Max is in a perfect spot right now. He's lying in bed with her, with his queen curled into his side and his fingertips gently brushing the top of her arm. The birds are chirping outside the window and the sun is beginning to rise, coloring the sky in a variety of colors. He's been laying beside her all night as she slept, occupying himself with idle thoughts and the chance to watch her beautiful face. He hasn't moved so he won't disrupt her sleep. He loves her too much to wake her unnecessarily.
That little touch to her arm draws her in closer, snuggling up against the omnic in her sleep, absent to the world, but comfortable and peaceful. There’s mercy in her sleep. Well, most days.
More often than not, there are nightmares, a plague, a reminder of the woman buried deep inside that perfect wrapper of alabaster skin and deadly accuracy. They haunt her. From deep within those suppressed parts of her mind, Amelie cries out, claws her way to the surface for a few moments here and there, and she leaves the sniper feeling confused and broken whenever it happens.
But there are no nightmares there now.
Another shift, and she slowly opens golden eyes to find the familiar and comforting faceplates of her companion through a sleepy little haze.
“Max...”
This is not her bed. It’s his, and for once she doesn’t mind waking up in someone else’s bed. Hell, usually she doesn’t even spend the night. This was different.
Dinner. A movie. A nice, long bath. And rest. He had brought her the most supple of silk teddies for her to slip into, and the satin sheets, sheets she was certain he did not need, were so refreshing and luxurious that she felt as if she was back home, in her own bed, surrounded by the luxury of her Chateau.
“You’re still here.”
Her hair is a mess, and she’s sleepy as hell, but there is a softness and gentleness to her that even Maximilien has never seen until now.