broken doll. drunken wolf.

broken doll

It's a costume ball.

You know that it's a ball because it is actually held in a ballroom. A ballroom in a Moorish-revival building that is over a hundred years old, a ballroom crafted in the Byzantine style, grand as hell, with a wraparound mezzanine and sumptuous lights, wallpaper, the works. It's a gorgeous, creepy old building, and the night is perfect for it: a black sky, a gleaming half-moon, a few drifting clouds.

Inside, there are dimmed lights. Things are tinged red and orange and shadowy. The bar is open; drinks are included in ticket prices. So are tips. Supposedly everything is for charity. No one cares much which one. These are the end times; one parties like these are the end times. The point of the party is to forget. The point of the holiday is to remember.

Tonight is Devon's new year. This is when the wheel turns over. This is the meeting place between the worlds. This is a holy time, and she should be at some fire wearing some wreath of leaves or dancing skyclad or something, but

she's at this party with its hundred-some-odd-dollar tickets and its open bar and costumes-required, 21-and-over entry. She is dressed in a pretty white dress with ever-so-slightly poofed short sleeves, a delicate collar, and pink flowers on green vines decorating the silk. She wears a little necklace with a blue flower, little earrings to match. Her hair is straightened and glossed, almost motionless, the ends curled. Her lips seem small, painted dark, dark red that is almost brown.

Her eyes are black. Those sharp sapphire eyes are covered in contacts that cover her sclera, turning everything black, lifeless, horrific. Her arms and neck and partof her face and even her bare legs -- in lacy ankle socks, in Mary Jane shoes beneath the poof of her dress and crinoline -- have rather impressively done makeup to show dark cracks in her skin, places where porcelain has shattered. Her freckles don't even show.

And she is not drinking. She's standing very still in the middle of the party, the dancing. A few people have screamed upon seeing her. Occasionally she moves, walking somewhere else, terrifying some new group.

Dolls are one of the eight most common phobias in the world. Did you know?

wolfman

It's not his damn costume ball.

Wolf's here anyway, though. Not because he wants to be. He doesn't want to be. He doesn't like costumes and he doesn't like balls and he fucking hates charity events, the hypocrisy of it, the spending of so, so, so much money on decadent and selfish pleasures, the exoneration of all their sins because at the end of the night all proceeds are donated to charity. Modern-day indulgences: don't even need a pope to sell 'em.

Still. He's here. Probably because someone made him. Guilted him into it. Probably James. Said something to the effect of you have a responsibility to your name. Or maybe even something vaguely threatening, infuriating, something like there are others who will if you won't. Fuck him.

So he's here, and he's spent most of the night at the bar, and though he didn't drink a drop the night the girl broke out the syrah he drinks much, much, much more than a drop now. Tequila, vodka, bourbon, scotch. Absinthe, brandy, gin, rum. The bartenders are thinking about cutting him off, weighing collective peace against the possibility of personal injury. They're relieved when he gets up himself, leaves a haphazard tip. Heads off in search of the toilets.

Lights are dim. Faces a blur. Everything's bit of a blur, really. He's fucking smashed. Feet unsteady, balance weaving. Halfway across the floor there's a still point in the spinning world. She has cracks on her skin and her eyes are the stuff of nightmares.

Wolf doesn't scream. He startles though, visibly, before he recognizes. "What the fuck," as though her costume were a personal affront.

Haven't seen each other since the syrah incident. She got a key to his townhouse, though. Was slipped under her door, shining on the carpet the morning after. He was gone by then. Didn't come back for days.

broken doll

For the first time all night, the doll laughs when someone screams at her.

Normally she just stares, then slowly turns, walking away, vanishing into the crowd. This time she is standing there, and people move as Rafael walks nearby, and he startles. And says what the fuck.

And she, recognizing him and not having expected to see him at all, laughs.

--

She's been scarce. Drank a bottle of wine by herself and he didn't find her dead by morning. Found that she tidied up in the kitchen, having bottled her goop. Raided the fridge for fruit and meatloaf. Passed out. He sees and hears traces of her, has been, whenever he is there, which is not always: leftovers in the fridge. A small bottle of that white-willow stuff that makes things not hurt anymore dangling from his bedroom doorknob by a long string tied not unlike a noose around the cap. The television set turned to some old movie channel when he next clicks it on.

His servants may bring her up to him. She's still there. Even when he's not. She was given a key. She basically lives in his townhouse. Some nights she's not there; some days she's not. But she fucking lives in his house, rent-free, and so: they may mention.

Or they may not. May know better. May have noticed who gave her the key in the first place.

--

"Rafaeeel," she says, moving toward him, lifting her arms slowly, hands outstretched like claws, her tone barely audible through the music. She laughs again.

wolfman

Wolf grabs her wrists and pushes her arms down. "You look like a fucking fomor. Just be a sexy nurse next time."

