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Sometimes, she prefers him drunk. Alvin was never an easy man to deal with--even after he had decided that his loyalties lay to Milla and Jude, he never truly lost his sly veneer (he was still, end the end, a businessman, a mercenary, whatever he wanted to be called now)--, but sometimes, when plied with a little too much beer, his feelings became a little less elusive, his face a little more honest. It doesn't change him entirely, of course, but when he's tipsy, safe, and secure, he's more willing to show his sincerity in all the ways he can.
(it was the way this first happened between them. too much whiskey, too much wine, and the sheets were so soft, and why shouldn't they stay so close together when the coals in the stove were so close to burning out on that cold winter night?)
Sometimes, though, that drunk sincerity is smothering, overwhelming. He focuses on details, and can't let go. It can be anything, from the the tiny rip on his designer scarf to problems with his new line of work. Anything and everything can catch his eye, and for the most part, Leia takes the troubled nights in stride--after all, she too has her drunken foibles--, but then there are nights when his muddled distress become much more intimate.
(his hands are roaming, and all she has on is his coat. he always grins so cockily when she wears it like this, acts so boldly and confidently. she whimpers as his fingers slowly trail over ticklish spots and his laugh is a low rumble she can feel in his chest--he likes to tease, likes to draw it out, though he doesn't seem to care when she does the same to him--, and then he stops, fingers faltering over the slight rise of that one particular scar on her shoulder.)
The evening is always over when he trips and stumbles over their memories. Leia tries to console him, to coax him back in the the vanishing warmth, but there is little that can be done for a man who cannot (will not) forgive himself for his sins, no matter how far he has come. It hurts--her best will never be good enough, will it? Like Agria, he falls away from her hands, oscures his heart into shadows. These nights always make her wonder--if her best isn't good enough to soothe him, then why does he keep returning to her?
But morning comes, the suns rises and shines through the pretty curtains on the windows, and while nothing is forgotten from the night before, the sudden blinding pain of their shared hangovers is often enough to shove any potential awkwardness away.
(it was the way this first happened between them. too much whiskey, too much wine, and the sheets were so soft, and why shouldn't they stay so close together when the coals in the stove were so close to burning out on that cold winter night?)
Sometimes, though, that drunk sincerity is smothering, overwhelming. He focuses on details, and can't let go. It can be anything, from the the tiny rip on his designer scarf to problems with his new line of work. Anything and everything can catch his eye, and for the most part, Leia takes the troubled nights in stride--after all, she too has her drunken foibles--, but then there are nights when his muddled distress become much more intimate.
(his hands are roaming, and all she has on is his coat. he always grins so cockily when she wears it like this, acts so boldly and confidently. she whimpers as his fingers slowly trail over ticklish spots and his laugh is a low rumble she can feel in his chest--he likes to tease, likes to draw it out, though he doesn't seem to care when she does the same to him--, and then he stops, fingers faltering over the slight rise of that one particular scar on her shoulder.)
The evening is always over when he trips and stumbles over their memories. Leia tries to console him, to coax him back in the the vanishing warmth, but there is little that can be done for a man who cannot (will not) forgive himself for his sins, no matter how far he has come. It hurts--her best will never be good enough, will it? Like Agria, he falls away from her hands, oscures his heart into shadows. These nights always make her wonder--if her best isn't good enough to soothe him, then why does he keep returning to her?
But morning comes, the suns rises and shines through the pretty curtains on the windows, and while nothing is forgotten from the night before, the sudden blinding pain of their shared hangovers is often enough to shove any potential awkwardness away.