@whatgold
When Temeraire falls asleep on the spacious deck of the Allegiance, he’s not particularly happy. In fact, being exiled from England, Laurence having lost all of his capital, and having Iskierka pestering him smugly to give her an egg, as well as taking up far more space than she rightly ought to... He’s quite put out, actually, and in a sulk, and not even Laurence curled up finally on his foreleg could make him quite truly pleased, even in the face of a pleasant headwind and the cool night air and the promise that in a few days, they shall be far enough out to sea that he might be permitted to go catch his dinner for himself.
But it is better, by far, than waking up in warmth and silence, with no headwind and no little bodies scrambling over him and only softness beneath him, the likes of which he’s never felt before and finds quite odd, in the most upleasant way.
He starts up, and it takes a moment for him to recognize his surroundings- of course he’s seen the insides of houses through windows, many a time looking in on Laurence, but never has he been inside one himself, not a proper human house. It must, he thinks, be a very large house- but whyever would anyone make one to his scale? A waste, when the time and resources could go towards making a pavilion just as servicable, and twice as nice to look at, at least.
But shouldn’t he be on the Allegiance? And where is Laurence?
He finds himself entangled in the softness of the bed as he tries to stand, and at first, it’s almost like a game, trying to push himself up on legs made wobbly by the lack of solid ground, but quite soon he grows frustrated and frightened, and then his claws are slashing at the mattress, and by the time he falls upon the floor, it’s a right mess, completely ruined. He feels only the faintest tinge of shame with the wave of deep, vicious satisfaction of victory.
A device nearby dings, unlike anything he’s ever heard. He ignores it.
He can’t quite manage the round knob of the door with his hands, no matter how he angles his claws- the soft pads on each finger are not designed for gripping such smooth, slippery metal. Thoroughly incensed, he throws himself against the door, finding that it creaks and shudders. It doesn’t give, but it may, if he keeps at it.
And at the top of his not inconsiderably sized lungs, he cries out, “LAURENCE!” and when that gets no reply, a little more hysterically, “ROLAND!! GRANBY! WHERE ARE YOU!”  as he slams into the door several more times.
