If Narcissa had any idea of the conflicted mess his mind was in, and the blurred lines he was forced to cope with just to function, she'd be out that door in a flash. But she doesn't know, though she may later suspect, and right now she's drunk, high as a kite, and he's indulging a physical pleasure very few know about as his fingers card through her long hair. So she takes words for what they are, since the ability to think clearly escapes her, too.

"It might be nice," she sighs. "Lying here. Just... Feeling."

Her hand falls from her stomach with a quiet thud to lie palm-up on the floor by his chest, fingers curled up a little. She'll have bruised the bone in her wrist from that, though it won't show for another day or two.

"Not thinking about anything I have to do or people I have to please..."