Work Text:
His Grace never arrives for their meeting. Lenore waits for a solid hour, cooling her heels in the gilt-and-floral sitting room, before reaching the obvious conclusion: he isn’t coming.
That’s not like him. Alexander is always so conscientious. The young Prince has only recently risen to the position… and he spent so many years being disparaged by his father, told he could never fill the venerable shoes, that Alexander’s determined to prove him wrong. He attends every meeting, every conference or appointment…
Even when his back’s acting up. When he’s in so much pain, he cannot walk at all, and is restricted to his gold-enameled wheelchair. The pain flares up frequently, and Alexander’s cane can’t always get him through the day.
A disabled Prince is not ideal. Incerie is a peaceful land, but that could change at any minute, depending on the whims of their neighbors. If the kingdom is ever attacked…
No. They cannot think of that. Alexander’s focus is on keeping peace with the neighboring kingdoms. He’s been pushing diplomacy, making nice with friends and enemies alike. Moreover, he wants to improve his own kingdom. This was the reason for contracting Lenore in the first place; she’s leading the reconstruction of Incerie’s capital square, bringing the city out of the last century and into a bright, modern future.
They’ve been meeting twice a week. It’s a complicated project, and Alexander wants to be informed on every detail; it turns out, he’s got an interest in architecture, too. Sitting and conversing with him about his favorite construction styles, sustainability, adaptive re-design… it feels so easy. As though they’ve been doing it for ages. He never disparages her for being a woman in a man’s profession; Alexander has embraced her skill and constantly defers to her knowledge. He truly is a gentleman. In Lenore’s experience, that sort of man is rare — a gemstone among cow dung.
Except today, her gemstone stood her up.
It’s hard not to feel put-out. The Prince is a very busy man, of course, but… she is a very busy woman. A very talented woman who makes the time for these meetings. It’s just… inconsiderate. Not like him at all. So she believed, before today.
Lenore gathers up her portfolio and leaves with her head held high. Disappointment burns like acid reflux in her chest. She strides through the palatial halls of the ducal manor, not glancing at her reflection in the many mirrors she passes. She brought some of her personal drawings, after he’d asked to see them… even wore a gown of seafoam green today, because it’s Alexander’s favorite color, and she hoped he would notice. Little fool. Surely you have better things to do than… style yourself for a man!
A whole list of better things, actually. But Lenore looks forward to these meetings each week. She cannot help feeling… let down.
In the middle of a long hallway, she pauses, glancing out a wide bay window. Below her, the estate gardens sprawl, vast and unknowable. During her strolls with the Prince. Lenore saw some of the garden’s statues firsthand. Such beautiful works of art… she’d meant to sketch a few for inspiration in her own design work.
Glancing down at her leather-bound portfolio, Lenore considers it. She has come all the way out here. It would be a shame to waste the trip.
So, half an hour later, she’s settled in the garden — sitting on a stone bench, hunched over as she braces her sketchbook against her knees. It’s not a ladylike posture. It is the most efficient. She’s going to capture every last detail of this ornate centaur statue, no matter how long it takes (or how much her spine aches tomorrow morning).
She’s so lost in the thrall of charcoal and paper, she has no sense of time passing. Not of the clouds drifting overhead… of the spring breeze whistling gently through the trees… or the figure, steadily creeping up behind her.
Lenore doesn’t notice anything until she glimpses movement from the corner of her eye. Even then — when her head jerks up, it takes a moment to recognize him. Alexander.
“Your Grace!” she exclaims, correcting the informality of her thoughts. He is still the Prince, after all… and she’s a lowly craftswoman.
But she’s never seen the royal look like this. Alexander stumbles down the garden path in nothing but trousers and a loose white shirt. No cravat, no cufflinks, not even a waistcoat. The impeccably put-together gentleman has grown… disheveled. His lower lip looks swollen, like he’s been sucking on it. And something about his eyes…
Alexander stumbles, and Lenore springs to her feet. She’s supposed to curtsey in the Prince’s presence, but… this doesn’t seem the time.
“Here I thought you’d forgotten me,” she calls, trying to keep her voice light.