Notably, he's not in a costume. At all.

broken doll

She's grinning. "And what are you supposed to be? A stock broker?"

If she weren't at least a little lubricated by alcohol herself at the moment, she wouldn't take that grab and shove quite as in stride as she does now. But she does, ignoring it. She wasn't going to grab him. But she's so delighted, drunk on delight, at the fact that he startled like that when he saw her.

"Almost as bad as a fomor," she informs him.

wolfman

"I'm drunk and I need to piss," he answers crossly. "How'd you even get in?"

broken doll

"Second -- third -- time I met you, you got me into an invite-only soirée for rich people," she says. And that is her only explanation. Her arms are lifted; she crosses her wrists above her head, smiling that black-eyed smile, and gives a little twirl.

"So go piss. Off," she says, clearly pleased with her clever little wordplay.

wolfman

"Can't even look at you." So he doesn't. He looks away, scowling, that heavy brow, that hard mouth. "And I definitely didn't get you into this."

Piss off, she says. He sends her a black glance. Walks off, shouldering through crowds when people don't get out of his way fast enough.

Back three minutes later. Least his hands look washed. He has a pair of sunglasses in hand. Women's sunglasses. Obviously not his. Wonder who he 'borrowed' them from. Wolf hands them to her, or at least pushes them her way.

"Fuck's with your skin."

broken doll

He has no idea if he got her into this. Or someone else. Someone wanting to fuck her or someone who met her, talked to her, was convinced. Easily, or not at all; she doesn't like to beg.

He moves past her, like he's angry to have run into her. And she smirks a bit, turns around, starts dancing. When he comes back she's not in the same place. When he finds her, he's holding sunglasses, and she just scoffs at them.

"Makeup," she says. "You scared of dolls?"

wolfman

"Shut up and put it on." Charming fellow. "Hell are you supposed to be, anyway."

broken doll

Her eyebrows lift. "So that's a yes."

She ignores the sunglasses.

"A broken doll," she explains, slowly. Her arms bend at the elbows. She stands still. Cocks her head to the side.

wolfman

Wolf walks away again.

--

Much later:

crowd's thinned a bit. Older contingent's left. Turned in for the night. Just the young and wealthy now. Music's gotten better. Drinks are still flowing. Wolf's had a couple more drinks; cleared a couple from his bloodstream in compensation. Maybe girl dances or maybe she keeps standing there scaring the shit out of people, and then

wolf's behind her, tapping her roughly on the shoulder. More like a double poke, really.

"Leaving. Need a ride?"

broken doll

He fucking leaves. This time she doesn't call after him. Or follow him.

Or show up in his eyeline again for a couple of hours.

--

Younger crowd. Louder music, better music, fewer lights, more noise. She's not out there scaring the shit out of people. She doesn't look like she did before. Dress is gone. Lacy socks and Mary Janes are still there. Hair is no longer even slightly smooth; looks tousled, teased, looks like a madwoman's. Eyes have lost the contacts. Skin still looks broken in places, shattered, cracked. She's wearing whatever was under that pretty dress, which is basically lingerie, but in her case -- since it includes a black corset lined in white satin -- covers her more than plenty of costumes being worn tonight. The ribbon that was in her hair is tied several times around her wrist.

And she is dancing.

Until some asshole jabs her shoulder twice with his finger, making her stop, whipping around to lash out at whatever motherfucker --

She scowls. "Fuck off," she says, turning back around.

wolfman

Girl's clothes, or lack thereof, suddenly make an impression. Wolf scowls. He taps her shoulder again.

"Where the fuck are your clothes?"

broken doll

This time when she whips around she actually does lash out with her arm, still painted and made up like cracked procelain.

"Fuck off," she says again, more forcefully.

wolfman

Her wrist instantly caught. Second time tonight. That slender bone smacking solidly into his palm, like a baseball into a catcher's mitt. Wolf's standing close, in her face, glaring.

Then he ducks. His shoulder to her midsection. He heaves her up: picks her up like a sack of flour and starts carrying her -- somewhere. Some idiots nearby whoop encouragingly.

broken doll

For a second, or a half second, or four full seconds, he's holding her wrist and standing far too close, glaring in her face. Her back is arched to give her eyes more distance to see him clearly, she doesn't like how close he pushes himself, how hard he glares, and right now she doesn't seem to like him, if she ever has or does, but that doesn't make her glare. Just makes her stand there, frozen a moment, caught the way that all prey animals are caught when they realize that the predator has seen them. Somehow they still can't make themselves do anything, just yet, but be perfectly still.

He tackles her. Lifts her up. She sucks in a breath, but she doesn't panic. Tell her heart that. She doesn't kick, scream, though she wants to beat the living shit out of those assholes who whoop encouragingly when they see a man do this to a woman. She sets her teeth, and does squirm, and does twist, and then she balls up her fist and punches him, hard as she can, in the back of his skull.

