shelley_winters | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's the ache that wakes Shelley up, a few hours before she would otherwise have woken naturally. It isn't really that bad, she judges, sitting up slowly, but definitely unexpected, and nagging, like a dehydration headache. But... no. Yesterday Elan was treating her like an invalid, just as if she couldn't take care of herself... Which... she couldn't? No, that's not right, apart from the irritating pain, she feels fine.

Oh. And then, there is of course Elan lying next to her. Not wearing a shirt. Obviously.

She really wishes he wouldn't do that. No, she had been ill. Or... something, and that's why he refused to leave her the evening before, and then he'd dreamed something odd, and it's all very confusing.

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The stirring roused Elan from his sleep--Pressing his hands into the bed, he arose and turned towards her, murmuring softly in a rough voice. He felt... lighter as if something had been removed from his back.

"Morning, Shelley."

One hand gingerly explores her curiously tight-feeling forehead. Shelley frowns, then stops when it pulls oddly as she discovers the dressing stuck over her temple.

"Um. Morning. What...?"

She can't quite remember how she got that. It's disconcerting, to say the least.

Elan sat up in bed beside her. Tilting his head to the side and furrowing his brow, he glanced at her curiously. Was there any particular reason to be fussing with the bandage?

"Hmmm?"

"Why have I got this? I, er. I don't remember how I, um..."

She rubs it demonstrably, and winces slightly. No. Not bad, but all the same. Ow. And weird.

Elan considered for a moment. She must have lost that stretch of time due to her injury--it happened with head trauma on occasion until a skilled Restorer could repair the damaged segments of time.

"You slipped and fell yesterday afternoon, knocking yourself unconscious and giving me quite a scare."

She pauses, fitting this in with the rest of what she does recall. Slowly, it slots together.

"Oh. Oh, yes. That does make sense."

Not that making sense is altogether something she likes. But it could have been worse. Much, much worse, considering her company.

Fussing with his hair, Elan glanced over at her, and commented rather calmly.

"Should I make us some coffee? I think you were going to prepare pancakes, I believe."

"I was."

She remembers that, at least, although she'd rather exchange it for the foggier of her memories, frankly. It had been a very surreal night.

"Yes. Okay. I should get up, anyway. Work."

Elan nodded and slid from the bed. Stretching and yawning, he fiddled with his hair a bit more. Time to make coffee--that his mood was somewhat irrationally good occurred to Elan, but was ignored.

"Thank you."

Exactly what for was unclear.

Shelley pauses, but doesn't look back over. For once, she thinks she has a fair idea, and so... she leaves it.

"You're welcome."

She gets up, and heads out of the room without looking back.

Steam rose from the cups of coffee. The kitchen had been largely silent as Shelley cooked pancakes and he prepared coffee and toast for them to have. The lemon juice and sugar were already on the table. Elan brushed his still-damp hair from his eyes. He inquired quietly of Shelley as he set down the coffee pot.

"Cream and sugar?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Shelley is Concentrating.

Pancakes are tricky little beggars, you see. At the moment, she's debating whether or not to hazard flipping one.

Elan nodded calmly and calmly spooned in the sugar and poured the cream--he knew how much she liked. It was the sort of thing that one learned after a long association. Rather gravely, he finished arranging the silverware and intoned.

"All preparations are complete."

"You sound really pompous when you say things like that," she remarks, and flicks the pancake into the air.

It revolves ominously before she manages to catch it, in an unattractive heap, but in the frying pan.

Drawing himself up slightly, he commented wryly, but without any venom. He had his own little ways of keeping himself sound of mind.

"I may be an anonymous shelver of books, but I should think a little dignity would not be too great an indulgence."

"Yes, but it's breakfast. You're not heralding the birth of the heir to the kingdom."

He is not some plucky hero. This is not the grand arena.

"Could you pass a plate?"

Deciding that kingdoms and heirs was a poor and potentially catastrophic topic for conversation, Elan instead only chuckled and handed her the plate.

"I suppose so."

The pancake is deposited on the plate, and Shelley makes a shooing gesture with her free hand.

"You eat that one, or it'll get cold."

Another ladleful of batter is consigned to the flames.

Elan nodded calmly and walked over to the table and sat down obedient to her order. After dosing his pancake with lemon and sugar, he began to eat and was content to simply watch Shelley cook her pancake.

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