“Forgotten you?” he echoes with a laugh -- but something about his voice seems off. As though the words are syrup in his mouth. “No! Not… not at all, my lady. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Lenore takes a step forward, tilting her head. The way he moves… isn’t right. By now, she’s familiar with Alexander’s gait; he always takes care, keeping his spine erect and steps even, to avoid agitating his back. Today, though… he’s unsteady, tripping over a rut in the garden path. He’s walking, yes, but seems much clumsier. That glassy expression on his face…
It’s like he’s drunk. The thought comes to her unbidden; with a sheepish pang, she chases it away. Of course Prince Alexander wouldn’t be drunk in the middle of the afternoon. He barely even drinks at dinnertime!
If not drunk, though, then what?
“Lenore!” Once he’s finally reached her, he looks thrilled — delighted, even. A pleased warmth rises to Lenore’s cheeks as he draws closer. “I remembered our meeting. Once I was— well, you — weren’t inside. Where we usually meet. I’m sorry, I know I’m… unforgivably tardy.”
Two hours late, to be exact. Alexander stumbles again, and chuckles. He sounds… downright loopy.
“I can forgive you.” Lenore's tone is low, half-playful. She tilts her head towards her sketchbook. “As you can see, I’ve kept myself busy.”
“Oh… yes. Your drawings.”
Alexander exhales an almost-reverent sigh. Is he admiring her work… or the sunlit garden, or the striking old statue? Or perhaps the architect herself, in her gown of soft green sarsnet, with springtime flowers adorned in her curls? It could be anything. The Prince sways on his feet, expression vacant, and Lenore decides there’s no point asking.
“Your Grace,” she ventures… and then, in a softer voice, “Alexander. You don’t seem yourself today. Are you well?”
He blinks hard. as if trying to make sense of a half-finished thought. It takes him a moment to comprehend her words. “Well,” he echoes dreamily — and when she grips his elbow, he leans forward, eyes shining. “I am! Very well! Not in any pain at all.”
She hadn’t asked if he was in pain. Hadn’t even mentioned it. It’s an unspoken truth that Alexander lives with pain most days, enduring it with a tight jaw and an iron will.
“No pain,” he says again, and gives a sweet, high giggle. It’s the least Alexander thing she’s ever heard. “Isn’t that amazing?”
Right now, she can believe he’s painless. The Prince’s warm green eyes are dilated, his pupils blown wide. Alcohol wouldn’t do that. His skin is flushed, a tad too warm; his pulse is going like the beat of a Morovian passion-dance. The way he leans into her touch, as though seeking out affection…
Her hand moves up his arm, settling on his shoulder. He curves into the touch like a needy kitten. “Alexander,” she says softly, “What did they give you?”
It’s as though she’s won a guessing game; his beaming grin is her prize.
“Just a tonic,” he replies, shaking his head. His hair is disheveled, dark curls coming loose from their usual immaculate coif. He hasn’t oiled it today. Hasn’t done up his cravat, or put on his coat. The always buttoned-up Alexander looks downright lewd. It sends a lightning-bolt thrill straight to Lenore’s toes.
When he speaks, there’s an undeniable slur to his voice. “The pain, it gets dreadful… it was really quite dreadful this morning. The— the twinges, and the spasms. You cannot know, Lenore. Paulos gives me a tonic… for the pain.” He waves a vague hand, as though expecting his faithful manservant to pop out of the bushes. “S’posed to make me sleepy, but… doesn’t always. Just takes the pain away so well…”
Lenore considers this with a furrowed brow. Slowly, her hand creeps up, until she’s caressing his cheek. It’s hardly proper, but… nothing about this encounter is. They’ve been skirting the thin line of propriety for weeks now.
“Is that so?”
A giggle escapes him, like a flustered schoolboy; he cannot help leaning in, head tilting towards her touch.
“It, ah… makes my head a little strange,” he confides in a whisper. “They think I don’t notice. Think I just sleep through it. But I— I like feeling like this, so I… stay awake.”
His cheeks color, as though he’s admitted something sinful. Lenore tries to imagine the normal Alexander blushing, but comes up blank. He simply wouldn’t. He’s always so capable, so self-assured… the man standing before her is a different creature entirely.
Her thumb trails over his heated cheek, and his eyes flutter. What a delightful sight.
“You stay awake, hmm?” she murmurs. “And what do you like to do in this… wonderful state?”
