Binah knows when you are overwhelmed. catching the waver in your voice, a minute tremble wracking your fingertips. too noisy. too bright. that forced smile upon your lips with every new interruption. papers, papers. always more papers. more work, ink blotches dotting your hands. her eyes narrow, irritation twisting her veins. foolish. to keep piling documents on your desk when you could barely hold your pen straight. Binah sets down her teacup, calmly. rising from her seat, making her way across the room. without a word she sweeps her cloak around you. tucking you close to her side and ushering you out of the room. a palm pressed against your back, steadying each trip or stumble of your feet.
she settles you at her favorite table. draping an arm across your shoulders with a soft hum. your heart races, uneven, fluttering beneath her fingers. Binah sighs. trailing a hand up your spine, the tense muscles hard as rock. her coat shifts. shielding your head, blocking the burning light and noise from your senses. your skin prickles briefly- wrapped in silence, surrounded by night. gradually easing your rapid pulse. you go limp in Binah's arms, and the Patron Librarian of Philosophy lets out a quiet huff of relief. no more work. not today. rest and peace, nothing less. an ex-Arbiter as your pillow, her uniform for a blanket. Binah gives your waist a light squeeze, brushing a mote of dust from your cheek. watching you drift into a deep slumber. the first in days, or weeks. ah, this must be comfort. the comfort of a slow, steady heartbeat, rather than flesh decaying in her grip.
she'd like to hear it again. tomorrow. the next day. forever. if you would have her, a degraded, rusted thing. a warm devotion at last in reach.