See him block that.

broken doll

[so punch]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 4, 7) ( success x 1 )

broken doll

[very damage]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (1) ( fail )

broken doll

[such fail]

broken doll

[so punch]

Dice: 4 d10 TN4 (1, 2, 3, 7) ( success x 1 )

broken doll

[very damage]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (1) ( fail )

broken doll

[still such fail]

broken doll

[wtf nevermind. FIRST ROLL WAS DIFF 4 = 3 suxx.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 5) ( fail )

broken doll

[IT IS NOT MEANT TO BE]

wolfman

Like thudding a small boulder. Probably hurts her hand more than it does him. Wolf makes an affronted noise. Gives his head a quick whip of a shake. Keeps going.

Passes one of the hooting idiots. Punches him in the fucking face. Swift, controlled, vicious jab, smooth as an inkstroke. Out and back and there's blood on his knuckles, there's one less hooting idiot, there's one more howling idiot crashing back into the crowd holding a gushing nose.

Wolf hauls the girl off the dance floor, down a short hallway that leads to the bathrooms or the coat checks or something. Sets her down there, which is to say: dumps her unceremoniously on her high heels. When she rights herself he's there in her face again, aggressive.

"Three times now you've tried to smack me. Once at the bus stop. Twice tonight. Stop."

wolfman

[retroactive perception!!]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 6, 9, 9) ( success x 3 )

wolfman

[change that to just, "Stop trying to smack me."!]

broken doll

It doesn't hurt her hand. No more than punching any hard surface hurts. Which is to say: quite a bit. But her knuckles don't bruise or split against his head. The point is made, which perhaps was all it was meant to be: stop. no. put me down. I HATE YOU. Whatever it was. Another point is made, less intended and more obvious and yet maybe still in need of a reminder: she's quite weak. There's little strength in those arms, whatever she has going for her in her mind.

All he does is jerk his head. So she beats at his neck, his back, jabs her knee into his chest, does not go quietly. Does not give up. By the time he gets to the hooting idiot there is more than one person who sees how obvious it is that there is a man carrying a woman over his shoulder against her fucking will. By the time there's blood on his knuckles from that hooting idiot, it's very fucking clear that she's thrashing, she's swearing.

And she's actively shouting for help, too.

He may not see as clearly, or care, that security has been alerted, that people are following him, particularly a group of women, some of them shouting at him to put her down! His rage is ferocious, it's true. But sometimes fear motivates more than it represses. And often, the urge of the herd to defend its own -- or what it thinks of as its own -- is a powerful shield. If human beings were always so easily cowed, they wouldn't be the dominant lifeform on the planet these days.

Somewhere else, he puts her down. And she is on half-inch heels. They are Mary Janes. They have a little strap and buckle over the top of her socks. He could see them clear enough, round-toed and everything, when he hauled her off.

She's enraged. And he's telling her something about smacking him or trying to smack him and counting off the times, getting in her face, and there are tears in her eyes from how angry she is, how humiliated, how genuinely afraid.

"Fuck off!" she shouts at him, shaking. Pulls back, as though startled by herself, shivering. "What the fuck is wrong with you."

wolfman

Wolf doesn't put her down when she thumps the back of his head. Wolf doesn't put her down when she does her best to knee him in the chest and elbow him in the back. Wolf does put her down when she starts screaming for help, fucking hell.

Somewhere else then. Middle of the dance floor, or at least middle of the party. People gathering around to watch the spectacle. Maybe a few of them pulling out cell phones because obviously this was breaking news worthy of youtube, worthy of twitter, worthy of the 24/7 news cycle that was the internet.

Wolf looks at her, angry and not quite comprehending. Wolf looks at the staring faces, the upraised cameras. Wolf bares his teeth and snarls something impolite and bulls into the crowd. People giving way before him, the nearest of the herd skittering back in self-preservation. Not fast enough. He grabs someone's cell phone and whips it hard against the ground, smashes it to bits. Shoves someone else. Sends a third guy sprawling, and by now people are doing a better job of getting the fuck out of the way. A path clears, and by god it'd better be open all the way to the door, by god some diligent rent-a-cop better not get in his way or he was going to

lose

his

temper.

broken doll

What a triumph. They confronted him and he put the girl down and went away. And that's enough, if she's safe. It's enough if they can excuse not chasing after him, especially if he's violent.

They gather around the girl they think is one of their own, who in reality is nothing like them. She doesn't smell like one of them. She doesn't think like they think. But they gather around her, some women in troll-doll costumes with neon-rainbow sky-reaching wigs touching her shoulders and asking her if she's okay, if she's hurt, what happened. Some nearby guys are picking up the one who went sprawling, talking about that fucker, talking about going after him since they have no intention of actually doing so.

She tells them don't, don't. Shrugs off touching, soothing hands. She doesn't want to be soothed. "Don't, just -- he's just drunk. Don't."