A noise rumbles in the back of Alexander’s throat. His eyes have gone soft, warm; he’s gazing at Lenore like he’s drinking from the palm of her hand. A weight settles on Lenore’s hip; he simply cannot help touching her. Holding her. It would be so improper, but…
“I like to… read,” he whispers sheepishly. “But I can’t focus on the words. They… go swimming. And I try to… to work, but…”
“But you can’t focus,” Lenore finishes sagely.
Alexander nods.
“Because your head is in such a blur,” she murmurs… and her hand is in his hair now, brushing it back from his brow.
This is the time to stop. She should stop this — as the only one here with her senses intact, she has a responsibility.
The trouble is, Lenore doesn’t want to stop. They are trampling the boundaries of propriety, and it is… delicious. Her entire body is alive with a hungry, exhilarated buzz — just like when they’re bent over her plans, and Alexander accidentally brushes her hand with his own. Just like the time he accidentally called her Lenore instead of my lady. This moment dwarfs all those tiny improprieties. Alexander is touching her hip, for Saints’ sake… and she cannot get enough of him.
How far could they take this? Just what could they do, with their inhibitions so lowered?
Nothing obscene, of course. Nothing that Alexander might regret in the morning. She would never take advantage of him…
But she’s not above enjoying his company.
“Poor Alexander.” Her voice is low and smooth, like honey dripping from a spoon. “What have they done to you? You can’t hold on to a single thought…”
As she speaks, her fingers trail down his temple… along his elegant jaw. The Prince is gazing at her in hazy-eyed awe.
“Can’t work. Can’t think. No… your head is practically empty, isn’t it?” She clicks her tongue in sympathy, but her eyes are sharp. “Holding onto thoughts right now… simply not worth the effort.”
Her hand trails down his chest. When she traces a circle over his sternum, Alexander shivers, and gives a shaky giggle.
“I… like to look out the window. At the gardens.” He’s still on the what do you like to do question. “Makes me feel like… I’m a bird. I could fly off into the treetops. Or a bee. Buzzing around to all the flowers…”
“Well, you’re in the garden now,” Lenore reminds him. She looks around theatrically, coaxing him to do the same. “How do you feel?”
Alexander hesitates… and there’s that giggle again, tentative and sweet.
“Amazing,” he exhales. He’s not looking at the garden at all.
She guides him over to the bench, and they settle down together. There’s nowhere for him to lie back, so he just sits there — swaying, a vacant expression on his face, lost in a haze of sunlight and contentment. For a few minutes, Lenore just watched him. She’s never seen Alexander so relaxed before, utterly unguarded. Every so often, he exhales; his eyes follow visions she cannot see.
It isn’t long, though, before she notices the hand pressed over his stomach.
“Alexander. Are you hungry?”
He turns to her, face blank. He didn’t even comprehend the question.
“Hungry,” she prompts again, brushing her hand over his own. “What have you eaten today?”
“Ah… haven’t,” he admits, words coming out hazy. “No food today. Pain was… too bad.”
Lenore purses her lips. “Are you hungry now?”
She may as well have asked him if he wanted to open Christmas presents early. The Prince’s face lights up; he goes tense and alert, like a dog ready to roll over for food.
“Yes,” he exhales, wonderous. (He’s in such a haze, he hadn’t realized what the hollow ache in his belly was until Lenore named it.) “Food, please. Can I have… biscuits? And lemonade?”
“Of course you can,” Lenore replies, stroking his hair back again. “But let’s get something hearty into you.”
He considers for a moment before it comes to him. “A cheese platter,” he exhales reverently. “And… crab tarts. The ones they have at parties. Can I have that? Is… is it too much trouble?”
He looks so tentative, so hopeful — a child asking for his favorite treat. Lenore’s heart clenches.
“You can have whatever you like,” she reminds him. “You are the Prince.”
He giggles again, and shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“I beg to differ.”
“I don’t want it to work like that.”
For the first time, he sounds… sober. Like himself, just a bit.
“I’m not special,” he asserts. “Just a man. I— I— people shouldn’t fall over to please me. If I haven’t… haven’t earned it...” He shakes his head again, and rubs a hand over his face. Clearly, thinking this hard is difficult in his current state.
Lenore lays a soothing hand on his arm. It brings him back to reality. Alexander sighs; his eyes go soft again as he sinks back into the drug-fogged haze.
“I know,” she says gently… and then, with a coy spark in her eyes, “shall we get you those biscuits?”
