Finally, they are here. That wet dream of an impossible life - two lives, in one farmhouse - . That somehow coherent sequence of a sharp inhale awakening, the realisation of being in that precarious big spoon position and not wanting to shake up the drawer, the five-minutes-more yearning to stay, headbutting a shoulder because real men don't nuzzle, inevitably shifting to warm feet on cool floorboards, the bite of cold water on his cheeks and in his mouth, the hiss-spurt-clicking of a still-warming-up coffee machine that fills the cool air with the promise of a quiet but decent morning even though nothing is supposed to make sense in a dream.

But this isn't a dream. Just-- too much whiskey last night. Empty bottles that clink guiltily on the porch when Henry steps out to clear away the evidence while the coffee mug is slowly filling up. They'll be having daughters over a little later, small fragments of their old and battered hearts to fill child seats and breathe life into the house with the pitter-patter of little feet and shrill laughter. Can't have them see the damaged sides of the men who hung the moon and all the stars up in the sky.

The smell-sizzle-sputter of bacon and eggs slither and waft in through the ajar bedroom door, attempting to lure the hungover deadweight out of bed if the coffee didn't work enough of its enchantment magic.