closed | put your good face on, you're not fooling no one

[rowancrowned]

WHO: Thranduil, Gwenaëlle Vauquelin
WHAT: After this, a more in-depth conversation.
WHEN: Firstfall 4th
WHERE: Vauquelin residence in Hightown
NOTES: Discussion of family planning, etc.

Her sleep schedule was such that he could run errands in the morning, and even stop by the Gallows to gather his mail with enough time to return to the estate in Hightown before she woke. There was a package alongside the correspondence from the ravens and the internal reports, and he’d secreted it away in his sleeve alongside the rapidly growing baby nug he’d taken charge of before heading back to Hightown.

He had fought her, at first, about using the main entrance to the estate, but on the quiet near-afternoons of the weekends, it was less work to sneak in the side way, going through the kitchen and up to her bedroom. She was still asleep, and he sat gently on the corner of her bed. He stole a few minutes of simply watching her—the rise and fall of her chest, how her hair spread out over her pillow, how soft and peaceful she looked.

The wet nose pushing at his wrist broke his reverie, and he gently coaxed the small nug out, setting him on the bedspread. No boots today, just a soft ribbon around his neck. He made for Gwenaelle nearly immediately across the bed, determined to smell everything. He sniffed at her hand first, nudging it intently, little hands pawing at her own.

(Thranduil hoped that the nug will be blamed rather than he for the awakening.)
 

Comments

[elegiaque]

A fair amount of ground to cover for little nug feet; Gwenaëlle tangled in bedding in the center of a bed far too large for her by half, the braid she'd wound her hair into the night before coming undone, expression twisting into a frown as she stirs, curling her fingers under her palm and pulling her hand out from underneath Leviathan. She rolls to her side and sweeps her hair from her face, the swoop of bangs growing out still not quite long enough to have been wound back in the first place-

“Good morning,” a bit dryly, in a voice still somewhat rough as she grudgingly becomes awake. “If that thing runs in front of Hardie, I won't be held responsible.”

(The hound in question lies sprawled on his bed - a sofa for his particular use - across the room. Thranduil's quiet comings and goings no longer merit more than a brief, inquisitive stirring- all is well and back to sleep.)