SquidgeWorld Archive

None of the rooms in the house has a door, and so it is without the telltale creak that Bruce slips out of the dormitory, his stockinged feet almost soundless on the worn floorboards. He is far from certain what it is he's looking for - warmth, probably, in some shape or form. He wraps his arms tighter around himself, the lingering dampness of his workout clothes only adding to the chill.

Maybe there would be a fire still going in the kitchen.

It is not the kitchen, he knows that much, and he knows more, certainly more than he's willing to admit to himself as he hesitates on the threshold, fighting a losing battle against whatever it is that is trying to draw him into that particular room.

It is not warmth, that much is certain; the window is half-open, letting in the heavy clinging night air that makes his breath cloud ever so faintly in the thin trickle of moonlight illuminating the room. No, the small brazier in the corner has gone out a long time ago. The ashes may be days old for all Bruce can tell, a small grey pile that commands no attention at all.

It is the larger pile in the middle of the small chamber that has Bruce riveted. A huge shaggy yak fur makes up most of it, augmented with patches of other. Bruce hesitates to apply the term 'bedding' to something so far removed from what he originally learned to call a bed. He sees ragged-looking felt, nondescript black fabric that could be clothes in the light of day, and shorter furs lighter in colour, all packed around and under the yak hide. The man underneath must be curled up tightly to disappear so completely, concealing his true height and position. At a stretch, Bruce thinks, even the pillow of what looks like a wolf's pelt could be construed as camouflage, its fine bristly grey complementing the sleeping man's hair perfectly.

Bruce lets out a long breath, caring little for the soft cloud of steam that rises from his mouth. The chill is creeping through the soles of his feet, and if he moved his hands now, from where they are clamped around his upper arms, he would probably shiver so violently he would give his presence away. And how would he explain standing over Ducard's bed in the middle of the night, simply watching?

Not that he stands a chance anyway - though he doubts a less practiced eye would have spotted the hilt of Ducard's black blade half-concealed beneath the furs, ready at hand should the man deem it necessary.

And yet - it gives him a strangely satisfying sense of power to be able to stare the man in the face, unobserved, to simply be here and look his fill. To study every line in Ducard's face as he lies asleep, to marvel at the wolfish grey of his temples, the savage nose, and the mystery of how such a hard taskmaster has managed to acquire such laugh lines around his eyes. To wonder how much of the faint earthy scent that penetrates the chilly air is actually coming from the pile of hides, and how much of it is Ducard's own. To wonder whether he would be sweaty in the morning, heavy and warm, and what a man like Ducard wore to bed.

He has just torn himself away from the sight for long enough to begin chiding himself for even thinking this, and has just given way to the rational part of his brain that firmly tells him he has no business being here and isn't ever going to find out anyway, when a quiet grunt from the bed-pile makes him freeze in place.

The furs shift as Ducard rolls over and buries his face in the pelts, a deep contented sigh almost brushing Bruce's feet. Bruce stands rooted to the spot, hardly daring to breathe until he is quite sure Ducard has merely shifted in his sleep. There is no way of telling now, of course, with the man's face concealed, his bristly greying hair almost merging with the wolfskin it lies pillowed on.

Nobody would suspect, Bruce thinks distractedly, that this small mound of furs conceals a man of such imposing height and strength. Only a glimpse of bare shoulder is giving away his presence, and Bruce shivers indelicately at the thought. Not entirely, it has to be said, in sympathy at such an involuntary display of vulnerability, bare human skin exposed to the cold.

What really makes him shiver is the inevitable conclusion that Ducard must be at least half-naked in his. lair.

He feels his breathing get louder. A hasty retreat would doubtless be the only way to save face, he thinks hazily. A shiver runs through his entire body, leaving his skin sensitised and prickling. Certain parts of him are. well, less cold than the rest of him, for one thing.

He thinks he sees a minute shifting of the furs, and there, for a moment. is that Ducard's hand? Oh, not a good thought to be thinking right now. Those hands, big and brutal hands, doubtless warm and crushingly strong. there is hardly a square inch of Bruce's skin that would not welcome those hands in whatever guise they pleased. He suspects the heat of a handprint's worth of Ducard would tide him over the entire night.

"If it's warmth you're seeking, I suggest you undress."

Bruce gapes. When had. the face has barely moved from where it had been, and the voice is muffled but resonant. Bruce blinks. Ducard has not even bothered to open his eyes, though the laugh lines have deepened just that tiny bit. And yes, that is his hand. Ducard's hand, firmly gripping the big yak hide and its messy lining of felt and fur, and lifting it, exposing the inside of the lair.

Bruce's eyes have barely finished taking in the thick wrist and hairy forearm before his own hands have made short work of his clammy clothes and his skin greets Ducard's enthusiastically. All over.

As he feels the furs settling back over him, and the bristles of Ducard's beard at the back of his neck, Bruce realises he is sweating already.