Once again, warm berth in a safe place means he is very much out. Especially since he is warm and snuggled up into a heap of blankets. 

And… a heap of things that… are not blankets???

Wait. Okay, this thing is warm and fairly pleasant, but… large. Hello? 

Vaguely concerned, Gravescratch lifts his helm slightly and opens his optics. Or… some of them. Sort of. He can’t quite fix his optics on anything in particular, unfortunately. Or his antennae. His alarm (which can barely even be called ‘alarm’) isn’t anywhere near enough to force the sensory processing portions of his processor to online enough to comprehend the data coming from his assorted network of optics and antennae. 

So he pushes himself up with one arm, chirps a little “???” noise at whoever this is in a request for the hopefully friendly being in his berth to please identify themselves, and pushes his face into whatever part of them is closest to him. And, upon locating exactly where some part of this person is, he sticks out most of his tongue and licks them. 

Mm. They taste rather nice, actually. 

And… definitely strong. 

Who is this? 

That’s basically his only thought- who are you??? with an undercurrent of how did you get into my berth or is this even my berth??? on the back-burner for now.

Wait. 

He’s… fairly sure there are multiple life-signs here. 

So he tries to ask who the Pit this is. 

It comes out as confused whining noises more suited to a newly woken puppy.