For a minute or so after Avery closed his eyes, Lyra watched him, eyes half closed herself. Shit yeah, sleep sounded good, but... he was her husband, and that word sounded so strange and alien but thrilling for all its strangeness, and she wanted to poke around this feeling a bit more, though she struggled to summon the mental energy to explore it, so she ended up just gazing at him...
Also, she needed to pee, so more sleep would have to wait. Awfully, she pushed herself off the bed (he didn't even stir) and took her turn in the bathroom, and ended up standing under the stream of the shower, head tipped back to keep her hair from getting wet, spending a few long minutes hoping the water could purify the hangover. It certainly helped with the sickly sweet alcohol smell that seemed like it was coming out of her skin. And wrapping herself up in the fuzzy hotel bathrobe afterwards was definitely more comfortable than the dress, though... the robe was longer, so less chance Avery was gonna say anything impressed about her legs.
Maybe she tied the robe pretty loosely at the front, to compensate for the leg thing. (A flash of memory as she did, Avery walking her backwards into the room last night, trying to get his hands up her dress with a committed 'we haveta comm... haveta consummate— no backies' as she tried to set the veil on his head and kiss him at the same time, agreeing 'no backsies' with slurred but vehement decisiveness.) She was zoning out at the mirror when the knock on the door came, which jerked her right out of it and she scrambled back out into the bedroom to find the money.
"Ya know... I got the feeling," she said to Avery as she balanced the food with ingrained waitressing nous, and set the plates right down on the bed. "That I ain't the first hungover girl in a bathrobe he'd seen tipping in crumpled cash and I ain't gonna be the last." She smiled at him, crookedly, and passed him a bottle. "D'you like Red Bull?"