[ Unlike Iain, Moneypenny doesn't dream. She very rarely does and hasn't for a while now, her neurons awash in somnacin after years of abuse and then, after, something more like moderation. Luckily sleep still comes to her when she calls for it, though her lifestyle dictates that she catch sporadic swatches of it as opposed to a full night's rest. The globe-trotting and the jetlag and the twenty-four-hour party people mentality means that her circadian rhythms are fucked, at best. (She's used to it by now.)
So when Iain stirs, Moneypenny stirs with him even though she's not drawn into full waking by the soft hush and shift of sheets against skin. A hand curls loosely against Iain's hip. ]
Солнышко, [ she murmurs.
It means 'sun'. Something Russian grandmothers call their favorite grandsons or older, more romantic souls call their lovers. (You are light. You are center. It means more than just 'sun'.) ]
✘
So when Iain stirs, Moneypenny stirs with him even though she's not drawn into full waking by the soft hush and shift of sheets against skin. A hand curls loosely against Iain's hip. ]
Солнышко, [ she murmurs.
It means 'sun'. Something Russian grandmothers call their favorite grandsons or older, more romantic souls call their lovers. (You are light. You are center. It means more than just 'sun'.) ]