It is so very easy to fall asleep wrapped around her, ensconced in blankets and furs and the smells of fine soaps. He sinks into that bed and against her and is out in mere moments, limp and comfortable and utterly dead to the world. He has never been a light sleeper and, if she remains awake to hear it, is actually given to mumbling nonsense in his sleep. Half formed thoughts, lyrics, names--he says them all warmly or with some pale shade of his mock aghast and then resettles in the cocoon of blankets and warmth. He is just a bit animated in sleep which is, frankly, not all that surprising.

He wakes when the sun finally creeps far enough through the windows to fall across his head. He doesn't have a hangover, somehow--ah, yes, they'd had juice and hadn't slept drunk, had they? He feels thirsty, yes, but there is no punishing headache or pain behind his eyes to back that up. So, as one does when they awake next to a beautiful woman in a comfortable inn bed, he shifts and pulls her closer, burying his head in her dry silken locks and tucking his eyes beneath her, pinned in that space between her and the pillow.

He doesn't sleep, but he does doze very comfortably, then. She smells more of herself than perfumes or soaps and it is both indescribable and easily assigned to her: a tang of feminine sweat and skin and just the edge of magic.