Somewhere in the Preserve, Sunday Late Morning

[thismaskiwear]

There wasn't anything new or unusual about waking up with Francine, at least not to Katchoo's groggy way of thinking when she opened her eyes, except that all the times it had happened before had been a couple of years ago. And all those times she'd opened her eyes to the sight of Francine's bedroom, and the realization shortly thereafter of the ache from several dozen new bruises, cuts, and other injuries she'd rather not have thought about but which had been the entire reason she'd snuck over the previous night. Plus they'd been much more comfortable than being . . . curled up against a tree in the middle of the preserve.

And none of those times had ever been preceded by anything like last night. The familiar peace was the same, though, the surest feeling in the world that she was home and everything was right.

Katchoo had a (*#$#in' neck cramp going on, but she was reluctant to move, like if she so much as twitched the leg that must have gone numb hours ago and woke Francine, all of this would just dissipate like a bubble floating down and grazing a blade of grass.

[OOC: For the other crazy toongirl, of course.]

Comments

[thatsamilkshake]

Francine, too, was familiar with this, waking with her arms around Katchoo and the smell of slightly cigarette-scented hair in her face. Familiar enough that when the sounds of morning in the woods filtered in, it took her a moment -- and then her eyes flew open wide, because yes. That thing there about the bruises and the cuts, and she was touching the cheek pressed against her shoulder so gently she might just have been breathing on it. "Chewie?"