Cross had fortunately accidentally woken up a few minutes before; he had shifted on top of one of his daggers and prodded a rib with the knife hilt. Normally he wouldn't have cared, but earlier in the day, during practice, the captain cracked him hard in the side and he hadn't been able to block. The bruise was as golden yellow as the sunset, and it hurt horribly when he bumped into his dagger in the night.
He was touching his side sadly when he heard front flap of his tent rustle.
A curious raccoon, a malicious wolf? Cross had his hands on the offending knife in an instant, and he was moving slightly forward, altering his stance into a crouch.
His captain glanced up at him as the moonlight caught the exposed metal of the dagger. Sandy blonde bangs covered most of his expression, but his mouth was visible, sliding up into a pale smile. He was on his hands and knees, and the blue-gray of his shirt was just as distracting as his amused look.
Cross remained still in his crouch, blinking. He could feel the eyelid over his false eye push against the cloth covering it and shook his head in disoriented dissatisfaction at the feeling.
"Captain...?" he intoned, watching his roguish officer carefully.
The answer was playful but infinitely dark. "Cross...?"
