Haunted Wood whistlin' past the graveyard

Titmouse couldn't remember if sleeping was a good thing or a bad thing when someone was this cold, and maybe it was his desire to get some revenge upon her, but he wasn't about to let her sleep for very long. When she began to dip her head, Tit waited. He watched her trying to gather his warmth and felt a warmth spring up in places he wasn't accustomed - but he attributed that to the wintertime, and the fact they were plastered together. Then when she did drop her head and begin to drowse, he put a stop to it quickly. The boy began assailing her with his tongue - across her nose, her face, her cheeks, bringing enough heat and movement to stop her from drifting off. Maybe he should have let her go to sleep instead? Titmouse realized after a second, as he withdrew and waited for his dry tongue to rehydrate, that he didn't care. He wouldn't care. But she would stay awake and he would get answers.

After a second volley of tongue-lashings, he paused long enough to get a few words out: You aren't sleeping here, his voice was a bit louder than he intended, commanding and hasty, and he was surprised by the way it carried across the snow. You're not allowed, got that? I have -- I have questions for you. And then, as the quiet sank between them again, Titmouse realized his mind was blank. He didn't know where to start. So, he asked the first thing that came to mind just to get her talking: What do I call you? I mean, what's your actual name?

She had helped hold him hostage and question him before - now the tables were turned.