So many things in Incerie are different from Lenore’s home; she grew up in Nephthys, in the capital city, where she was educated and eventually won her apprenticeship. In Nephthys, the bread always tastes like herbs, and the meat is always sliced thin. The kingdom of Incerie does things differently. It’s been a bit of a culture shock, trying their food for the first time — realizing how decadent every meal is, how generous their portions are. In food, as in fashion, the Incerians strive to impress.
When a maid carries the tray out to the garden, laden with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of biscuits, Lenore smiles. The pastries are made with a sweet raspberry filling, swirling through layers of buttery dough. Not the bland biscuits Lenore grew up with, that’s for sure. Alexander slurs out a thanks to the servant, but he can’t keep his eyes off the food.
He begins to reach for one… but hesitates, glancing at Lenore. “A-after you, my lady.”
Lenore’s lips curve up in a smirk. With great care, she pours some lemonade into a floral-painted glass… then holds it out to Alexander. “I want for nothing,” she murmurs, laying a hand on his arm, “so long as you are satisfied.”
The Prince gazes at her in unabashed wonder. When she presses the glass to his lips, he takes an obedient sip. Sugar water glistens on his lower lip; his eyes are dark, earnest.
Gently, Lenore reaches up. She holds his chin in the palm of her hand. Alexander looks perfectly content.
“Will you forgive me,” she asks softly, “if we disregard propriety today?”
The hint of a smile plays on Alexander’s face. “As if we haven’t already?”
“Yes,” Lenore allows, “but this is truly indecent.”
Slowly, she raises a scone to his lips. Alexander’s gaze stays fixed on her as he takes the first bite… and then the flavor hits, and his eyes shut in ecstasy. He can’t restrain a breathy “oh!”, and a shiver of pleasure.
By the saints, if Lenore could make him look like that every night…
Nope. Can’t let her mind run away with her. Certainly not there. Lenore locks in on the treats, guiding biscuit after biscuit to Alexander’s eager mouth.
He’s so hungry, the first few go down smoothly. He barely stops to taste them — to register the crumbs dusting his shirt and the raspberry jam on his lips. Alexander’s eyes are blissfully vacant, not a thought in his head beyond his next bite. A few pleased murmurs drift out of him. (He has always been an expressive eater — hearing the usually-reserved Prince groan at a delicious treat drives Lenore mad, every time.) He has no reason to hold back, no shame in this drug-cloudy state. He’s just… savoring every bite.
By the time he’s on his fifth biscuit, Alexander starts to slow. He blinks as though awakening from a dream. Looking down, he realizes how much he’s eaten. His brows furrow, and he casts Lenore a tentative look, unsure whether he should be ashamed.
Lenore just shakes her head, a sweet smile on her lips. It soothes his ruffled nerves… and the next bite goes down easily.
“Mmm,” he murmurs, once the plate has been finished off. “Need some…” He goes for the glass of lemonade, hands clumsy. Instead, he nearly knocks it over. Lenore catches it, though sticky liquid splashed onto her sleeves. “Ah… I’m sorry…”
“It’s alright,” she replies, shaking her hands off. When Alexander still looks worried — because of course, he thinks it was his fault — she lays a soothing hand on his knee. “Really, Alexander,” she insists, voice soft. “Not to worry. I am enjoying this immensely.”
The Prince stifles a burp, raising the back of his hand to his mouth. He realizes, foggily, that his face is a mess of crumbs and jam. The only thing to do is run his hand over his mouth… as though that doesn’t make it worse.
“Enjoy… me making a pig out of myself?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Lenore grins at him, and the Prince flushes. He doesn’t look embarrassed, though — just warm all over, flustered and pleased.
“I enjoy spending time with you, silly,” she corrects, pouring another glass of lemonade. “Looking after you.”
“I should not… burden you with…”
“It isn’t a burden,” she replies, shaking her head. Her eyes are warm, drinking in every inch of him in this disheveled, debauched state. By the saints, he’s a vision. For a moment, she just admires him… everything, from the soft swell of his belly, his dark curls, his full lips. Something about decadence makes him all the more handsome; Lenore is thoroughly beguiled.
She helps raise the glass of lemonade to his mouth. He’s parched, it seems — from both the drugs and the pastries — and drinks several glasses, draining the pitcher to the dregs.
