#mothdave

He’s warm for such a little guy, curling up in the center of your palm without hesitation. That’s his spot, his place, and he knows it.

Cracking an eye open, you glance down, making sure he’s secure before you lift your hand to settle on your chest.

“Morning,” you mumble and your lips twitch when the little antennae sticking up out of his hair wiggle against the pad of your thumb. “Tickles.”

“Good,” he huffs but you can hear the smile, even in the soft tone and you watch as he crawls forward, stretching out over the center of your chest. The red sweater he favors always looks too big on him, hanging over the edge of his hands and he sighs when he has to pause and yank the sleeves back. “You sleep too long.”

“Could’a come in earlier.”

“I didn’t feel like bugging you,” he mumbles and it’s your turn to sigh.

“Thought we had this talk, kid.”

“Yeah, yeah… I know.”

“Not gonna bug me, at all,” you tell him as you nudge his side lightly with a finger, smiling a bit when his wings twitch and he turns his head to look up at you over the edge of a rumpled, red sleeve. “…you good?”

His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt and you watch as he shrugs. His wings shifts with the movement, twitching to the sides when he wiggles forward a little more and reaches out to put a hand flat against your chin. It’s small and kind of cool, almost chilled but you’re used to that and you can even say you kind of like it.

“…’m fine.”

He doesn’t sound ‘fine’ and you can’t help a slight frown, wishing, not for the first time, that you had a better idea of how this comforting shit went, especially with a kid you can’t exactly hug or comfort physically.

“You sure?” It sounds lacking, even to your own ears but he just nods, giving you a softer version of his usually cheeky smile.

“Mhmm.”

His fingers tickle against the scruff on the underside of your jaw and you bite back the urge to nag at him about it, just giving a tiny nod instead—you’ll leave it at that. He’ll talk to you if he feels like it but, for now, you figure this is good enough. At least, you think it is—personally speaking, of course. He looks content, for the most part, and when you pull the sheet up, settling it carefully over his legs, you think you catch a little sigh of contentment and you definitely catch the light brush of a wing against you fingers again.

--affectionate, soft, you understand this kind of thing.

Words aren’t really your forte so you guess it’s a good thing Dave talks more with other stuff than his mouth when it really counts. Subtle hints and body language you can handle and when you glance down, the sharp edge from his shoulders has disappeared and it takes you all of two seconds to realize he feels safe here. He’s relaxed. His breathing evens out to something barely perceptible and in minutes he’s asleep, lips parted and you have to shake your head at that.

He’ll probably drool on his sleeve. You can already see the little twist to his lips and nose, mild disgust mixed with that resignation you know comes from waking up the same way every morning, but he’ll shrug it off and wiggle off your chest to go change his shirt.

Maybe you’ll make pancakes—cut some of those strawberries you bought. You’ve noticed he likes sweeter things, fruit juices and anything soft enough to tear into tiny pieces. Sweet bread from the Mexican marketplace down the way is pretty popular, but you’re more inclined to say it’s from the icing than anything else.