The fox's tale continues:
The vixen cannot move. Cannot even open her eyes or speak. She can tell there is bright light and a deep rumbling noise… and warmth. Footsteps, slow and heavy… no quick and agile. A voice says “Little one, can you hear me? You’ve had… an accident. I’m just going to touch you okay”. A gentle paw feels the fox’s head, checking her injuries. “Well we can’t leave you here little one” the voice says and the vixen feels strong arms scoop her up like she were a damp rag. Opening her eyes just a crack she can see a white furred paw grabbing her backpack without supporting her any less. Beyond it she can see a truck, the source of the rumble and the heat, this close she can’t make out much about it except the license plate: W1947, then she is being lifted warm, dry fur soft against her face, and her senses are again filled with a rumble and heat. He’s a truck, she thinks, a truck that drives a truck and lets out a faint giggle.
“Well hello little fox, you’ve had a rough time, but I think you will be alright. Not far up ahead is a place we can stop and I shall make you some soup. Later you can rest but for now it’s best if you can stay awake. My name’s Tyga, how do you feel?” Trixsie opens her eyes and takes in her surroundings. She is in the cabin of a truck travelling at high speed, the wipers fighting furiously against the downpour. Across the engine tunnel a large white tiger sits behind the wheel, his black stripes looking like windows through to the night. Neither shaggy nor primped, his fur matches his demeanour: casually confident. Watching the road, but turning to check her regularly, his eyes are kind. Pale blue like meltwater and tired, like they have had to see too much recently. Oh that smell, that smell is heaven she thinks and says “you have that new truck smell…” and falls silent as she hears her own voice, dry and crackly like poplar leaves in autumn, she barely recognises herself and wishes it was someone else when she realises what she said. Tyga raises an eyebrow ever so slightly and then a laugh explodes from him, a deep natural sound, like someone tickled a stormcloud. “Well fair vixen, that’s most likely the truck itself you can smell, though maybe she’s rubbed off on me already. I’ve certainly been accused of smelling of worse things in my time.” Looking at the showroom condition upholstery, the fox sees she has got mud and blood and Dog knows what on her seat and blanket I have a blanket? “Oh what must you think of me? I’m so sorry, and so rude. I can’t believe I’ve made such a mess… my name’s Trixsie” she says and her eyes well up suddenly. Tyga’s amused expression turns serious then “no” he says “don’t even think it. Wight here is a nice rig sure enough, but she’ll be dirtier than this before the week is out”, the tigers face softens again “it’s you I’m worried about… Trixsie”. Blushing slightly the fox says “so your truck is called White? Is that because, um, you’re a white tiger? She is lovely, she’s an FH right, one on the new ones, Volvo sure make a nice truck don’t they? Is that a Swedish thing do you think or just good business sense or… I’m asking too many questions aren’t I? Ooops, that’s another one isn’t it? How many horsepower? Six hundred I guess… wow this cabin is big”. Finally the fox takes a breath and the silence drinks in her awkwardness, but Tyga chuckles at her excitement and does his best to answer her, relieved that she seems to be gaining strength. “Well Trixsie, first up I didn’t name her Wight. Perhaps it’s because of her number plate”, though something guarded in his expression tells her there’s more to it, “and yes she’s a Volvo FH. You seem to know a thing or two, was your Dad a trucker? And you were close, the D15G engine comes in six hundred horsepower but this is the seven. I dunno if it’s a Swedish thing. Anyway, we’re here now, let’s get comfortable, get your fed and you can machine gun questions at me until you need to sleep, sound okay?” Trixsie nods silently in agreement, suddenly hungry as Tyga pulls off into the car park of a recreation area with toilets and play equipment. Finally able to take his eyes off the road, he shifts in his seat to face the vixen and her breath catches at the sight of his muscles rippling smoothly beneath his lustrous fur. “Really, nothing to say little one? What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”, and in the face of his lopsided grin for a moment she thinks that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.
Topic: Trixsie's odds and ends (Read 91861 times)