Claret awoke enough to turn. Over easy. Sirius was nearly finished dressing. He sat by her to pull on warm socks. He stroked her back. A touch of sweetness.
"I'll light the fire." He let her sleep. She slipped back into her fog.
"How do you like your eggs?" he prompted. He had been industrious while she remained the filling in an omelet of still-warm bedding. The fire was lit, the bacon cooked, and the pan was waiting for its next duty.
"Over medium," she groaned, and turned herself sunny side up. She felt scrambled at first, but then realized the luxury of having breakfast made for her. She sat up in her nest. Outside he was poaching the eggs gently in the hot bacon grease. She slipped on his new boots and ventured out of her shell wrapped in the pueblo blanket. It was early, and chilly. She quivered like a six-minute egg. He carefully turned the eggs; keeping them whole would keep the grease clean for reuse with another round of eggs later on. The table was already set with two mugs of Tang, a pair of mismatched forks, and a paper plate full of crisp bacon. He plated his two eggs and set hers back over the fire to finish for just a moment, then served her and sat. She felt coddled.
"Oh, Clare du soleil? How are you this morning?" He sounded like a new man. She, on the other hand hadn't slept as well as he had, and she was most definitely not a morning person. She squinted at the morning sun. He would have to serve as her moon and guardian star this time of day. She sipped her Tang and crunched on a piece of bacon.
"Bacon makes it almost worth crawling out of bed for. Why so early?" How could anyone be so ready-to-go this early?
"Responsibilities." Before he left, he burned the plates and stirred the fire to tame it so she could go back to bed without worrying about it. "Go back to bed, sweetie," he told her, using her sympathetic word. "I will be back in a couple of hours."
She crawled back into her cocoon and opened the crossword book to last nights unfinished page. Six letters, V_N_R_. The clue read 'love of pursuit, pursuit of love'. She was back asleep before she could think about it, and before she could wonder what his responsibility was.
She dreamed she was chasing rabbits. Not eating them, or killing them, but interrupting them. Interrupting their, well, what do bunnies do? The next thing she knew, she was an eagle, ripping their hearts out and soaring away. The dreams faded and swirled, and all she knew was unconsciousness.
The morning was warming, the sun was high, when Sirius walked back into the quiet camp. He swung by the jeep to take a quick look in the mirror to make sure there were no traces, like yesterday. His cheeks were ruddy, his still eyes dilated slightly, even in the daylight. He stole silently into the tent. Dropping to all fours, he stalked her.
A low growl of hot breath in her ear woke her. His whiskers brushed her cheek. The assumption of safety, the sensation she had held securely from the moment she'd first let him into her camp, slipped from her grip and shattered like a Faberge egg. Even that night he'd snapped at her, she felt it was directed at her safety. But now, she felt like prey. She felt him hovering over her, his knees planted on either side of her, some of her hair caught under his one hand on the bed, her shoulder pinned under the other. A touch of control, a touch of sweetness. What had gotten into him?
"Venery," he purred, "Prete ma ta plume." Je n'ai pas de plume, je suis dans mon lit. He plucked the pen from where it lay in the fold of the book thay still lay spread beneath her cheek, open to the page she'd fallen asleep over. He penned the missing E, E and Y into the spaces between the V, N and R. He rolled over beside her. "One of my favorite words." His eyes sparked, then softened. He changed directions like wind in a storm. The lamb shed its wolf's clothing.
"Did you sleep well, my cosset?" He stroked the loose hair out of her wide eyes. She was breathless, heart racing. "Were you having a bad dream? You look frightened." What had just happened? Part of her wanted it to happen again. Safe isn't always what a girl craves to feel. Nonetheless, it felt so good when he slid his arm under her and pulled her close. She nestled her cheek into his shoulder, pressing it into the waffle weave of his new burgundy Henley. She smelled the clean musk of his sweat. She found herself stroking the soft fabric. Her hand slipped under it at his waist and traced back up his ribs, already filling out, if only through rehydration. It felt good to have her hand sandwiched between the cloth and his skin. He made such a good pillow. She sighed a deep sigh, not unlike the one by the fire. He kissed her gently on the forehead, such a sweet, genuine kiss. But this time he didn't stop. He stroked her cheek and lifted her chin. As sweet as the kisses had been that he'd sown on her forehead, this one was sweeter. Sweeter, but not innocent. Hot and dangerous, like tea that hadn't cooled enough. Changing like the weather. A tempest in a teacup.
She wanted it to last forever, but it didn't. Patience, a touch of sweetness, a touch of control. Even when it was over, it wasn't over. His lips were still right there, just barely grazing hers, his hot breath on her skin, a kiss just out of reach. She almost forgot how to breathe again. This could be the most intoxicating single moment she'd ever experienced. As suddenly as the storm swept in, it vanished. He released her chin and kissed her again on the forehead.
"Let's go for a walk."
