[i]He dreamed of safety. He dreamed of firm coils, of strong coils, working over his weary body. He dreamed of enforced stillness. He dreamed of a curious look in her eyes.

Her eyes.

Her.

He…he never did get her name….[/i]

Hazel stares at the roof of the tent, and eventually he will piece together that it is, in fact, a tent, and a real tent that he is sleeping in, at that. Eventually. First he’s got to wonder why he’s seeing it again, because he’s pretty sure he saw it a bit ago, and, then, it was really important, they were, he was going, but he’s forgotten what without forgetting the feeling. Then there’s the matter of moving. Or rather, he can’t move. Because he’s wrapped up. Completely. Definitely. Does he even have legs anymore? Or arms for that matter? There are conflicting reports. But he’s definitely being squeezed, unless he’s being squished, or maybe…maybe…say, why’s he seeing this ceiling again?

It’s breakfast that pulls him from the swamp of half-sleep at last. Dreams can muddle a lot of things. They have to work pretty hard to beat the call of freshly-made sausage and tea. And he has to work [i]mighty[/i] hard to crane his neck up enough to beat the call of heavy, still-warm blankets.

Sore. Everything’s sore. Moving was a mistake. Guhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Well. He’s up. Sort of. Up enough to be committed now. Blink away the fog. Squint into reality. 

Behold; a wolf. Girl. Girl and wolf. Right. Those exist now.

She is. Wow. She is. Big.

(His eyes bounce from her middle to her broad shoulders. Automatically, without thinking. As if he could manage much thought right now. Around the back and neck and shoulders is safe and everybody knows that.) 

She’s…making breakfast? She’s making breakfast for him? She’s already up, and, she’s making breakfast? For him?

Wow.

(He shifts, and he groans louder than he needs to. He’s just a little sore. It’s not that bad. But it’d be bad to startle her by suddenly talking.)

“Mornin’,” he says blearily, rustling (noticeably, audibly, just in case) from his nest of blankets. His face - well, his face from the nose up, at least - peeks out at the huntress. His eyes go to the fire. “There anything I can do t’help…?” And. He. Pushes himself up. With both arms. S..slowly. Slowly, now…

(A draft hits his back. He feels the chill bite at his skin. His mostly-bare skin.)

[i]wait am I still wearing the-[/i]