. He’s not sure he even wants to.
“And the fusion of biological ideals with that of the mechanical? This is…this is brilliant, Enver.”
He almost feels foolish at how easily the praise stokes the warmth in his chest nursed into being by the alcohol. His hand reflexively grips her hip a little tighter, as the other swirls the amber liquid in its glass. An idle thought floats to him—he recalls how she had once told him how much she liked the scent of the whisky on his breath. The taste of it on his tongue.
“Yes” is all he offers.
She stops and considers him for a moment, head canted to the side as if somehow the angle will make things clearer. An almost animalistic tendency that reminds him of what roils beneath, kept in check.
“You are in a strange mood tonight. You’re quiet. Laconic. What ails you?” she tuts, placing her hand on his forehead in a parody of concern for his temperature.
She moves closer, and runs her fingers through his hair, nails lightly raking his scalp. It’s soft, too soft for them. He should stand up, take his leave—but he doesn’t. Instead, he thinks about all the things he wants to say to her; as always, the words sit dangerously, blasphemously, close to the tip of his tongue amongst the whisky.
He swallows it all down.
“As you wish” she says after a spell, lips curling upwards in a fleeting smirk. He catches it, as he always does. “Keep your secrets, Lord Gortash.” She has reverted to using his title to address him; a curious, teasing version of formality she tends to adopt when giving him a mild scolding.
But she does not push him otherwise. She knows not to, for the most part. It’s an agreement they came to some time ago, without direct discussion; some things are not to be spoken of, should be left to hide in the dark rafters of a mind. In weaker moments he wonders, though. But then he comes to his senses.
Suddenly she sighs, closes the book, and stands up; he briefly mourns the loss of the warmth, and wonders if she will insist on making her departure now. He would not blame her. He is poor company tonight.
He opens his mouth to try asking her to stay, but before his brain can supply the words, she turns and settles in his lap, straddling him, hands smoothing down his shirt collar as he puts down the glass and rests both hands on her hips—she’s a familiar, comforting weight even as her orange-gold eyes assess him further. A lesser man would wilt under such scrutiny. But not him. He holds his ground. A lesser man—and the world is full of damnably lesser men—would not be able to know her, to value her, to match her—nor be able to coax one final climax from her when she thinks she has nothing left to give. Only he can.
To that end, he reaches up and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. It’s easier to fall into their usual routine—offering a suggestion, an invitation.
“It’s late. Shall we retire, my dear?”
