i wrote this because i couldn't get the idea of it out of my head. like... soft elriel own my heart, and i needed more of it. mind you, i wrote, edited, and posted this within three hours lol.
thank you for reading! hope you enjoy :)
.: eye of the storm :.
Azriel leaned against the wall just shy of the doorway to the kitchen. He wore his Illyrian fighting leathers, though all siphons but the two on the tops of his hands were hidden away. He'd taken the time to rinse his face and hands, but the grime of the past few days still lingered on his skin.
Rhys and Feyre's new river house was a labyrinth of finely decorated hallways and homey, comfortable rooms, and Azriel hadn't ventured into many of those rooms since that initial tour when the house had just been completed. It was often, however, that Azriel found himself in the kitchens, and though he tried to tell himself otherwise, he knew it was because Elain was usually to be found there.
This time, as he stood there watching her bake, Rhys' words flew through his brain with the jarring force of a thrown spear. You will leave Elain alone. Stay away from her.
He knew what Rhys meant — hell, Azriel even understood why Rhys had given the order — but he hated it all the same. Actively pursuing Elain and simply being in her presence were two very different things, though, and he knew Rhys' order applied mostly to the former… mostly.
He didn't know how he'd found himself in yet another situation with a woman he couldn't have — a woman he wasn't allowed to be with. He had danced that dance with Mor for five hundred years, and though he didn't regret a moment he spent loving her, it was a relief to learn he had the capability of loving another.
When Elain had walked into his life — with a clumsy curtsy, a white-knuckled grip, and a tentative smile — he hadn't known then the depths his feelings would reach.
Azriel shifted his shoulders, trying to relieve the ache in them, as he continued to watch Elain at the counter. Though she likely knew of his presence from the moment he'd stepped into the doorway, she'd yet to look up at him. He didn't blame her. Solstice had been only a fortnight ago — he still heard whispers of her pained "I'm sorry" all these days later — and he'd either been on assignment or up at the House of Wind ever since.
He'd seen Elain from afar, of course, and both his shadows and Nuala and Cerridwen had kept him informed of her well being, but this would be his first time back in her presence since Rhys' order.
Frankly, Azriel was surprised he'd lasted this long before seeking her out.
Ignoring a direct order from his High Lord — because that's who had given the order, not his brother — was something Azriel had never done. He'd toed that line in the sand, bent it out of shape a bit, but he'd never broken it. Azriel could paint this visit however he liked — rationalize it beyond all reason — but this was breaking it.
The only way he'd been able to lean against this door jamb, and allow himself the pleasure of looking at her, was the one stipulation he'd given himself: don't speak to her.
He didn't mind just watching her — her mannerisms and gentle grace were the most captivating things he'd witnessed in his long life. She wore a gown of dusty pink today, its bodice simple and enchanting, and there were patches of flour on the fabric — on her hands and face, too. He thought she was at her most endearing here, with her cheeks a little flushed from the heat of the oven and wisps of her dark blonde hair framing her face as they slipped free of the braid.
She was beautiful.
"You needn't lurk, Azriel," she finally said, and the way her mouth formed his name had him closing his eyes for a moment and hiding a smile. Her tone was so like it always was when she spoke to him — quiet, strong, a little breathy. He did as she bid, stepping into the room and taking a seat at the table.
Azriel shifted the chair so he could continue watching her. His body ached as his weight settled into the chair, and he had to hold in a groan as his wings shifted. Elain's gaze snapped up as if he'd actually made the noise, and she tilted her head, gazing at him inquisitively.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her hands no longer kneading the dough.
He leaned his elbow on the table and nodded mutely, though even that motion was tiresome. He'd been doing so much these past two weeks… had worked himself to the bone just to keep his mind quiet and to ensure he was so exhausted when his head hit the pillow that he wouldn't dream. That he wouldn't dream of her.
It didn't always work, so he slept very little.
Despite his physical exhaustion, Azriel remained buzzing with energy — his shadows even more so, as if they too missed her presence. It was only then, in the quiet of the kitchen, that his bones settled and his shadows stilled.
His wings drooped and rested on the hardwood floor as he let out a heavy but silent breath. He rubbed his eyes until stars burst behind his eyelids, and he was so focused on his swirling thoughts that he didn't hear her approach. His shadows hadn't warned him either — the traitors — instead, they happily crooned her name.
Elain… Elain… Elain…
And there she was, standing in front of him and looking at him like the only thing in the world she cared about was his well being. She was wiping her hands on her pale green apron as she looked him over, and every place her eyes touched burned. And yet he still said nothing as he stared at her — though he was sure his eyes betrayed too much.
This close, he could smell her more clearly, and her familiar heady scent calmed him more than anything else had. The way she stared at him had his defenses crumbling, and he had to hold his breath to keep from stuttering out all the words he wanted to say to her. They'd been friends for a while now — far too long for them to be truly awkward with each other after Solstice, and definitely long enough for her to know that if she just waited him out, he'd have to say something.
He met her gentle brown eyes and broke his only rule.
"I'm tired," he whispered.
Elain placed a delicate flour-covered hand on his shoulder, shattering the last of his composure. He hung his head, and she stepped even closer to him. Azriel spread his knees to accommodate her, but he didn't touch her — no matter how much every part of him yearned to reach out and do just that. He also didn't put up an ounce of fight as she pulled him into her chest.
As his brow settled between her breasts, he marveled at the intimacy of the gesture — marveled even more that she had allowed and initiated it.
His hands clenched on his knees.
Her fingers began to card gently through his dark hair, her nails scraping across his scalp and sending goosebumps down his spine. The urge to pull her closer, to settle his scarred hands on her waist, threatened to overwhelm him. It had been so long since he'd been held like this — so long since someone had shouldered some of his burden and taken his weight. And her scent was stronger still; beneath the overlaying smell of the flour, chocolate, and vanilla she'd been baking with, the floral perfume of her skin and her springtime essence cloaked his senses.
He inhaled steadily and then exhaled with a quiet groan of contentment.
There was nothing sexual about her embrace. It was entirely for comfort, and though he longed for the day when his face might be this close to her breasts for other reasons, he'd change nothing about this moment.
"It's going to be okay," she said softly. "Whatever it is, it'll be okay."
He loved that she didn't ask him what was wrong — didn't ask him to vocalize the turmoil in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed closer to her, her skirts shifting maddeningly over his legs as she swayed, but he still didn't lift his hands to touch her.
This was how Feyre found them a minute later.
An astonished exclamation of "Oh!" escaped her lips, and both he and Elain sprung apart as if they'd been caught in a much less innocent position. Azriel quickly lifted his wings from the floor and straightened with a cough. His High Lady's face was the picture of surprise as her eyes darted between him and her sister. Elain was already walking back to the counter, and there was a beautiful blush on her cheeks as she rounded the granite island to face them both.
Oh, gods, Feyre will tell Rhys, he thought. He ran a hand over his face as he heaved to his feet, his knee twinging.
Feyre was still pinging her eyes between them as if this was the most interesting thing to happen under her roof since it'd been built.
Azriel walked towards Feyre — she remained stock-still in the doorway, the one exit from the kitchen — and as he predicted, she didn't move to let him pass. Instead, she looked over every inch of his face as if searching for all her answers in the lines of his expression. Before she could speak, he quietly said, "When you tell Rhys about this, make sure he knows I didn't mean to break his rule. I just… I just needed some quiet."
Before he could properly see the confusion register on her face, he was shouldering past her and heading for the back door.
fin