Air
He has fallen asleep a while ago.
They are curled up on the couch together, end-to-end, beneath a blanket. Her brain is numbed and reluctant, and it meanders contentedly around in the back of her skull and mumbles one work blearily to itself- comfortable. She could have stayed there forever, had it not been for her thirst, which over time has gradually increased until it is severe enough to make her throat sore and angry when she swallows.
She tries to ignore it, but there is a dry harsh tickle in the roof of her mouth which threatens to explode out of her in a frenzy of coughing- and that, she knows, would wake him up.
She doesn't want that.
So she carefully extracts her limbs from within the heap upon the sofa, swings her legs to the ground and wanders barefoot into the kitchen, reeling slightly from the rush of blood in her head. The tap groans and the pipes clatter as they deliver the water, and she winces and puts her finger to her lips, as if pleading with them for silence.
The glass is long and cool, and she vanishes into it as she drinks.
Returning to the living room she thinks of cushions and warm skin. Her feet are cold from the kitchen tiles, and there is a certain childlike part of her that just wants to curl up close to him and sleep-
Then she sees him. He appears to have grown cold while she was gone- he has rolled over onto his side in his sleep, his arms crossed over his chest and his hands at his shoulders gripping the blanket, which is wrapped tightly around him.
She raises an eyebrow. So things will not be as easy as she thought.
Her first attempts are useless- she cannot remove the blanket from out of his hands without using some force, it seems- and she does not want to yank it away from him. She tries to ease his fingers open gently- but she already knows that this particular battle is lost. She has learned from experience that he is both a deep sleeper and a determined one: if he falls asleep with his fists clenched, they will remain so until the morning.
She glares at him in frustration. If he knew how annoying he can be when he's asleep, he'd be ashamed, she thinks.
Then an idea strikes her.
She bends over him and begins to trail light feathery kisses- more air than skin- over the slopes and planes of his shoulders. He responds, even through his sleep: his whole body relaxes and he rolls over into her touch.
She smiles to herself, slides her hands down slowly over his chest- and tugs the blanket from his limp grasp.
She grins smugly as she nestles back down beside him and draws the blanket over them both, and her expression remains triumphant even as her eyelids drift closed.
Author's notes: Back to normal again. :D There probably won't be any more movie-based stuff here.