Work Text:
Mirin was halfway home when the heavens opened. At first, the rain was cold and slushy, soaking into her clothes, but as she walked, it soon turned into thick, heavy snowflakes that blanketed the streets in moments. Unwilling to descend into freezing subterranean tunnels during a snowstorm, she glanced around to check her surroundings. Fortunately, she wasn’t far from Enver’s townhouse. He had said his door was always open to her whenever cult operations became too grinding, and she assumed he’d be busy with business anyway. Mind made up, Mirin quickly darted down the narrow alley that would take her to the wrought-iron gate at the rear of the property. She retrieved the key hidden behind a loose brick in the wall, let herself quietly into the garden, and then into the house.
By now, she was familiar enough with the place to quickly stamp the snow from her boots and hang her cloak on her usual peg in the servants’ entry. The familiar scent of polished wood and distant spices greeted her as a maid appeared in the doorway, clearly having come to investigate the sound of arrival.
“Ah, have you come to visit the Master? Shall I arrange your usual tea service?”
Mirin frowned. “Enver’s here? Why?”
The maid was one of the abler ones – she had more backbone than most. She didn’t shrink under Mirin’s questioning gaze, only replied matter-of-factly, “He was meant to meet with a foreign delegation today, but the weather saw the meeting cancelled.”
Mirin hesitated. She hadn’t planned to see Enver today, but her clothes were thoroughly soaked, and she did relish the hospitality – and especially the tea – she received here. “Fine. Is he in the study?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Very well. If you could have my tea brought up, I’d appreciate it.”
A quick curtsey and the girl disappeared to see to the kettle, leaving Mirin to make her way upstairs.
Enver’s study door was closed, but Mirin entered without knocking – a privilege only she possessed. The room enveloped her in a welcoming warmth, the dark oak panelling lending a snug, intimate feel that set it apart from the grander, more imposing spaces downstairs. Here, the golden candlelight pooled softly in corners, spotlighting shelves of worn books and curiosities, while plush rugs muffled her steps and made the room a comforting retreat from the winter outside. Even the faint scent of leather and old paper added to the feeling of safety and ease.
Enver, the master of the house, sat hunched over his desk, absorbed in the delicate work of assembling one of his curious little gadgets. He didn’t look up as she entered, trusting her presence as familiar as the ticking of the mantel clock. Mirin drifted over to the well-cushioned chaise beside his desk – the spot she had long ago claimed as “hers” – and the sight brought a faint, private smile to her lips.
Without glancing her way, Enver’s dry voice broke the quiet: “I know you’re not about to sit on that in those wet clothes. You know where the spares are kept.”
Mirin made a face at the tyrant, who didn’t even deign to look up at her. She pouted in silent protest, but with a resigned huff – sent from the room like a mischievous child – she gave in and drifted to the adjoining bedroom where Enver supposedly slept. The familiar, gentle hush of the thick rugs underfoot and the lingering warmth from the study wrapped around her, softening her irritation. She knew precisely which wardrobe held spare clothes for her – Enver had insisted on outfitting it after she’d shown up for the third time, head to toe in blood. Now, the knowledge was a small comfort. Today, she felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the roaring fires or plush surroundings: she’d caught Enver at home, unexpectedly off-duty and quietly hers for the afternoon. It made her giddy, childishly, eager to make the most of this rare, peaceful shelter from the outside storm.
She peeled off her sodden, snow-clogged layers with a sigh of pure relief, grateful to shed the chill and weight from her aching limbs. Leaving her wet clothes for the maid to tend, she revelled in the luxurious privacy and warmth of Enver’s bedroom. Naked as the day she sprang from her Father’s gore, she padded softly past the wardrobe set aside for her, only to pause instead by his own armoire. An unfamiliar and childish thrill burst through her; mischievously, she tugged free one of the larger shirts from the back. The fabric was buttery-soft, dark and inviting against her skin. She slipped it over her head, the shirt draping generously, the hem brushing her bare thighs.
Unable to resist, she brought the collar to her nose and breathed deeply. Enver’s scent – rose, sandalwood, and that trace of musky vanilla – wrapped around her just as surely as the thick rugs warmed her toes. It was grounding, reassuring, achingly familiar. That connection, almost secret, made the snug room feel like a sanctuary against the storm’s bite. She could already hear the tinkling of porcelain as staff brought her tea, and she remembered the promise of a new book waiting in Enver’s desk from one of his missives earlier in the week. For now, curled in his oversized shirt, safe, warm, and wrapped in comfort, she felt at home in a way she rarely did anywhere else.
She padded back into the study, cheeks still flushed with the warmth and comfort of Enver’s shirt, a gentle delight blooming in her chest as she spied a small plate of buttery shortbreads beside the steaming teapot. The golden light painted soft halos across the surface of the tea, and Mirin couldn’t help but smile, the chill of the night banished for good. She gathered herself onto the chaise, nestling in and tugging a fleecy blanket from the back to cocoon her legs, the fabric’s softness sinking into her bare skin. Letting out a deep, contented sigh, she inspected the biscuits – crisp, sugar-dusted edges promising melting sweetness – and took a reverent sip of tea. The flavour bloomed, robust and fragrant, perfectly brewed, and she sighed again, this time in happiness more than relief.
For a moment, she luxuriated in the simple perfection of it all: the smell of tea and buttery biscuits mingling with the lingering scent of Enver’s shirt, the golden hush of the lower-lit room, the faint creak of floorboards somewhere as the staff retreated. Only then did she turn, and find Enver watching her with a look she’d rarely seen – a rare, tangible warmth that softened his sharp eyes. He looked at her as though she were a half-wild creature at last coaxed close, as if her comfort, her presence, was something delicately won and deeply treasured. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to quiet, and Mirin let herself bask in the secret glow of being welcomed, cherished, and entirely wanted.
