tragic_mask | (no subject)

Weyland slept well, deeply and peacefully. He had dreamed, but pleasantly, of an afternoon in his childhood when he and his brothers had spent the day by the sea.

He doesn't let the light wake him, though. He burrows in between her and the pillows.

She sleepily allows herself to be burrowed into, feeling like she should get up and do something productive, but really not feeling like it.

He is content to stay right where he is.

Even after he wakes up, he barely moves; the only sign that he has awakened is a sigh of contentment as he nestles closer against her.

She feels his breath on her skin, and turns to smile. "'morning," she says, but quietly, in case he's just dreaming.

"Mmmm... morning," he murmurs, opening one eye to look at her. "It is still morning, I hope? Not that it would be such a bad thing if it were after noon already..."

"Oh," she says. "I'm not sure."

She looks at the clock, which is consistently blinking "12:00" in red.

"It's not very important," he says with a smile. "If it's after noon, we'll just have to have lunch instead of breakfast. I certainly have no complaints with how the day has gone so far. Did you sleep well?"

"Quite well," she says. "You?"

"Beautifully," he says, pulling away from her just long enough to stretch, and then settling back down again. "I think we have the perfect relative proportions for sharing a bed."

"Yes," she says with a grin. "I'm just small enough to fit in the leftover space."

He chuckles, and leans in to kiss her neck. "The bed I have at home is bigger, but you don't want a bed that's too big. Enough room for everyone involved, but not so much room that anyone gets lost."

"Certainly wouldn't be as cozy," she says.

"I've slept in a lot of things, over the years," he says. "Sleeping bags, piles of furs, hammocks, those beds you have to half sit up in. I'm not picky, but I like to be able to stretch out."

"I'll remember that."

"Diagonally, if nothing else," he smiles. "I didn't crowd you, did I?"

"Not really," she says. "I don't need much space, and you were warm."

"You wouldn't say that if this were the height of summer," he murmurs, shifting into a propped-up position against the pillows. "I don't much like it when it's hot at night. Hot during the day and cooler at night, yes, but not hot at night also."

"It's just a matter of picking the right location," she says, like a savvy real-estate agent. "Anyway, we have a long way to go 'til summer."

"And ceiling fans are a beautiful thing," he says. "Some windows, get a breeze going through. Anyway, it stays cooler at the beach."

"So I've heard," she says, and sits up against the backboard.

"I have a bad habit," he says quietly, "of making plans long before they are needed. I can plan things--my ideas, your reactions, and the consequences--so far out in advance that I doom things before they've even started. Don't let me."

"Oh, dear," she says, pulling a face. "I'll have to teach you Spontaneity in Ten Easy Steps. I'm bad at letting go of things, but quite good at letting the future take care of itself."

"I don't fight spontaneity," he says, "but I don't seek it out either. If it happens, it happens, but it's not easy for me. I can work at it, but one cannot work at being spontaneous. It's... unnatural."

He grins.

"And a bit of an oxymoron," she says, and smiles.

"I think we'll manage just fine," he says after a moment. "We just have to know what to watch for, and be prepared for it."