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alittlehinkyCricket's never had very large or luxurious bed. When he was real little, he slept on a pallet on the floor next to his mama's bed, and it was okay except when mice got in the house. Later on, with Aunt Winnie, he had an old oak frame bed with ropes strung across it for spring and bounce, and an old, soft mattress they got from the Sears catalog one Christmas. It wasn't fancy, but it was clean and he slept on it comfortably, except for nights when he was out camping with Jack, and then the soft fall of leaves on the ground was just as good.
Here, in Harley's home, a twin bed more or less came with the room, and even at that rate it was way nicer than anything he'd ever had before. There's a box spring and a pillowtop mattress, and he's bought his own sheets and covers and pillows, and he didn't think there could be anything cozier. At least not until Pretty-Bird came along.
Now, he's dozing deep under the weight of a fat patchwork quilt, resting on his side. Even in his sleep he's dimly aware of the presence on the pillow next to him, evidently. The magpie tends to nest on his pillow and preen his hair in the night, or snuggle up in the crook of his neck or on his chest. He worried at first he'd roll over and squish the bird, but now, knowing who it is, he has to trust Loki has some sense of self preservation and would squawk if he were crowded. Hasn't happened yet.
In that comfortable, warm half-dream state, Cricket must feel the feathers stir a little at the back of his neck, the weight of the covers across his shoulders, and his brain translates it into something yet more solid. Arms around him, the solidity of a cheekbone or forehead nudging his hair. You're a perfect pillow.
Perfect. Sure. Yes. There is something so achingly right about intimacy on this level. Simple, safe company. Nothing more being demanded than the other person's presence. Dream-Cricket wants to speak, words of gratitude or contentment, maybe, but all that comes out is a quiet moan.
It's everything, this not-alone-ness.
Outside the window, the sky is getting light, and it's his habit to get up and start working early, so it's not long before he starts to shake off the sleep. He hesitates to open his eyes, still caught up in the illusion of arms around him, but when he feels his hair being preened, he smiles. Even if the arms aren't there, the person sure as hell is.
"G'morning, Pretty-Bird," he says, and slowly, gingerly looks over his shoulder, mussed and sleepy-eyed. "Bacon for breakfast, or pancakes?"
Green eyes blinking back at him make the waking as appealing as the dream.
Here, in Harley's home, a twin bed more or less came with the room, and even at that rate it was way nicer than anything he'd ever had before. There's a box spring and a pillowtop mattress, and he's bought his own sheets and covers and pillows, and he didn't think there could be anything cozier. At least not until Pretty-Bird came along.
Now, he's dozing deep under the weight of a fat patchwork quilt, resting on his side. Even in his sleep he's dimly aware of the presence on the pillow next to him, evidently. The magpie tends to nest on his pillow and preen his hair in the night, or snuggle up in the crook of his neck or on his chest. He worried at first he'd roll over and squish the bird, but now, knowing who it is, he has to trust Loki has some sense of self preservation and would squawk if he were crowded. Hasn't happened yet.
In that comfortable, warm half-dream state, Cricket must feel the feathers stir a little at the back of his neck, the weight of the covers across his shoulders, and his brain translates it into something yet more solid. Arms around him, the solidity of a cheekbone or forehead nudging his hair. You're a perfect pillow.
Perfect. Sure. Yes. There is something so achingly right about intimacy on this level. Simple, safe company. Nothing more being demanded than the other person's presence. Dream-Cricket wants to speak, words of gratitude or contentment, maybe, but all that comes out is a quiet moan.
It's everything, this not-alone-ness.
Outside the window, the sky is getting light, and it's his habit to get up and start working early, so it's not long before he starts to shake off the sleep. He hesitates to open his eyes, still caught up in the illusion of arms around him, but when he feels his hair being preened, he smiles. Even if the arms aren't there, the person sure as hell is.
"G'morning, Pretty-Bird," he says, and slowly, gingerly looks over his shoulder, mussed and sleepy-eyed. "Bacon for breakfast, or pancakes?"
Green eyes blinking back at him make the waking as appealing as the dream.
