guns for hands

That's a wrap? I'll leave it to you to post again or have this baby archived.

Where Spectra found relief in a home, Aesop found his joy in a friend. Now he felt as though he mattered, a feeling more firm than the peace he had found in that lone wolf's debt. Debt meant one thing, as it was often compulsory. Friendship, though, was only ever freely given, and there Aesop took great comfort. He was hardly as open, his smile a muted ghost of hers, but his pleasure was evident in the whipping of his tail and the set of his shoulders.

He watched, still shocked with wonder, as a yawn split her face, white even rows of teeth flashing before she finished. "S'long as you ain't a kicker. I'd say snorin's better than fightin' off shit in your sleep," he teased. The den was not so large as to comfortably fit them both, but he still settled himself across the entrance, since a nap seemed to be in order for both of them. Indeed, somewhere in the monotony of the activity, his temples had begun to pound, a pressure that indicated an oncoming headache. It was best that he, too, slept. Their work would be there when they awoke.