[ she's leaning into him before she's conscious of it, head slumped against his shoulder and breathing in his scent, the alcohol, the faint remnants of copper she hasn't quite gotten rid of yet. she's sure he could mean the table, or a myriad of other things, and she suddenly finds talking so very exhausting.
she doesn't know what she's doing -- she never does, not on sakaar, not even here. there's a thread of frustration beneath the restlessness that mingles with the fatigue that's long since settled into her muscles and bones; nothing makes sense here, nothing about this place feels right, and the only thing that does is him pressed to her side and it's funny how things always turn out the way she never expects them to. she tilts her head up, just enough to see his face and his good eye, expression resigned as it always is. but there's an ache in her chest that she hasn't quite killed yet, one that makes her lean up to press her lips to his instead. ]
no subject
she doesn't know what she's doing -- she never does, not on sakaar, not even here. there's a thread of frustration beneath the restlessness that mingles with the fatigue that's long since settled into her muscles and bones; nothing makes sense here, nothing about this place feels right, and the only thing that does is him pressed to her side and it's funny how things always turn out the way she never expects them to. she tilts her head up, just enough to see his face and his good eye, expression resigned as it always is. but there's an ache in her chest that she hasn't quite killed yet, one that makes her lean up to press her lips to his instead. ]