Girl in a bright blue dress and a blonde wig in a side-braid -- she's Queen Elsa, of course -- tells her she shouldn't put up with a guy who treats her like that. The sentiment is echoed by a few others, and that's about when Devon thinks she's going to smack someone. She shrugs. She squirms away from people and escapes, bolts, wants to go, get out, not wait for police or security or anyone. Vanish.

--

It's later. By an hour or so. And there's a cab pulling up to the townhouse, and a girl with madwoman hair gets out. She is wearing a white dress with pink flowers unzipped down the back to reveal the black lingerie beneath, and Mary Jane shoes. She goes inside, shivering from the cold -- she has no coat with her -- and going up to the stairs, quick as you like.

wolfman

Except there's someone sitting on the stairs.

Wolf's sitting on the stairs. Feet planted apart, ass two steps higher. Glass of something in the one hand. Brandy or whiskey or rum by the color. Because apparently this is what you do after storming out of a fancy party. Because apparently this is where you drink when you're not drinking at a fancy party, or at your breakfast bar, or on your expensive couch in front of your expensive TV.

On the stairs. In the dark. Blocking the way of girls who live upstairs in your spare room. He looks at her as she comes up the stairs. If she tries to pass him he puts out an arm and blocks her way.

And takes a sip. And sets the glass aside.

broken doll

No stairs, then. She walks in, shutting the door behind her with the stealth of someone who has snuck in and out of more places than you want to think about. She feels the rage as soon as her mind unfocuses from that door and her heart seizes in her chest. She exhales, and it shakes. Taking a few slow, quiet steps further in, she looks up and sees him up there, close to the top of the stairs.

She stays where she is. Night thing about an open plan like this; she can see him and be two rooms away. She doesn't try to pass him. She doesn't even try to approach the stairs.

Looks at him a moment, thinking of all her stuff upstairs, of the lack of money she has on her after the cab ride. And thinking of everything else, she turns again, opening the door, and walks back out of his house.

wolfman

Few seconds go by in peace. Half a minute even. Enough that maybe she thinks it's fine, he isn't coming after her, she's safe.

Then the door opens. He's still carrying that glass, his umpteenth. He follows her, quick, closing the distance.

"Devon."

broken doll

A few seconds, and a minute. She walks out, and with those shoes and with her dress undone and that hair and that makeup making her look cracked and no coat, she starts walking along the sidewalk. It's a nice area. Pretty houses. Most of them decorated. No one is out, though. Trick-or-treaters have already come through and lights have been turned off. For now she feels safe enough, walking alone like this. Soon enough she'll get to a point where she has no idea where she's going and no real choice but to go back or keep walking or hope to hitchhike, and no one picking up a hitchhiker tonight at this hour is going to be savory and no matter what: she has to think of where she's going.

So he comes out, and she's halfway down the sidewalk. Still in his pretty city neighborhood, just a few blocks away from a bad area, when suddenly from one street to another the property values skyrocket and the skin color of the residents all bleaches out.

A door behind her opens and closes and footsteps, lighter than someone his size has a right to be, and the heat of rage at her back. She hates herself a little for finding it comforting, in some strange instinctive way. Warming, when it's cold and dark. What human beings fear at nighttime is this. And she knows deep down that of all two-legged creatures, she's safer than most. It's despicable, what instinct makes us feel.

"What." she snaps at him. At least it's not fuck off again. And the only reason it's not is that she is very, very cold.

wolfman

Compared to fuck off that's enough to encourage him. He follows her. He catches up, his longer strides chewing up all the distance between them. Wasn't lying when he said there wouldn't be a mark on him in a few days' time. There isn't a mark on him now. Even if she had managed to do some damage beating on him with knees and fist, they'd be gone by now too.

Still in his suit. Still in his nice shirt. Tie disappeared a long time ago. Still with a glass of something-strong in his hand, which he empties in a quick toss. Then he shrugs out of his jacket and holds it out to her.

broken doll

If he puts the jacket on her shoulders she doesn't fight it. She just scowls, gritting her teeth. Still walks, skinny legs moving quick. "Got another bullshit apology chambered?" she wants to know.

wolfman

Wolf keeps that jacket held out a while, until it gets obvious that she's not gonna take it. Or reject it. So that's when he opens it up and drops it over her shoulders. Lining's satin, slippery-smooth, still warm from his body. Heavy, too, and large enough to swallow her entirely. Probably covers more of her than her dress does. Definitely covers more than her lingerie did.

"No," he says.

A dozen steps go by. He keeps pace. "Come back inside."

broken doll

God, it's warm. The satin or silk seems to have soaked in his body heat. The coat itself is made for autumn, though light enough to have worn to an indoor party. She exhales as it drapes over her shoulders, and after a moment she lets her fingertips close on the edges, keeping it around her. Smells, too. Smells that way that nothing of her own smells, a smell that has its own heat, its own life, isn't taken from soap or detergent or magic. Not that she turns her head into the lining and inhales; it's just hard not to notice. It's as pervasive as the warmth.

