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Patient until the last slippery tail tip of the cat sloughs past the door, Fitcher snips the narrow gap shut after her with a soft click of the latch and a perfunctory, "Mind your manners."

And then returns to bed directly. The housecoat comes with despite the radiant heat left in the light blankets and his nakedness. She is mindful of all its edges as folds in to sit beside alongside where he is prone and has no qualms about trading the prospect of sticky nearness for fetching a comb from the side table with which to tame her hair for braiding.

But for good measure while she works: Fitcher throws a leg over his. Cuddling.

Thot the cat bustles into a trot at the order, hurried along for the first shadowy recess that will absorb her, be it beneath furniture or clothing or the neighboring cot. Manners: minded.

Back in Fitchers bed, Silas drowses in the loop of his talisman, waiting to tuck his far foot beneath a rustled blanket until she’s already claimed the near. He looks to their crossed knees for a time before he looks back to her, no move made to shirk or draw away. A hitch at his shoulder tamps a pillow into a softer rest behind him. He shifts his hips, stifles a yawn, finds the belt of her robe lax between paired fingers.

They could talk about the war.

He drifts to the sound of the comb hissing in her hair instead, his eyes heavy-lidded between stretches of rest. It can be difficult to tell, with him, where relaxation ends and sleep begins. The eventual putter of a snore is a helpful clue.

She makes no effort to rouse him. Instead her hair is combed slowly and braided more so to the quiet rhythmic rasp of a body in minor motion, and it's only once she has set the comb aside that Fitcher makes any motion to disturb her company.

"Silas." Her long hand fits well over his bare breastbone. "Shift over."

The light on the bedside table is doused. Thin blankets and the bodies nominally beneath them are rearranged. When she shifts in next to him, it is only by a matter of technicality that it might be considered beside rather than over him. A bent arm is hooked over his chest. His shoulder makes an acceptable pillow for this brief interim in which she intends to remain awake.

"If you leave early, don't wake me," she murmurs near his neck, the low rumble of it felt through all her bare skin. And then she makes herself comfortable. That's quite enough conversation.

Zseiless.

He starts, a reflexive jolt caught and subdued quickly upon replay, invisible but not intangible: his heart skips beneath the muffle of her palm, tension tuned sharp through his shoulder. But there’s no dry kindling in him for alarm to ignite -- his resistance loosens like a pair of clamped jaws as he shifts, blankets welcomed, wrangled with his assistance.

Her close fit against him gives him pause -- is she reaching across him for something? No, clearly she is not.

A moment’s hazy contemplation as she makes herself comfortable is all he needs to realize that no part of him seems to mind. Conforming feels natural, whatever warm feeling calling to muscle and bone; his arm should lift to wind around her side, like so.

A sigh presses up under his scrubby chest, the scar-chewed slats of his ribs push against her in the dark. He shifts again to better settle.

“I’ll be discreet,” he murmurs back once he's still. Quiet. Mrs. Fitcher.

Edited 2021-08-21 18:23 (UTC)

A low purr of acknowledgement is neither encouragement or assent. In the dark, there is some minor adjustment to the tilt of her chin. On second thought—

"I didn't ask for your discretion. Only not to wake me."

Let Barrow and Rutyer be cross with her. There's little harm in it.

There’s an answering tilt in the dark, a velcro rasp of bristle on bristle for him to consider her.

Quiet prevails; after a moment, a rustle marks his settling back into place.

He won’t wake her.

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