( abandoned, discarded things don't stay without an owner for very long, in alina's presence. squirmy, she shifts out of paul's embrace for the thirty second struggle of slipping his sweater over her head. there isn't too much of extra, spooling fabric — paul is barely bigger than she is, longer twiggy arms that make it easy for alina to curl her fingers into the inside of a sleeve, huddling into it with the hope of it swallowing her whole. much the same with the blankets she's been hoarding diligently, as her makeshift fortress — keeping her sickness inside, keeping the embarrassing memories and unwanted visitors from intruding on her.

it just so happen that every visitor is an unwanted interloper on the list, except for paul. and, by association: kettlewing, who is making a stream of high-pitched squeaks that either mean he's brewing, or snoring and asleep. both, potentially. )

No. ( yes. ) I still think a hole in the ground would be more comfortable.

( dramatically, she flips back down, strength spent on that one simple task. messily, her hair spills out against paul's shoulder, into his face, with little regard, as she burrows back into his (bony) shoulder. the gummy bears — still tragically unopened — get pressed into paul's chest. husband duties require opening up jars, and stupid plastic bags when your clammy fingers won't cooperate. )

Do mice hibernate for winter? ( nerdy paul atreides will surely know. alina frowns, thoughtful. ) We should do that.