She stops. He doesn't apologize, but tells her to come back inside.

"You never answered me," she says. But she's not walking anymore.

wolfman

So he stops too. A step or two after her, going ahead, looking into the distance. Nice area. Lots of streetlights. Safe enough even for a lone woman to walk at night, as long as she didn't cross the wrong street. Cross the wrong stranger's past. Wolf turns, comes back that step. Light at his back now, face in shadow.

"About what?"

broken doll

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

It's what she asked him, eyes full of tears, back at the costume ball, before he stormed out. She was shaking then, almost sobbing and almost screaming the words. Now she's looking at him, her shivering subsided a bit thanks to his jacket, and she sounds earnest.

"The way you treat me. What is it. What is your problem with me?"

wolfman

Frowning when he asked her what she meant. Scowling, suddenly and tempestuously, when she answers. Then she goes on and he figures it out. That wasn't an answer after all. It was the question.

They face each other on that well-manicured street. Not a single car goes by. This is a nice neighborhood, rich neighborhood, full of cul-de-sacs and curving drives. No one uses these streets as thoroughfares.

Wolf shrugs after a while. Jacket off, his white shirt looks even more out of place on his body. Shoulders too broad, biceps somehow managing to strain even the tailored lines of the garment. For a while, doesn't seem like she'll get anything else out of him.

"You put me off my balance." Then she does get something else out of him. "Never expect to see you. Never know what to expect when I do. So I keep my guard up."

Quiet a minute. Looking down the street again. Pale streetlights casting a sheen off his nose, the planes of his brow and cheeks. "And I fucking hate fancy parties. Feel out of place and don't know how to fit in. Don't like it when you see me like that. Didn't like seeing you with your clothes half off either. Someone must've taken it off you, yeah? Belong there even less than me but you obviously have no trouble fitting in."

Looks back at her. Too dark to see the color of his eyes. That glinting wolf green. He jerks his head homeward.

"Freezing cold out here. Come back inside."

broken doll

"I'm not doing anything to you," she insists, when he says he keeps his guard up. She says it like someone says it's not my fault!, because it isn't. Not her fault that just seeing her puts him off. Not her fault that he doesn't know her yet, doesn't have a read.

She exhales, her breath steaming. He tells her what he hates. And that he doesn't fit in. And he really doesn't like her being there when he feels like he doesn't fit in. She just scowls at him. Or frowns: deeply.

Then he mentions her clothes half off, his guess as to how that happened. Makes some comment about where she does and doesn't belong. Now she really is scowling.

"None of that deserves the shit you give me," she informs him, and turns sharply, walking back toward his stupid stupid townhouse with its central heating and air and whirlpool jets in the garden-size tubs and well-stocked liquor cabinet and 900 channels and high thread count sheets and all her stuff.

wolfman

"Didn't say it did. But you asked."

Now she's going back. He follows. A step behind and a step to the side. Easier that way; doesn't feel like he needs to keep up a conversation. His hands shove into his pockets. Cold outside, after all.

Up ahead, his house. Neat and handsome and aglow from within. Can even see the window to her bedroom from here; it looks out over the street. His looks out over the tiny yard in the back. As they near he comes up alongside her after all.

broken doll

She flinches away, at first, when he comes up alongside. Just a little. It's more habit than reflex.

But they get to the door and she turns the handle, going inside. It's warm inside but not stifling; she exhales relief without meaning to but doesn't shed his coat. She goes toward the stairs.

wolfman

Wolf sets his emptied glass on the nearest convenient surface when he gets back in. Shuts and locks the door.

Seems his servants go where he does. When he's in town James is here, and usually Franklin too. His cook shows up during the day to cook. His housekeeper shows up during the day to clean. Those days he wasn't in town, girl might only see the housekeeper coming in to keep things in order.

Tonight it's James. Tonight it's Franklin. Former comes in sight of the doorway but doesn't approach. Girl goes upstairs. Wolf follows. James retreats. Keeps his thoughts his own.

Top of the stairs and that's where they should part. Her room one way and his the other. Wolf reaches out -- fingers brush the wool of his own coat but then he thinks better of it. Doesn't catch her by the arm. "Devon," he says. "I am sorry I scared you. Again."

broken doll

Gradually she goes up the stairs. Had he not started to follow she might have turned to tell him to come on. As it is, she doesn't say anything to him. They come in from the cold, her in her tousled hair and dark lips and wearing his jacket over her doll-like dress, and they go up the stairs.

At the top she doesn't pause. He does reach out, touches, but only faintly. And she turns to look at him, having felt it. He says her name. And says he is sorry. And given everything else, here is where she rips him to pieces. Calls it bullshit.

