Work Text:
Before he’s actually awake, Henry blearily realizes there’s someone draped half over him, snoring softly in his ear. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, squinting into the periwinkle pre-dawn light bleeding through the canvas above him, and looks down at the hand greedily splayed across his stomach.
The familiar fabric of the sleeve, hunter’s brown - but in Henry’s until-recently-impoverished opinion, too fine to be hunted in - sets his mind back to sleepy ease. The forest air is biting, his blood runs coalbed hot, and Sir Hans couldn’t manage his body temperature if his life depended on it. Simple math.