[Their home is quiet, for whatever that's worth. The twins, pups once more, have fallen asleep snuggled up together, exhausted after their bewildering day. Ataashi lounges on the bed, her blazing eyes locked on Leto as he enters the room but otherwise motionless. Clever darling that she is, she can always sense when something is wrong. There's no desperate leaps for attention or panting exuberance; she watches silently as Leto transforms back, her posture attentive but not overwhelming.
Gingerly he lifts the small bundle from around his neck and places it on the bed. There's not a stir, not a sigh, but that doesn't surprise Leto. He makes short work of ridding himself of their treasure, fumbling only slightly in his haste, and slings on a pair of trousers. The entire process takes less than two minutes, and yet not once does he remove his gaze from that little bundle.
He climbs into bed. Scoops up the still, silent form of his lover and rests him against his bare chest, nestling him close to his beating heart. One hand lays gently but firmly atop the bundle, fingers close without becoming confining.
And Leto waits. Perhaps not forever, no, but he will wait a long time for Astarion to emerge. He has a book on hand, and there is nothing more important to him than his mate. There's a part of him that longs to tug him free, unwrapping that cloth and whispering assurances, but . . . no, it will not help to be forcibly torn from his shelter, Leto suspects. Better to let him come out in his own time, and they will take it from there.
Until then: it's quiet. The room fills with familiar noises: Ataashi's steady, slow breathing nearby (her eyes half-closed, her body pressed up against Leto's own), and in the distance, the twins snoring and snuffling in their sleep. The steady turn of a page here or there, and at a great distance, the sound of workers below lazily cleaning as they wait for the evening to come. And always, always, there is Leto's heartbeat: steady and sure, calm and unflagging no matter how long it takes.]
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Gingerly he lifts the small bundle from around his neck and places it on the bed. There's not a stir, not a sigh, but that doesn't surprise Leto. He makes short work of ridding himself of their treasure, fumbling only slightly in his haste, and slings on a pair of trousers. The entire process takes less than two minutes, and yet not once does he remove his gaze from that little bundle.
He climbs into bed. Scoops up the still, silent form of his lover and rests him against his bare chest, nestling him close to his beating heart. One hand lays gently but firmly atop the bundle, fingers close without becoming confining.
And Leto waits. Perhaps not forever, no, but he will wait a long time for Astarion to emerge. He has a book on hand, and there is nothing more important to him than his mate. There's a part of him that longs to tug him free, unwrapping that cloth and whispering assurances, but . . . no, it will not help to be forcibly torn from his shelter, Leto suspects. Better to let him come out in his own time, and they will take it from there.
Until then: it's quiet. The room fills with familiar noises: Ataashi's steady, slow breathing nearby (her eyes half-closed, her body pressed up against Leto's own), and in the distance, the twins snoring and snuffling in their sleep. The steady turn of a page here or there, and at a great distance, the sound of workers below lazily cleaning as they wait for the evening to come. And always, always, there is Leto's heartbeat: steady and sure, calm and unflagging no matter how long it takes.]