Devon doesn't say anything. She puts her hand out for his, her palm up, her fingers slightly curled.

bandage. retreat.

wolfman

Dinner's a solitary affair. Wolf eats downstairs and girl eats in her room. Wolf's still hungry when he's done so he heats up some more leftover meatloaf. Devours that too.

Stands out in the tiny backyard a while, reverted to his man-shape, sipping his beer. They slept all day and woke in late afternoon. Now it's just approaching evening, the mountains to the west shortening daylight by a couple hours. Air's just starting to have a nip to it, but not so much that the wolf feels the need to bundle up. Stands out there in his bandages and his lounge pants while the sky goes from blue to orange to red to dark.

Comes back in. James meets him at the door. Their voices are muffled and low through the walls, the doors. It's a short conversation, and then the whole house can hear the wolf coming up the stairs. Can feel it too, low-frequency vibrations through the structure. Undoubtedly back to his near-man form again.

Quiet for a while. He keeps to his room. She to hers. Some time after nightfall she comes back out to check on her concoction. That's when he comes back out as well, rumbling down the stairs, taking that tight spiral with unconscious, bonedeep ease.

Has a ragged strip of rust-tinged gauze in hand. Catches up to her in the kitchen and holds it up.

"Where do you want it?"

witch

He took the beer. This, she fixates on. Wolfing down pizza. Sitting angrily against the pillows. Scowls at the air. Irritated already, the six-pack plucked from her hand only aggravates. She tries to read after she eats. Curls up on the bed and can't focus. Tries to nap again.

Ends up crying. Couldn't explain why, but does it quietly, holding a pillow and dampening it with her tears. Smudging it, a little, with black mascara, liner.

She ends up falling asleep. Drowsily, lightly, dreamlessly. Her eyes flutter open when the stairs and the hallway shiver with his step. She waits, motionless, until she hears the door down the hall open. Close again.

--

Night falls and she stirs again. Doesn't bother washing her face. It grows dark and she grows grateful. Her hair is only more tousled from lying in bed again. Her eyes are smudged and dark, shadowy. She goes lightly down the stairs, an almost soundless counterpoint to the way he moves in his own house. She drifts; he thumps.

In the kitchen she goes to the window, holding up the jar and looking at it. Watches something inside swirl as she turns the jar, watches how it has broken down, how it has combined. When he comes out she is at the sink, her long sweater's sleeves rolled up and a cheesecloth -- not his, something from her bag perhaps -- laid into a bowl.

Her hand is on the lid of the jar when she hears him. Feels him. Looks up. There are no lights on in the kitchen. Her expression is... flat. Dark, perhaps. Unliking and unlikable.

"Shitty pickup line," she declares, and goes back to unscrewing the jar. Perhaps surprisingly, it doesn't smell bad. It looks disgusting -- a green sludge floating with leaves and specks of something. Smells like its ingredients, though, and something else. Something elusive, and familiar, and warm, and sensual, and powerful, and

fading, almost as soon as it is scented. Vanishing. Lingering in the memory very much like a dream you remember,

and have no memory of.

She pours the sludge into the cheesecloth-and-bowl. Which, at least, sounds gross. Slop slop slop.

wolfman

"You know what I'm talking about." Stuff is slopping into a bowl. Wolf eyes it distrustfully, watching over her shoulder. "The hell is that. Stop. Lemme just put a bandage on you and you can save that for later."

witch

If she knows, she does not say. If she hears, she does not tell him what the hell it is, since he asked last night. She does not stop.

"An moment's thirst shouldn't drain the river," she says, shaking the jar slightly to get the last few droplets into the cloth. Sets it down in the sink to rinse later, wash out. Folds up the edges of the cheesecloth to being squeezing, draining. Her hands soon turn green. Seems natural, that she should have stained hands somehow.

Glances at him while squeezing, casting a look over her shoulder. "Those things are strong. Should be saved for stronger wounds."

Looks back down, hair falling over her face, a curtain between them.

wolfman

"Didn't we already have this conversation?" Hand's a fist around that flimsy scrap of gauze. He presses it to the counter, leaning around her to get the look she's denying him. "It's mine. I can do what I want with it. If you want me to save it for myself, there's no point. Won't be a mark on me by the end of the week.

"Now hold out your hand before I smack it on your forehead again."

witch

"And you think you won?" she says, to his non-question. She scoffs, pressing harder on the cheesecloth. "They're my wounds. I'll keep them if I like."

Which she doesn't. Her head and her side hurt so badly before she put on the last few drops of that balm that is currently keeping him from so much as itching. She's exhausted as her body tries to heal the last of the wounds from those venomous, quivering monsters. She can't even put much gumption in the stubbornness. Her voice is aloof and unconcerned, but there is a sigh shivering outside the windows of the words.

A memory, when he warns her that he'll smack it on her head again. She pauses her work, turning her head. Her eyes glint like gemstones catching whatever light is available, however faint. Sapphires. Bright auras, dark hearts.

