Work Text:
She’s been in the shower for nearly two hours. Or at least that’s about as long as he’s been waiting in her bedroom. Perrin’s sprawled across the sofa, his surcoat draped on the end. Thunder rolls, rain pouring down outside where she’d left the balcony doors open. Storm season in the valley. The curtains ripple in the wind.
About an hour and half ago, he’d picked up one of her work datapads—a report on migratory workers as affected by the war. Chandrila relied heavily on such labor during harvest seasons, as did every other ag world. About an hour ago he’d found himself picking up a stylus to add annotations; thoughts and ideas and questions regarding her own notes. Ancestors only know how long she’ll be; he can erase them all later, Mon never the wiser.
Some indeterminate amount of time later, the ‘fresher door opens. He’d completely missed the water shutting off.
”Chand’ir,” she gasps.
Mon stands in the doorway, her chest heaving as she closes her eyes for a moment, hands clenching into fists around the towel she holds to her chest. “The hell are you doing sitting in the dark?” she asks, fixing him with a glare.
Perrin shrugs. “You left the lights off.” She does that. It’s rather fascinating how easily she can navigate in the dark. Lightning flashes, illuminating the room for a split second as thunder crashes.
Mon sighs, crossing to her vanity where she hesitates. And then drapes the towel over the mirror, standing off to the side; out of sight. Curious.
It’s difficult to tell for certain but she seems to have lost weight. Though her posture screams exhaustion; that much he can tell. She performs her nightly routine, never once knocking something amiss or fumbling her way through it.
And Perrin watches, a sharp pain twisting between his ribs where his breath catches against the razor’s edge, shearing in two.
Once finished, Mon dresses for bed in a silk slip—nearly as pale and luminous as she. And then she’s standing above him. Hesitating? Questioning? Waiting? Unable to stand it, he reaches for her and that’s all it takes for his wife to fold into his lap. She smells of Chandi rose. Vanille. Warm musk. The pain in his chest eases as she melts into him. The silk is simultaneously warm and cool beneath his touch and he skims a palm up and down her back, an arm wrapped around her hips. With the tension and unease now gone, he realizes just how strung taught he’d been waiting for her.
“Stay,” she whispers.
Perrin’s only answer is to shift his hold on her, standing with her in his arms as he carries her to bed.