*she is sleeping on his bed*
What does it say about their relationship that Hank doesn't even question it? Oh, he quirks a brow, to be certain. Thinks, hmmmmm. But question it?
Well. There's a certain intimacy between two highly intelligent and flawed individuals who quote Byron at one another, shatter into a million pieces, and allow the other to put them back together, isn't there?
He certainly doesn't have the heart to turf her out or wake her up.
Instead, he moves over to the dresser and pulls out a bottle of Paradis Rare cognac, pouring out two glasses with a hum of Orfeo. He sets one on his bedside table, and sips at the other as he fetches himself a book. What to read . . ?
He settles on Arthur O'Shaughnessy, much as he settles on his chair by the window, leaning back and talking to himself more than he's talking to his sleeping companion. Perhaps he simply wishes her a pleasant rest.
"We are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers And sitting by desolate streams; World losers and world forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems."