“You’re staring, Enver. Have you never seen a perfectly laced shirt before?” Mirin’s voice, usually a melody meant to beguile, dropped to a gentle murmur, soft as the thick snow muffling the world outside. The quiet of the room seemed to lean in, inviting secrets and hush.
Enver’s lips quirked in a small smile, the warmth in his gaze belying his words. “You, dearest, are a pest. But tell me, is that one of my shirts?”
Mirin feigned innocence, fingers playing idly with the hem of the soft fabric. “Perhaps.”
“Are the clothes I bought for you no longer to your liking?” His tone was lighter than usual, carrying a quiet amusement.
“They’re perfectly fine. I just wanted something of yours today.”
He nodded, accepting her answer with a soft, knowing smile. The fire crackled, the snow continued its silent dance beyond the windows, and between them, the moment glowed warm as candlelight – a shared sanctuary against the winter dark.
“Do you have my book by the way? What are you working on?” Mirin asked, her curiosity piqued as she took a generous gulp of tea. Shifting closer to Enver’s desk, she leaned in, elbows resting on the polished wood, chin nestled atop her forearms. From this vantage, the faint glow of candlelight illuminated not just his face but also the small object he turned over in his hands.
At first, it looked like a toy soldier – delicate and carefully painted – but as Mirin peered closer, she recognised the details unique to Enver’s inventions. It was a miniature Steel Watcher, wrought with the same precision as the life-sized guardians that patrolled the snow-blanketed streets outside. The fierce little automaton seemed almost out of place in the soft comfort of the study, and yet Enver’s focus, his hands working with such patient care, made it feel less like a machine and more like a secret he was sharing with her.
Enver glanced up, his eyes softening as he noticed her interest. With one hand, he slid open a drawer lined with neat stacks of parchment and retrieved a book – a slim, dark volume shot through with gold embossing that shimmered in the candlelight. He placed it before her with a faint, almost bashful smile.
“I remembered you mentioned it in passing,” he said quietly, the rare gentleness in his voice warming her almost as much as the freshly brewed tea. Mirin traced the title with a fingertip, delight unfurling within her. It was the poetry collection she’d half-thought he’d forget, but here it was, evidence of Enver’s quiet attentiveness, his desire to nurture her small joys beyond the cult’s shadow.
“Thank you, Enver.”
“Any time, my dear.”
For some time, the two simply delighted in each other’s quiet company – Enver absorbed in tinkering with his miniature, Mirin nestled beside him with her tea and new book. The peace between them was companionable, the only sounds the soft clink of tools and the occasional turn of a page. Gradually, however, the cold crept through the room’s warmth; Enver, ever sensitive to the chill, began pausing more frequently to flex and clench his fingers, the cold biting at his hands.
“Come here, let me help.” Mirin’s voice was gentle but carried a comfortable authority, revealing just how familiar and close they’d become. The Banite did not protest, not even with his usual rueful resistance. Instead, he set his tools aside and moved willingly to her side on the chaise, the trust between them unspoken and complete. Mirin, with practised affection, adjusted herself so that her back rested against the back of the chaise. She tugged Enver – dressed in the softness of casual clothes rather than the hard lines of his usual coat and gauntlet – to settle between her thighs, coaxing him to relax and lean back against her chest. The gesture was one of intimacy and sanctuary, a pocket of warmth in a world made cold by winter and far colder by the lives they led outside these walls.
Mirin reached for his hands, enfolding his fingers in her deft, gentle grasp. He’d confided before that his time in the hells had left him with lingering troubles: stiff joints, bones that had never healed quite right. The old wounds always seemed to ache anew when winter swept in. Once again, she put her medical knowledge to use – if less formally than usual – working quietly to massage warmth and feeling back into his fingers, coaxing away as much of the ache as she could.
“You know working on such tiny gadgets won’t do your hands any favours,” she murmured, her thumbs tracing slow, soothing circles over his knuckles, her touch both gentle and intent.
He managed a small, wry smile. “It soothes me.”
She squeezed his hands more firmly, as if she could will comfort into his aching joints. “We should find other ways to soothe you – things that don’t make your fingers worse.”
He glanced at her with a slant of amusement, his expression softening. “But this setup is very soothing to me.”
She gave a fond hum, the trace of a smile colouring her voice. “I’m sure it is. Still, let me take care of you for a little while.”
Her words lingered between them, a gentle offering of comfort against the winter outside, and his hands found a moment’s peace in hers.
After a time, the maid poked her head in and asked, “Would Sir and M’lady prefer dinner served here or in the dining room?” The pair reluctantly separated, taking a moment to compose themselves before supper.
In the quiet that followed, a wistful thought stirred in Mirin’s mind: somewhere, perhaps in another world, another version of themselves might live out this simple, gentle existence each day. Maybe in that world, another Mirin returned home to another Enver, their lives orbiting each other out of nothing but mutual interest and affection. No gods, no schemes – just quiet companionship.
Yet, with that fleeting dream came the deeper understanding that such a life would mean giving up who they truly were. Gone would be their sharpness – their keen intellects and jagged edges that marked them apart. And wasn’t it that very ferocity, those same hard-won strengths, that had drawn them together in the first place? Maybe, she realised, it was their shared yearning for softness in a harsh world – the secret hunger for refuge amidst brutality – that made stolen moments like this one shimmer with such exquisite, fragile significance.