He trusted Rory, and he liked Vervain, and between the two of them he held still and quiet and let the lady do her work. The lifting of the pain was like a weight from his shoulders, and he relaxed into his friend's arms as the healer used her magic on him. He wasn't sure how it worked, and so he didn't move until the warmth faded. As Vervain started to pull away he turned his head to try and give her hand a grateful lick, reveling in the feeling of being whole and unharmed again. There was still an ache where the wounds had been, a lingering soreness as if from a much older injury, but he felt far closer to normal than he had any right to, after a fight with a wolf.
He was utterly content to stay in Rory's lap after that, the quiet physical attention - petted, scratched, soothed - utterly unfamiliar and thoroughly cherished for its novelty. Exhausted from the run, the fight, and the healing, he laid his head down on his friend's thigh and would have stayed there until the hunter had to move--
--if the damned mental voice of the boy hadn't pierced his thoughts like a spear, no more welcome than the wolf's teeth punching through his skin. Without thinking about it, his ears flattened and he let out a low, rumbling growl towards the frozen young man who had caused so much trouble. The fox shook his head sharply, as if to clear the whining of a particularly stubborn insect from his ears. Reluctantly he pushed to his feet, testing his leg to make sure it would hold his weight, before he turned his head to Rory, giving his friend an earnest whine of apology. Nosing his friend's hand, he gave him a parting lick and then padded away, glancing behind a few times as he left the little gathering to put some space between himself and the pushy hawk-boy.
He wouldn't leave them entirely, not when the wolves might still decide to return, but he moved out of sight - and hopefully out of mind of the pup - to pace the perimeter of their little makeshift camp and warn away any predators who came sniffing after the blood spilled so copiously across the snow and Rory's scarf.
He was utterly content to stay in Rory's lap after that, the quiet physical attention - petted, scratched, soothed - utterly unfamiliar and thoroughly cherished for its novelty. Exhausted from the run, the fight, and the healing, he laid his head down on his friend's thigh and would have stayed there until the hunter had to move--
--if the damned mental voice of the boy hadn't pierced his thoughts like a spear, no more welcome than the wolf's teeth punching through his skin. Without thinking about it, his ears flattened and he let out a low, rumbling growl towards the frozen young man who had caused so much trouble. The fox shook his head sharply, as if to clear the whining of a particularly stubborn insect from his ears. Reluctantly he pushed to his feet, testing his leg to make sure it would hold his weight, before he turned his head to Rory, giving his friend an earnest whine of apology. Nosing his friend's hand, he gave him a parting lick and then padded away, glancing behind a few times as he left the little gathering to put some space between himself and the pushy hawk-boy.
He wouldn't leave them entirely, not when the wolves might still decide to return, but he moved out of sight - and hopefully out of mind of the pup - to pace the perimeter of their little makeshift camp and warn away any predators who came sniffing after the blood spilled so copiously across the snow and Rory's scarf.