By the time he’s finished, Alexander is comfortably full, swaying in his seat with one hand resting over his middle. A few soft hiccups jolt him, but cannot rattle his haze. A tiny smile lingers on his lips. He is… gloriously content.
“Mmm. This is nice,” he says in a faint voice. Tipping his head back, he exhales deeply, and drinks in the sunlight. “So nice… ‘s beautiful, Lenore. Have you noticed? Just…”
He falters, glancing towards her. His cheeks color.
“Just beautiful.”
It’s Lenore’s turn to flush… and she can’t hide it, so she turns her head away, hoping her curly hair will hide the worst of her flusterment. It’s one thing to be pampering him… but to have compliments drizzled over her own head like rose petals, each one painfully sincere? No, she cannot take that. Compliment her mind, or her craftsmanship, or her artistic vision — those, she’ll gladly digest. Being called beautiful, though…
“Oh, look,” she exclaims, ”the cheese platter is here!”
Alexander has kept the kitchen busy this afternoon, but they certainly haven’t skimped. The platter is laden with artisanal cheeses, expensive Burrata and creatively-carved Gouda. And, of course, the crab tarts — three bowl-shaped appetizers, the size of Alexander’s fist, laden with cheese and herbs and seafood. Even though the Prince has eaten his fill, when he sees the spread before him, his eyes light up.
“Amendrus wept,” he mutters… and his exhale can only be described as greedy. “Lenore… oh gods, I want—“
Before she can stop him, he reaches out, snatches up a handful of the cheeses, and begins shoveling them into his mouth.
Ah. Well. The Prince does have a weakness for cheese.
Leaning back on her hands, Lenore just lets it happen. Perhaps she should interfere, before he gives himself a stomachache… but it seems cruel to dampen his unabashed delight. Let him enjoy the moment; perhaps the flavors are enhanced by the drugs, making his favorite foods all the more savory. She steals a single piece of Brie from the tray, and nibbles on it while watching the show. Goodness, he’s handsome with his mouth full…
At first, he’s just consuming — so caught up in the pleasure of stuffing his face, he doesn’t stop to savour. He makes it through half of the cheese plate and one of the lobster tarts before finally slowing down. A few hiccups interrupt him while he’s chewing. He pauses, waiting patiently as Lenore pours another glass of lemonade. This time, Alexander takes small, sensible sips.
“Delicious,” he mutters with his mouth full. (Oh, sober Alexander would never!) “I really must — mmm, hiicUurp! — thank the kitchen. Can we— can we go after I finish?”
“Of course,” Lenore agrees easily. Of course, he’ll be in no shape to go anywhere once he’s finished with this meal — any fool could see that.
“So hungry,” he murmurs… but his voice is faint, like he’s trying to convince himself. He’s eyeing the other two tarts with more greed than common sense. Beneath his loose white shirt, his stomach no longer looks comfortably full; now it’s straining against the waistband of his trousers, a rounded-out swell on his lean middle. Clearly, he’s eating past his limits.
… and a traitorous desire stirs within Lenore. The sort of thing she’d never indulge on a normal day. The sort she shouldn’t indulge.
“I think you’ve had enough,” she says, and moves to take the tray away.
This little intervention is enough to spark his appetite once more. Alexander flinches, defensive — then gets right back into it. A few more pieces of cheese, which he chews and swallows with a tiny moan. Then, the second lobster tart.
The buttery shell threatens to crumble in his hand. He’s forced to take the first bite quickly. Lenore watches his mechanical process of chewing-then-swallowing with shameless fascination. Alexander pauses for a breath — a belch, not bothering to cover his mouth — then, back to eating.
“What do you plan to do?” She keeps her voice neutral. “Finish everything?”
Alexander gives a delighted shiver, as though her words are seducing him.
“You mustn’t make yourself sick.”
“Won’t,” he replies around a mouthful of crab.
“And once you finish,” she muses, tilting her head back to soak in the late-April sunlight. “You’ll be quite uncomfortable, I imagine. Won’t have any way of relieving yourself… or anyone to soothe you.”
He chuckles around his next bite — a short ah-hmph.
“There are ways,” he retorts, and swallows his mouthful. When he glances up at Lenore… there’s something wicked in those bright green eyes. “Think of one, Lenore. I’m busy at the moment.”
