“It was a nice ceremony.”
“Those little cheesy things were excellent, if a bit sticky. Is it some kind of rule that officiants have to be old?”
“And kind of grey.” Beat. “He smelled a little cheesy too, did you notice?”
Delayed, and strained: “What?”
“…Plourr, are you alright?”
“So all the grimacing is a new fashion statement?”
“N— fuck it.”
“Plourr, are yo—”
“You’re having contractions, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m kriffing well not!”
“Yes, you are!”
“I’m not! This kid isn’t due for another four weeks, I’m not fucking ready, these are not fucking contractions!”
They aren’t fucking contractions, it turns out.
But they are false contractions.
Fine. Plourr can deal with that.
What she can’t deal with is when they keep kriffing happening.
“No,” says the Empress Isplourrdacartha Estillo, standing at her full imposing height and speaking with all the regal fury of a woman who rules an entire planet and is accustomed to being obeyed.
“I can spell it out for you, if you’d like,” says Dr. Wilen pleasantly. “O-V-E-R-S-T-R-E-S-S. B-E-D-R-E-S-T.”
“If you think I'm going to lie in bed and do nothing for four weeks, you’re out of your kriffing mind!”
“So how’s lying in bed and doing nothing?” asks Rial.
Sitting in their bed with the covers pulled up over her lap, Plourr narrows her eyes and uncrosses her arms long enough to viciously rifle a datacard at his head.
“—Right!” says Rial, as he narrowly ducks. “No jokes. Got it.” He scoops up the datacard and moves closer to the bed, keeping a wary eye on his wife.
Dark eyes fairly smolder at him, her mouth set, but she doesn’t make a move to commit further violence.
He holds up the small, portable holoprojector that he’d been carrying behind his back. “I come bearing a Face Loran holovid.”
He sees one corner of her mouth twitch. “Which one?” she asks, stubbornly.
“The Black Bantha,” he says, wagging an eyebrow at her.
Plourr looks at him for a moment, then starts tossing datapads, datacards, sheets of flimsi, and assorted small means of occupying a very restless royal onto the tray that had once held lunch. Rial grins and lends a hand, picking up the tray and setting it on the floor, and then he flops onto the space that they’ve cleared, sprawling beside Plourr. With a touch of a keypad, the holo flickers to life.
It takes a while, but a half an hour into the (horrible) holodrama, Rial manages to wring a snort out of Plourr with his impressions, and a laugh--and then another and then another--swiftly follows.
She still shoves him when he kisses her cheek, but it isn’t hard enough to send him thudding onto the floor.
Rial can live with that.