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[a_lioness]

Surfacing from a deep sleep has always taken Alanna awhile, when she has the luxury of time and no one else is charged with the unfortunate task of helping her along.

This morning -- and she knows it's morning due to the bright sunlight stabbing at her eyeballs through her eyelids and the horrible scratchy tweeting sound coming from a nearby tree

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[a_lioness]

Alanna is also cold. She's always cold. This Gods-cursed morning she is particularly cold, except for the parts of her stretched across that arm.

With her free hand she reaches down to scratch the ridiculous itch on her leg and inadvertently kicks the bottle out of the way. Her hand brushes a hairy leg; she shoves it, just because.

"What..."

Anything else she might have wanted to say gets stuck in her throat as she starts coughing like a cat with a hairball, face screwed up to keep her eyes shut tight.

[a_lioness]

The kick is met with a string of hoarse curses and a groan.

Alanna attempts to roll over but only succeeds in knocking more bottles around and rolling into the owner of the arm and ornery leg. Blast it all, she thinks. Now he's breathing right in my nostril.

"Did you have to bring half the year's batch of cider to bed with you?" she mutters into his arm, wiping away a string of drool and trying to push up again.