"Comfy?" came the amused question. I felt his large hand pull our coats more closely around us.

"Considering the circumstances, yeah. I mean - a king-sized bed at a 4-star hotel would be really comfy, but as makeshift beds in crashed planes go, this isn't too bad." If I discounted muscle cramp, bruises, chilly feet and the constant gnaw of hunger. I really did not want to wake up and squinched my eyes more tightly shut in hopes of drifting back into the pleasant sleepy doze I'd been in for some time.

He rested his chin on the top of my head briefly, hitched himself around so we were on our sides facing each other, and patted my ass with his free hand. "We're gonna have to move out of this plane tomorrow - you know that, don't you?"

Shit. "I hate it when you're practical," I said into his breastbone.

He uttered a soft chuckle, still patting me on the rump, adding some circling rubs to the repertoire. "I imagine you're way more practical than I am, luv."

I could feel him raising up, looking around or something. I wondered idly what he could be looking for, given that we'd pretty much explored every inch of the small area of the plane that was habitable. "What is it - stop wiggling, I wanna go back to sleep."

"I heard something," he finally admitted.

"Wind."

"I do not," he retorted indignantly, "have wind - oh, you mean the wind? No, this wasn't the wind. It was more - I dunno - stealthy."

All my snuggling feelings fled and I instantly snapped back into FBI operative mode. I was disengaged from him and on my feet so fast I think I startled him. He gaped up at me, brows raised, then realized I hadn't lost my mind and restrained himself from asking stupid questions. When I glanced down, he pointed toward the missing pilots' cabin and mouthed, "From that direction." I nodded, slid my feet into my shoes and moved forward, my gun out of my bag, safety off. "Stay there," I hissed, but of course, he was already right on my ass, walking so close behind me he practically stepped on my heels. I stopped dead, turned and snapped, "I said stay the fuck there and I meant it."

"Well don't get an attitude about it," he whispered back. But, to give him credit, he stayed put as I continued my stalk forward. He gestured once more and added, "To the left."

I reached the farthest forward porthole that wasn't buried in snow and cautiously peeked out, trying to see without being seen. Nothing but blowing snow and gathering dusk. But then I, too, heard the non-wind sound, and it was stealthy. Every sense on the alert, I maneuvered a bit and continued looking out the window, only allowing myself to move in front of it a little more. There - definitely at the spot the fuselage was driven into the snow and icy ground - was movement. My breath fogged the window and I wiped at it with my sleeve.

"What is it?" came a whispered inquiry from behind me.

"Dammit, are you right on my ass again, Crowe?" He was, I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. "Could you just once do what I tell you?" It was a pointless question - of course, he wouldn't - but I had to ask it anyway. "I'm going outside, now you stay the fuck inside, got me?"

"Button your coat," he whispered, "and yeah, gotcha - had ya - whatever."

I "accidentally" stomped down on his toes with my heel and moved away from him, leaving him hopping silently, giving me a murderous look as I buttoned my coat, put on my gloves and slunk out the door into the deep-freeze outside. I gave him a cheery wave and smile as I shut the door behind me. The air hit me like a sledge-hammer, cold instantly finding every button hole and seam to assault me. I had thought it was cold inside the plane. I was wrong - that was only chilly in comparison to this. I moved forward as quietly as I could, forcing my teeth not to chatter.

I got around to the area where plane and snow melded and nothing was there. The snow was disturbed, however, and what looked like tracks led off around the other side of the fuselage, so I followed the signs, trying not to crunch through the layers of white stuff that shrouded the ground. My feet were already half-frozen, snow down inside my shoes, but I had to cast those bodily complaints off and concentrate on the important stuff - like finding out what - or who - was leading me around the plane. I edged around the front and peered down the far side of the fuselage.

I was face to face with a large, furry something with big brown eyes. I bit back on a scream as I realized it wasn't a human or a wolf or even a fierce bunny rabbit. It had antlers and it was as startled as I was. "Moose, God damn it!" I yelled. "Shoo, get away from here - stupid thing - we aren't edible - at least not by the likes of you!"

The moose - it was female I think - simply whuffed mild herbivore's breath over me, looked me over and turned away.

"Shoo!" I yelled again, waving my arms.

"Shoot it, shoot it!" came advice from the peanut gallery.

I turned to find Russell right behind me. "Are you out here? Did I not tell you to stay the hell in the plane?"

