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Ace’s eyes blink blearily open to the gentle scuttling of claws across a floor that creaks earnestly with complaint.
“Mooch?” He knows the source long before she ever intends to make herself known. He doesn’t admonish— if anything, he’s long since resigned himself to accepting her inevitable, inexplicable nap time antics.
You’re not nearly as discreet as you seem to think you are, he wants to whisper, though he thinks better of it in favor of letting the almost-silence linger. By now, she already knows. The scratching pauses for only a heartbeat, and with mild amusement Ace imagines Mooch’s ears perking indignantly upward at the sound of his voice before she launches back into her work.
So went her rhythm, as Ace had long since come to know.
And then, abruptly, his hammock makes such a precarious lurch to the side that discomfort sets upon him immediately, body newly askew.
“Mooch!” He calls again, this time more sharply than he’s ever allowed himself to be with her. Still, she doesn’t heed his hiss— that, or she’s actively chosen to ignore it, which Ace deems the more logical explanation— and as the hammock makes a second, drastic twist he prepares to be spilt unceremoniously onto the ground. Instead, he hears first a grunt of exertion, then once more the scrabbling of paws against wood, and then finally the thud of a warm, soft weight settling audaciously onto his stomach. A nail overhead squeals with effort, but suddenly—bizarrely— Ace can’t be bothered to pay it much worry.
“Mooch.” He sighs, vexation escaping him for tenderness the longer her warmth is left to seep into his soul.
She says nothing. She only asserts herself further by rolling over to curl more intentionally into his side. He tugs off her hat, tossing it haphazardly onto the floor, then draws her more snugly against his chest. Her snout quirks upwards in approval, and he's rewarded tenfold when she nestles her face affectionately into the crook of his neck. At the very least, her nose is cold enough to offset the eternal heat of the dunes. The relief does not last nearly long enough to be remarkable, though Ace can’t truly bring himself to care. He chides something incomprehensible to the tune of it being much too hot for her to have intruded into his space, but it falls on two deaf, twitching ears. Still, his fingers comb reflexively through her shaggy gray fur, of which he knows every soft swirl and every unruly strand (who is he kidding?). Her breathing evens, her heist complete, and Ace decides that having his bed stolen— no, more like forcibly shared— is much more desirable than having his valuables stolen. If anything, he was the sole benefactor, if his reward was the sensation of her crammed into comfort beside him. At least here, in this position, he could watch her more closely. Yes. That was it.
...
“Mooch. Your claws are digging into my side.” he complains, eventually.
“Nuh-uh.” she slurs sleepily in reply.
Ah, well, he thinks as he tugs his bandanna down to let his lips brush gently at the fur between her ears. He supposes he can’t win them all.