rudolph
“This is a bit dramatic.”
A pouty groan, and he flails himself over her lap. Throws a dismissive wave in the air.
“You don’t need to go to work.”
She rubs her eye with the heel of her hand. “Yes, I do.”
“No,” he whines, muffled and thick from the sleep he’s bickering with. Tugs plaintively at the hem of her shirt. “You can’t. You’re sick.”
He mocks a cough into her arm. She snorts.
“No,” she croons, head thudding to the pillows. “I’m healthy and poor. You have to let me up.”
As if in consideration, he releases an extended hum. Deliberates, fair man that he is.
Then shakes his head. Rests his cheek against her hip, and settles back into dreaming.
(She shouldn’t look down at him now – it’ll only tempt her – but she does. She’s helpless to it; keeping his little finger warm, as always.)
She’s by and large a strong will, but with him, like this, she’s buttermilk soft. He’s such a sleepyhead in the mornings, eyes all puffy and cheeks flushed with warmth from wherever he’s stowed his face against her that night. Voice always scratchy from the light snore he prints against her skin; a little smile, too, fresh on waking. Like he hasn’t remembered a single bad thing exists. Like he’s defaulted to a factory setting of peace.
He’s falling back asleep, damn him.
“Honey,” she’s gentle, always gentle when waking him. “I have to go.”
His breath catches in his throat; “Hm-mm. Nah, you can’t, the car’s…”
Voice trailing off, now – and she nudges him with her hip.
“Hm?” He remembers himself; snuggles her closer. “Bar- the car’s… broken down.”
Her head slumps to her shoulder. “Is it?”
He nods, lying. Little whistling nose, strumming her heartstrings.
Sensing she’s not convinced, he mouths at her skin as he adds, “Road’s closed, too.”
“Oh, yeah? Which one?”
He shrugs limply. “All of ‘em.”
A fleeting glimpse of self-control keeps her from chuckling, from further enabling this behavior. It’s not enough to stop her from playing with his hair, though.
“Then I’ll… have to walk,” she decides, and sighs. Lets her eyes fall shut, for a risky little moment.
“Can’t. I gave away all our shoes.”
Brow furrowing, she doesn’t pry her eyes open just yet. “Why’d you go and do that?”
“Fr’ the children, Joyce,” he murmurs, nose catching a deep breath against her stomach. “The needy children.”
So charitable of him. She feels him melting into her hand, head turned heavy wherever her nails go stroking.
“Then I guess I’ll just…” She yawns, nose scrunching. “Just have to go barefoot.”
“No way,” he refuses softly, hand smoothing down to nestle between her waist and the sheets – gripping with a hint of possession. “Think of all the… broken glass.”
“Oh, not the oceans of broken glass.”
“And it’s freezing out there.” He’s exaggerating – it’s barely chilly – but even in his hypothetical world, he sounds concerned. His ankle hooks around hers, catching her leg beneath the sheets. “Rudolph.”
Her brow arches. She squints her eyes open, down at his dozing head. “What?”
A little noise tickles his throat, like a whimper. (Only when he’s this sleepy.)
“Yr’ little, you’ll…”
Up in the air, now, his sleepy hand travels aimlessly in her direction. Finds her face, clumsily – and taps a single fingertip to her cold nose.
“Rudolph; you’ll get… Rudolph nose.”
Her heart skips a bit at that; sighs heavy in her throat. She catches his hand in hers, deposits a kiss on it; rests her face there, against his palm. Counts to his pulse, the only sound in the whole wide world.
He makes this all so much more bearable. Nothing compares.
“How about a compromise?” Her voice rasps soft, as he’s tarrying around consciousness now. He doesn’t even move.
“I’m listening.”
She bites her lip as she thinks, though the decision’s already made. Presses a kiss over his wrist.
“I’ll be ten minutes late,” she whispers – and there’s his pleased hum, rumbling against her defenses. “I’ll tell ‘em the roads were bad. And the car broke down.”
“And the broken glass.”
“And the glass,” she assures with a smile, and drags his hand up to the pillow. “And the Rudolph.”
He barely ventures a grunted response, content to have won his war and easing back to a tentative rest – face-down against her stomach, heavy as heaven and softer than anything. Little whistling breaths, playing with her overworked heart.
And settling her cheek in his hand, she takes a heavy breath, sighs along his forearm. She lets the warmth of him drag her out of the cold and into the thick muggy world of dreaming, and she thinks?
She thinks, in that deranged hallway between sleeping and waking, which has made him so silly and sweet and persuasive to her – she thinks she could have this argument every day, for the rest of her life.