"Why did you have to act that way? Hitting me to heal me. Telling me to 'finish them off'." There's a beat of a pause; they've already had this conversation, too, and she learned things about him in its course. Her voice, sharp with the question, softens a touch, or at least: lowers.

"I was scared. No threat to your pride there."

wolfman

Wolf wants to fight. At least, he wants to argue. He's taking a breath to do that when she tells him she'll keep her wounds if she likes. Only think keeping him from arguing, really, is that he hasn't figured out what to say yet. He's working on it, though.

Is, until she catches him off guard. Turns. Her eyes meeting his suddenly pushes him a half-step back. He gives her a bit of her personal space back. Truth is she makes him as uneasy as he makes her. Maybe more so. He doesn't really know how to deal with her.

Especially when she's like this. Honest. Bareboned. Vulnerable. It's the last that drives his eyes away, makes him turn away and plant his hands on the counter and lean into it like her words are a physical burden he's got to shoulder.

"Didn't hit you." He splits that hair first. "Wasn't all gentle about it, is all. I know you were scared." Couple of moments, nothing to say. "Guess I just didn't want you to think it meant something, me going back for you. Didn't want you to think you could start, I don't know, taking advantage. Expecting me to always help you. Expecting me to start always protecting you even if you get yourself in trouble."

Bandage is a rumpled mess in his hand. He remembers it suddenly and holds it out to her.

"Just take it. Okay?"

witch

When do wolves want to do anything but fight?

He doesn't know what she is yet. Kinfolk. Woman. Scentless. Witch of some old craft, turning kitchen herbs into poultices, oils and moonlight into potions. Seer, reading cards and runes and god knows what else for people who can believe easier in that than in a jar of magic brew that heals their wound and leaves no scar. Young, though perhaps not far off from his own age. Looks younger than she acts. Seems. Feels. Talks. Looks that way, until you get to her eyes.

Of course she makes him uneasy. She knows what his rage is. She knows what he is, if she knows nothing else about him. Perhaps that's why she isn't trying much, if at all, to know anything else about him. Except when she does this: outright asks him why. Points directly at the core of it and demands explanation. There's something fearless in that vulnerability, something sharp and uncanny.

He didn't hit her. He just wasn't gentle. She just snorts, looking away from him, shaking her head as she squeezes. So what if he knows she was scared. She works on pulling as much fluid as she can from the cheesecloth, wasting nothing. The bowl is filling with green fluid, which looks like it is congealing slightly.

He talks, and she works, and by the end he's holding the bandage out again. Says okay like an entreaty. She looks at him again, that dark look past her shoulder, through her hair, with those eyes. It's a dry look. It would wither lesser men. Which he is not. Not lesser. Not a man.

"Don't think it meant anything, me calling you. I meant to call 911." She turns back to her work again. "I got my phone out; it dialed the last number I called. Then fell on the ground."

Oh, she's been holding on to that one. It's important that he knows: she didn't want him there. Didn't call to him. Didn't go begging him to come save her.

She seems to finish. Moves the cheesecloth aside, full of its bundle of herbs and leaves falling apart from the boiling and brewing. Her hands are dripping, slightly, with green juice that is staring to get viscous on her hands. Her eyes glint as she turns, though not with savagery. She positively throws herself at him, though careful of his gauze, and slimes her hands on his shoulders and chest and flails gently and weakly at him, batting her eyelashes so fast you'd think her eyeballs were about to fall out.

"Mah hero!" she says, affecting a (very poorly done) southern belle's accent. She cackles perversely, making sure to get as much goo on him as she can. "Saaave me!"

wolfman

Surprise: he doesn't growl. He grins, sudden and unexpected, a quick flash of sharp teeth. Not a pretty expression, but then, he's a fucking man-wolf right now.

"I know you didn't call me. Bet it was still the best damn butt-dial you ever -- "

Girl goes fucking berserk right about then. Girl launches herself at the wolf, and wolf's so damn surprised he doesn't get out of the way fast enough. Wolf gets slimed. Weirdly good-smelling gunk gets all over him and she's faking this absurd Miss Charleston accent and wolf's fending off hands full of green crap and

all of a sudden it's like the air around him fluoresces, it's like creepy-crawlies under the skin again. He's managed to smack that bandage on her. Underside of her goopy forearm this time.

"Don't complain." Untangling her limbs from his; not so rough as he could have been. She doesn't go flying, at least. "Attacked me first this time. Euch. What was in that shit?"

witch

Some part of her knew that would happen. And maybe batting at him, leaving him with trails of goo on his flesh and green handprints, was a way to make it acceptable. Maybe attacking him, laughing like that, was an excuse allowing her to permit him to heal her again.

That is how it happens. It is hardly worth speculating, in the end, what the motives were. This is how it happens; this is how it goes.

