#weeeeoooo

House Tour idontrememberthenumber out of ??

I’M SORRY DO YOU MEAN LEON AND MATHILDA’S LIFE A COUPLE YEARS AFTER THE MOVIE BECAUSE

.....

yeah

“Idiot.”

Lightly spoken.

Weight. Lightly placed. Hers.Straddling his hips.

“You overslept.”

“Mmmuh,” he groans and rolls ontohis side, knocking her off him. She flops on the bed beside him witha sigh that cannot completely hide the giggle behind it.

“Leon. Get up. You need to eat breakfast before we go.”

By way of response, he opens one blearyeye just enough to yank the pillow out from under her head and crushit down around his ears.

“Leeeeoooooonn,” shesingsongs, shaking his shoulder. “You've got a job to do. You haveto get ready.”

He heaves a deep, longsuffering sigh.The pillow stuffed around his head smells like her. Soft. Sweet.Sweat. Gun oil. She must have been sleeping with him again. At leastlately she sleeps through the night; doesn't wake both of them upwith jerks and kicks and little mewling cries and tearstains on thepillow and weak punches against his bare chest as he tries to giveher the comfort he knows she wants but he's still not all that greatat giving yet and she's still bad at outright asking for.

He's still sore from the last time shekneed him in the kidneys. Sore, and proud. She's strong, andshe'll only get stronger.

Thebed jostles; she's left it. He lifts the pillow just enough to hearher bare footsteps padding into the kitchen. He rolls onto his backagain, stretching luxuriously in the beam of buttery yellow sunlightstreaming through the window. His shoulder isn't as sore as heexpected. That new automatic was impressive.

Heheaves himself upright to the sounds of Mathilda bustling around with pots and pans and something sizzling on the stove, singing along to some new strange rock-and-roll song onthe radio. It's got too much head-banging for him, but it's fun towatch Mathilda's hair flapping crazily as she does it. He glances outthe bedroom window to the garden. The tomato plants nod their broadflat leaves as if imitating the girl who'd mothered them. Leonsmiles. Scratching at the puckered bullet scar underneath his threadbare tank top, he follows the scent of frying butter into the kitchen.

Twoglasses of milk sit on the wooden table big enough for four;he downs one and snags the cigarette out of Mathilda's mouth as shepasses with a plate of bacon.

“Hey,”she says, her thin brows scrunching up.

“You'vegot a job to do,” he snuffs the cigarette out on his palm. “Nosmelling like shit.”

Shesneers at him, curling her lip prettily. The brown fleece-linedbomber jacket—his-- falls off her narrow, childlike shoulder andexposes the strap of a yellow dress. He glances at it. Meets her bigbrown eyes. Raises one salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “We discussed this,Mathilda.”

Shepurses her lips in an expression that is decades older than heryears. “There is no dress code,Leon.”