Lenore pretends to consider it. Really, she’s watching the show, as he steadily makes his way through the whole crab tart.
“We can call Paulos to give you a belly rub,” she suggests blithely. “Or— oh, better idea! — one of the Royal councilors.”
Alexander swallows his last bite, burps again, and takes another sip of lemonade. He regards her over the rim, his gaze steadier than it has any right to be.
“Not what I had in mind,” is all Alexander says. Oh, she’s so happy to hear him again. The food seems to be sobering him up. He may be drugged and stuffed to the gills, but he knows precisely what he’s doing. There’s a fleeting gleam in his eyes, before he commands: “Lenore, some cheese, please.”
Obligingly, she picks up a piece of Gruyère and pops it into his waiting mouth. Her entire body simmers.
He needs some assistance making it through the final crab tart, too. By then, his stomach has really begun to protest. He’s so swollen beneath his shirt, he looks ready to pop a button. After much struggle, his clumsy hands manage to work the button of his trousers open; sober Alexander would be horrified, but high Alexander has a delicious lack of self-consciousness. Once his fly is open, he’s able to breathe deeper. A few more belches rumble out of him, deep and downright indulgent… before he picks up the final tart.
“I want… to finish,” he exhales, breathless. He’s not slurring his words anymore; the haze in his eyes could be from the laudanum or the overwhelming fullness. He’s somehow eaten his way back to sobriety (or at least the pretense of it).
“You don’t need to,” Lenore reminds him… but her gaze is fixed on his lips, waiting for that first bite.
When it comes, it’s downright delicious. Alexander takes his time with the final tart, savoring the crumbly shell and the rich crustacean-and-cheese filling… until the last few bites, when he begins to struggle.
“I ca—“ He pants out, breaths shallow and strained. “I— ooh, Lenore—“
Without needing to be asked, she plucked the remainder of the tart from his hand. She’d toss it away now, if he asked. They could be done with this whole spectacle, he could be allowed to rest…
Alexander’s gaze travels from the tart, then to her; his eyes say everything his lips cannot.
Slowly, Lenore raises the tart to his mouth.
In three bites, it’s over. The Prince’s lips graze her fingertips at the last, and he gives a low, euphoric moan. Is that from the fullness, or the taste of her? Even the Old Gods couldn’t say.
By the time Alexander manages to lift his head… he’s breathing shallowly, nursing a stomach too full to even touch. When he opens his mouth, a few helpless burps rumble out; he moans again, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth.
“Are you going to be sick?” Lenore asks, but the Prince just shakes his head. He’s past the point of composure now; it takes him a few long minutes before he can summon anything close.
“So full,” he slurs. “So… bloody full. Le— huuurp— Lenore… my stomach… ‘m so—- aaaUUurp. Oh. Mmm.” He tips his head back and belches again into the open air. With his entire stomach packed to the brim, he’s desperate to free up any ounce of space. He can’t help it.
At last, the Prince manages: “C-can’t believe… ate the whole thing. So much. ‘Ve never…” He hiccups, unable to shake his dazed, euphoric look. “Eaten like this in my life.”
“Perhaps you’re giving your body what it’s wanted all along,” Lenore suggests. When Alexander glances sideways at her, she feels her cheeks warm. “Or— or perhaps it’s just the drugs.”
It takes the Prince a long moment to regain a tiny shred of composure. When he finally does… his lips quirk up in a faint smirk.
“Why, my lady,” he murmurs. “I believe you’re enjoying this.”
Lenore does the sensible thing, and keeps her mouth shut.
“You like me like this,” Alexander muses — his voice is equally strained and delighted. He gives a shaky chuckle. “Wh- which part? The drugs, the mindlessness… the eating? Do you like seeing me— bruuUrp — lose my composure?”
“You are not my liege lord,” she retorts. “I am not obliged to answer you.”
“I am Prince of this land, and I will have you interrogated,” he retorts, still snickering. “In the dungeons. Or would you prefer the kitchens?”
“Saints, stop,” she groans, burying her head in her hands. Alexander laughs, strained and giddy, in a way she’s never heard him chuckle before. Perhaps the drugs have not loosened their hold altogether; he is more like himself, but certainly not normal. The heavy belly resting in his lap, the soft hiccups and belches, the faint haze still lingering in his eyes… nothing about this is ordinary.
Yet she adores it, nonetheless.