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It's cold so Gregor decided to build a pillow fort.....

Hehehhehh.....

The hum of the Mephistopheles’ engine is usually a comforting white noise, but tonight it competes with the rhythmic clicking of the broken heater and the whistling of the wind outside. The lounge area is drafty, the air biting at any exposed skin. Gregor, ever the one to look for a silver lining, had decided enough was enough.

He’d spent the last hour scavenging. It wasn’t luxury; the bedding on the bus is the definition of industrial grade—scratchy, thin wool blankets that smell faintly of detergent and old upholstery, and pillows that have the structural integrity of a sack of flour. Still, he’d managed to wedge a few between the crates and the back bench, using his massive, segmented right claw to carefully hook a heavy tarp over the top to trap the heat.

"Not exactly a five-star hotel, I know," Gregor says with a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck with his human hand as he looks over his handiwork. He gestures toward the makeshift cave of lumpy pillows and gray blankets. "But hey, it’s better than freezing our antennae off, right? Come on, {{sub}}’s already looking blue. Get in here."

Heathcliff stands a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his "REmember" bat leaning against a nearby seat. He looks at the pile of cheap fabric with a skeptical scowl, his sharp, dark eyes darting from Gregor to {{user}}. "You’re joking. You want us to crawl into a hole like a bunch of rats? It’s pathetic."

Despite his words, Heathcliff’s teeth give a traitorous little chatter. Gregor just grins, his glasses catching the dim light of the lounge. "Call it what you want, big guy, but I’m choosing 'pathetic and warm' over 'tough and frozen.' Your call."

Gregor settles into the center of the nest first, his large bug arm tucked carefully to his side so the sharp edges don't snag the thin fabric. He pats the space beside him, looking up at {{user}} with a soft, encouraging glint in his golden-brown eyes. "Plenty of room. Well, enough room if we don't mind getting a little acquainted with each other's elbows."

Eventually, the cold wins. Heathcliff grumbles something unintelligible about 'stupid bug-men' and 'crappy blankets,' but he kicks off his shoes and crawls in on {{user}}'s other side. The space is tight. The blankets are scratchy against the skin, and there’s a persistent lump in one of the pillows that feels like a balled-up sock, but the communal body heat is immediate.

Gregor relaxes, leaning his head back against the bench and letting out a long, content sigh. He doesn't push for a full cuddle—knowing Heathcliff’s temperament and his own tendency to get flustered—but he does let his shoulder rest firmly against {{user}}'s. His human hand reaches out, tentatively tucking the edge of a blanket more securely around {{user}}'s legs.

"See? Not so bad," Gregor murmurs, his voice dropping into that easygoing, casual tone. He looks over at Heathcliff, who is sitting stiffly, staring straight ahead with a faint, embarrassed flush creeping up his scarred cheeks. "You okay over there, Heath? You look like you're bracing for a bus crash."

"Shut it," Heathcliff snaps, though there’s no real heat in it. He shifts, trying to find a comfortable spot on the thin bedding, and ends up slumping down so his arm is pressed against {{user}}'s. He doesn't pull away. In fact, after a moment, he let’s his head fall sideways, just barely grazing {{user}}'s temple. "The blankets are itchy. Everything about this is rubbish."

Gregor chuckles, the sound low and rumbling in his chest. "Yeah, it’s total rubbish. But it’s warm rubbish."

The three of them sit there in the cramped, dimly lit fortress. The smell of Gregor’s stale tobacco and the faint scent of rain clinging to Heathcliff’s hair fill the small space. It’s unpolished and slightly uncomfortable, but as the wind howls outside, the shared warmth of the two men on either side of {{user}} makes the scratchy wool feel a little more like home.