you are my sun in every season ; poppy&justice 73rd

She watches congealed wine crawl down the drain in sticky globs, biting the inside of her cheek in stubborn denial of a smile. He settles in her peripheries, something she wishes she wasn't so painfully aware of as she fills the coffee mug with tap-water and drains its contents twice over. She takes a couple deep breaths from in between clenched teeth and pointedly ignores the ache in her jaw from the force of which she bites down on thoughts she'll never acknowledge.

She can't cook. It's funny because that's the only skill her mother had even attempted to pass down. There's not even a hint of the woman she was before marrying Poppy's father because he was nothing if not a particular man. His wife would be nothing more than a perfectly manicured trophy with a few added features, a woman to be seen and not heard and ignored and hurt when it was convenient. Her mother had tried with all her might to teach her only daughter to be just like her - and worse Poppy knows she thinks she's doing the right thing.

Don't think about that. It's all sharp and painful, like fingers finding a forgotten bruise. "What are we making?" She corrects, finally turning to face him and finding she detests his current vantage point. All easy grin and unkempt hair, looking at her like he sees something she doesn't. This game is only fun when she's the one winning, and this doesn't feel like victory.

Rolling her eyes is surprisingly difficult given the hangover, the ground beneath her churns in protest so she braces herself on the counter beside the place his hands rest. She goes through the usual steps of swallowing pain, regulating how she breaths and finding something else to focus on.

The hands at his sides and exposed forearms, sleeves rolled up to expose little scars that are not as insignificant as they seem. Light eyes looking down at her, smug because he's placed himself in her way, given her no choice but to face him and realize she's still here this morning not because she had to be but because she chose to stay.

"I'm not your maid nor your mother," She's on her tiptoes again, lamenting that her heels are lost somewhere beneath the mess left in the living room. Try as she might to reach the cabinet he's claimed as his pillow - and she tries for long enough that she's flushed by the end of it- she can't reach it without asking him to move.

"Why are you like this?" She finishes with a hopeless laugh and without a smile.