A/N: If Kitt can earn her own living at sixteen, then she can probably make her own decisions in other areas as well. She's a little older than canon here, though. The title is borrowed from musical terminology and is intended to mean 'intermission with liveliness'; please correct me if it's incorrectly written.
INTERMEZZO CON ANIMA
She brought her hands up to her face, rubbing them across her eyes. Magna Draconis, she had one of the worst headaches she'd ever experienced in all her five years of track racing. That sixth glass of lava brew spiked with Claw-juice at the victory party had probably been a mistake.
She had pulled some of the sheets up to her face along with her hands; they felt oddly soft, and opening her eye a crack she noticed that they were a bold red colour. Red silk, she thought slowly, her mind working at approximately the pace of a yellow-bellied worm crawling across a rough-road track challenge. I know who has sheets like that.
She heard a lazy yawn beside her.
"Kitt, dear, do open the curtains," the syrupy-sweet voice said beside her. "It's just the right time for what little sun we get here."
"Ugh," Kitt moaned. She couldn't stand the thought of any light, even Down City's pale morning sun.
"Stage Two of the hangover: incoherence. And you were so articulate last night—with such a talented tongue." The figure beside her moved amidst the sea of sheets, her body sliding along Kitt's side, lithely writhing like a sand-serpent.
"What's Stage One?" Kitt slurred.
"Headache." Pyrrah traced the line of Kitt's chin lightly with her hand.
"Check." Kitt sighed, half-heartedly moving to one side in a futile effort to dislodge the Crew-leader from on top of her. It wasn't that she hadn't enjoyed the night—Pyrrah was charming when she wanted something—but she had things to do, and agreeing to join the Dragon Flares simply wasn't on her agenda.
"Your skills are impressive. In more than one area." Pyrrah was still carrying on the hand routine, stroking along Kitt's forehead now and brushing her hair from her face; she was still in her maudlin stage, Kitt knew. This was the third time they'd been drinking together and it had occurred to Pyrrah to try her you-know-it-would-be-a-great-idea-if-you-joined-my-Crew routine.
"Maybe I'm too good for you." Not one of her better remarks, but with her head spinning like this Kitt couldn't think up anything smarter.
"Maybe the Kitten is too good for the stableboy." A smile stole across her face as her finger sketched a light circle on Kitt's cheek. "But not too good for the Flares. Her tail might get burned, otherwise."
"She doesn't have a tail."
"Really? Maybe I should check." Her other hand reached down before Kitt could stop her, teasingly running down her side and behind her back, the touch at the same time as light as gossamer and as unyielding as dragonbone.
Kitt laughed, wriggling around on the bed, and then suddenly rolled over as Pyrrah gasped in surprise like a just-hatched dragonet. She pulled part of the sheet with her, which became entwined between them as they tussled, and then they were freed of it and under a billowing red cave.
"Aren't you glad I buy silk?" Pyrrah lay back, pressing a fold of the material to her cheek, luxuriating in the sensation as though it was she who was the kitten. "Fiendishly expensive, of course. But after our recent victories I can afford the best for my snug home away from home."
"Bet you don't have it in your Crew-quarters." Kitt knew the Flares made their home in the very lowest level of Dragon City, a guarded ancient compound set in the middle of the cold and damp ruins.
"You'd be surprised, Kitten," Pyrrah purred to her, languorously stretching out her body. "Still interested in an invitation to come and find out?"
Kitt grinned. Her headache was feeling better, and she didn't have any really urgent appointments. "Ask me again later," she said, shifting her position to something more comfortable atop the Crew-leader.
Pyrrah could be quite convincing.
Feedback appreciated.