Predictably, she yelps and jumps, whirling and snapping her teeth at the elusive source of her rude awakening. Scent makes her turn towards him and she growls.
"I was simply resting my eyes," she explains, fingertips resting gingerly on her lips.
She scoots over to give him room, slipping her bare feet under his thigh. (The book titles are a wildly eclectic array of subjects. Tea ceremonies, 19th century political satire, something on heavy metal poisoning and its links to insanity, and a book of children's stories about door mice.)
"Where've you been hiding, hmm? Haven't seen you all morning."
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It's with a tolerant and amused smile that he creeps up behind, bends down so his head is on her right, and flicks her left ear.
He must really like her. Deitmar always got smacked in the back of the head when he wasn't paying attention to the bar.
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"Oh it's you. Ow."
One hand rubs at her throbbing ear.
"That was just -- simply -- uncalled for!"
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Then, looking quite smug, he walks around to join her on the couch, picking up one of the many books about and peering at its title.
Mr. Innocent, that's him.
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She scoots over to give him room, slipping her bare feet under his thigh. (The book titles are a wildly eclectic array of subjects. Tea ceremonies, 19th century political satire, something on heavy metal poisoning and its links to insanity, and a book of children's stories about door mice.)
"Where've you been hiding, hmm? Haven't seen you all morning."
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