Porcupine Ridge The hills of Hollywood on fire

Diane was careful, as careful as she was walking across the slick ocean rocks during high tide, or peeling fish meat from their thin, choke-hazardous skeleton. She moved slowly, controlling her tongue skillfully to first clean the area around his wound— letting him become acclimated to the motions— before attempting to soothe the actual breath of his wound. His muscles pulled and twitched beneath her tongue, the minute flinching of his skin easing with each pass of tongue until it didn't happen anymore. Her teeth tugged at tiny clumps of fur around the wound were blood had pooled and congealed, tossing in gentle laps of her tongue between each tug of his guard hairs.

She didn't know how long she did this, but by the time she was satisfied with the cleanliness of his wound (and face in general), she realized they had grown so comfortable that he was lying down with his head lifted and prone, and she was sitting, leaning heavily against his shoulder. Surprised at herself, she nosed the tender spot behind his ear to rouse him and signify that he was whistle-clean. She was slower to heft her slight build from against him, turning gold coin eyes out onto the dead bodies they had abandoned in their attention for one another. There was a small thought that they should bury the coyotes, but something about that seemed too kind. The beasts didn't deserve it.

"Let's keep checking," she murmured, though knowing he wouldn't understand, motioned towards the length of the border and got to her feet. She took a few steps forward, then looked over her shoulder, smiling and wagging the tip of her tail at him invitingly.

Small PP, I hope you don't mind. We could also fade here, if you'd like?