"Venison!" he said succintly, pointing to where the moose - and it was a "she" - was making her way through the snow towards the trees a few feet away. "Moose steak - food - shoot it!!"

I put the safety on, lowered my gun and just gave Russell a disgusted glare. "I am not going to shoot a moose, you idiot - how would we cook it?" I could only imagine bleeding it, slicing it open with a Swiss Army Knife and trying to put the monster thing on a spit. Even if we had a big enough fire, which we didn't. "Besides," I added, "I'm not shooting a mother moose - she's probably carrying a calf or fawn or whatchamallem, and maybe has one stashed in the trees from last winter."

"Moose steak," he repeated disconsolately, turned and went back in the plane.

I'd eaten moose once - didn't care for it. But the idea of steak of any kind set off pangs of hunger that were almost painful. "I'd settle for a quarter pounder with cheese, Lord," I said, looking up into the sky. "An air drop of Beanie-Weenies would go good right now - whatever you can spare, Lord." No canned beans and franks fell from the sky, so I trudged back inside in Russell's wake, shutting the door firmly and engaging the locking bar.

Russell was sitting in one of the seats, gazing out the nearest window. He didn't say anything as I came in and sat to take off my shoes. "God, my feet are frozen," I said in disgust. I rubbed them and switched into my dry pair of socks, draping the snowy pair over a seat back to melt and dry.

"Venison," I heard from his direction.

"Oh, will you get over it? I was not going to shoot Bambi just to fill your damned stomach."

"Hmmf," came a disgusted huff.

I heard his stomach growl from three feet away as a sort of punctuation to his griping. I stifled laughter and went into the bathroom. Once in there with the door shut, I sat on the john and allowed myself to giggle at how he'd looked when he'd yelled at me to shoot the moose. As if my popgun would put an animal that size on the ground anyway. Well, actually, it might - but what would I have done with it then? I pictured my tiny army knife with its inch-long blade and laughed into my hands, shaking my head at him and at myself. I think I was losing it. I got up, pulled up my pants and wiped my hands on a paper towel. A glance in the mirror showed me a woman who need a full day at Elizabeth Arden, or, at the very least, a comb, some Prescriptives Flight Cream and a good hot meal full of protein and comfort carbs. Baked potato!!

The image of a steaming Idaho spud with melted butter, salt and pepper and maybe some melted cheese just about bent me double with want. My own stomach growl was almost as loud as Russell's had been. "Shit, shit - stop thinking about food!" I unlocked the door and walked out of the bathroom.

"I'm going to heat some soup - can we make a fire?" Russell asked me.

"What - inside here - no way!"

He shot me a disgusted look and explained, "No, silly - right outside by the door - I noticed a lot of deadfall wood and shit - can we start a fire, do you think? Will the bad guys be able to find us if we make smoke?"

"The bad guys can find us even if we don't make smoke," I pointed out, thinking of tracking devices, weather reports, air traffic controllers, the Bureau and, inevitably, the bad guys who wanted to grab this man and hold him for a huge ransom. "But I'm so hungry, I'm going to be really stupid here and agree we can try to make a fire."

So I put my shoes and coat back on, donned my gloves, and, with my gun's reassuring weight in my pocket, went back outside where we set about gathering wood for a fire.

We actually managed to achieve one with several false starts and a couple of burned fingers, and heated water, using that to make some packets of instant soup from the smashed galley into a hot meal, adding crackers and the remains of his Kit-Kat bar. He insisted we keep the rest of my candy for the next day. "We're almost out of stuff," he said practically. "And you wouldn't shoot the fuckin' moose."

"Will you shut up about the fucking moose? Sheesh, I am not about to kill a moose just to fill your belly, Crowe - get over it!"

He put out the fire, dousing it with snow, scattering the stubborn embers with his foot and kicking a whole layer of snow over it. He stomped on that, tromping it down firmly, then glanced up at me, a silly grin on his face. "I'm getting over it, in case you wondered."

I had to laugh, "So that was - what? A temper tantrum - you stomping on the snow in revenge?"

"Somewhat," he agreed, and dragged me inside out of the cold. "Come on, it's full dark and getting colder, let's get situated to keep some of our body heat."

"You want to fuck me now?" I asked, as he actually swept me off my feet and carried me to the tarp-draped "boudoir" where we slept and, often, recreated.

"Dessert - you wouldn't shoot the moose - you didn't say anything about no dessert," came the logical response.

"Oh, Crowe - you are incorrigible - oooh!"