Title: Wake Up
Disclaimer: The characters and settings in this story do not belong to me, but to the amazing Hilari Bell.
Note: I wrote this over December break and promptly forgot about it. Then found it again. And had that, "wait. where the hell did this come from?" moment.
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"Wake up, Sir Knight," says Fisk, ripping away the bedding and slapping Michael's thigh.
"Curse you, squire," groans Michael, curling in against the chill. It's winter, snow a foot high and still falling outside the small inn window. They were lucky to get a room with the holidays around the corner, but Fisk had sweet-talked someone in the household. That, or he'd used his card tricks to take their money and then used the debt to call in a favor. Either way, Michael is staying pleasantly uninvolved with the whole affair and simply enjoying the outcome.
Fisk leans in again, saying, "Holiday shopping was your idea, Michael."
Before he can pull away, Michael snags an arm and yanks the squire in, surrounding himself with the warm heat of another body to replace the lost blanket. "'Twas a horrible idea."
Fisk huffs, struggling against the hold half-heartedly. "You spent all week talking about a new saddle—"
""Tis far too cold."
"—that can only be found here—"
"And Chant likes his old saddle."
"—and is half price this week only."
Fisk's unrelenting ability to quote Michael word for word has never been one of the knight's favorite skills. "We're staying in bed," he grumbles, and drags Fisk's arm further over his chest.
"You're impossible," breathes Fisk, exasperated, and he cranes his neck to bite at Michael's jaw. Michael just hums, feeling triumphant when two clad knees nock into the back of his own.
They lie still a moment, Michael dozing peacefully, until Fisk shifts, nudging his nose against Michael's neck and saying, "I should be tending the horses."
Clamping down on his squire, Michael rasps, "Let the stable boys do their job." He twists to blink blearily at Fisk. "Why are you trying so hard to get out of bed?"
"Because I'm already dressed. Someone gave the impression that we'd be accomplishing things today."
"Yes. Well. Someone has changed their mind."
Fisk rolls his eyes, but doesn't move, smiling fondly down at him. It's so easy to tilt up for a kiss, a lazy, stale, wonderful thing, that Michael can hardly picture what his life used to be without this.
"Stay in bed, Fisk," he murmurs, carding a hand through Fisk's steadily growing hair.
The squire rubs their noses together, sighing, and indulges his knight with a soft, "Gods, you are difficult to deny."
The saddles sell out. Michael doesn't care.
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(end)