Good-smelling gunk feels cold and does not tingle but feels strangely effervescent on the skin, almost instantly fading. One can only imagine how it would feel on an open wound, a deep one, clarifying and soothing and surprising. But it fades quickly, having no work to do, and he just has traceries of slime on his skin as a result. It's pretty gross, but has a gel-like consistency: it soaks in, as it is meant to. It doesn't leave too much of a tacky feeling on the skin.

What she feels is different, and she remembers it. Leeches under her bandages, pulling blood and pain and the possibility of rot out of her head and her side. It works so much faster this time, having less work to do. It wriggles, and she squirms, uncomfortable. She smells the tang and metal of blood, his blood, her own. She feels a strange swelling sensation as the torn tissue beneath her skin rebuilds, a tightening as the skin itself reknits.

He tells her not to complain, since she started it. She says nothing about it. Steps back, a little dazed from the healing, exhaling a small breath. Then he goes euch at her work and calls it shit and her laughing, bright-eyed expression -- momentarily turned to a dazed look of discomfort -- shifts to a small scowl.

"Sage," she says. "St. John's Wort. Some other things." A bit of magic.

The scowl doesn't last. She reaches up, gingerly peeling the bandage away from her brow. It sticks to her hair a bit, which makes her wince. The bandage has some blood on it. Her head does not, but for a few flecks of the dried stuff. Her head looks fine. Better than fine.

Like her other bandages, she'll keep this one. To burn later. Blood magic is powerful, and not something she wants turned her way.

wolfman

Wolf reaches out when the bandage comes undone. Heavyhandedly -- heavypawedly, is that the better expression when he's like this? -- he pushes back her hair and looms over her and inspects the wound. Well. Used to be a wound. Now it's just new skin, perfect and smooth. Bits of dried blood flecked at the edges. His palm is burningly hot, his thumb rough as he rubs at the blood.

"Oughta go wash that off." Lets go with a little push, ungentle but not actually violent. "Then eat more. And sleep. Talens'll do some of the work but your body still does most of it. Anyone who tells you different is retarded."

witch

That make her breath catch. Big as he is, rough as he is, she rocks back ever so slightly, inhaling through her mouth. She scowls up at him as he's rubbing her scalp and forehead with his thumb.

"So tidy," she says, mocking both his advice to wash and his earlier discomfort with the goo on his skin, "for someone who just slapped a bloody rag on my arm."

He's bossing her. She steps away, turns away, giving a flick of her eyebrows upward and own, yes that's nice. She is going to wash her hands first. Down here. And do as she likes.

Even if she's hungry. Even if the pizza didn't last.

She scrubs her hands quickly, efficiently, and thoroughly. Cleans under her nails as well. That stuff sticks to the skin, wants to blend into her body. She cranks off the water and starts drying them. "You have anything better to drink than that beer?"

wolfman

Turns out he follows her to the sink. She finishes and he puts a finger under the handle, keeping her from turning it off. She moves off, dries her hands. He starts washing his, soaking a paper towel, wiping goop off his skin.

"Water." He thinks a minute. "Might be some juice in the fridge, go look."

witch

She smirks, vaguely triumphant, as he wets the towel to clean up after her attack. This is after, however, the way she steps away when he comes nearer again, pushes into her space again. Again. She just looks at him, vaguely disturbed by this answer. "All that money and no decent whiskey?"

In this instance, she doesn't sound like she's mocking him, or teasing him, though he might. She just sounds genuinely incredulous.

wolfman

Earns her a smirk back. "Oh. Forgive me for not realizing the Fianna was after booze. I think there's some stuff in the pantry." He nods in a vaguely appropriate direction. "Go knock yourself out."

witch

"You don't have enough," she quips, when he tells her to knock herself out. That's how she shakes off his smirk, his tribal condescension. She goes to the pantry, leaving mush sitting in cheesecloth in a sink to dry, leaving a jar to soak, leaving a bowl of goo to... congeal.

She opens the pantry wide. "So what's for dinner?"

wolfman

Turns out he's got quite the collection in there. Maybe not enough to impress the girl, but enough to impress most people. A whole wall of bottles on the rack. A lot of wine, truth be told. A lot of cognac and armagnac and, yes, vodka. But scotch, too. Irish whiskeys. Maybe even a bottle or two of Kentucky bourbon whiskeys.

Bit of dust on the bottles. Doesn't seem to indulge much, this wolf.

"I don't know," he retorts. "It's eleven o' clock. If you wanted something, should've told me earlier. Cook usually stays at the other house unless he's needed. Probably some meatloaf left. Or maybe a microwave burrito. You could always cook for us."

witch

"Reh reh reh," she echoes, standing in his pantry, turning bottles, inspecting labels.

He suggests she cook. She pokes her head out, holding a bottle of -- perhaps surprisingly -- not whiskey. Wine. Red. A dust-covered but rich-looking syrah. Correction: two bottles. The other is a merlot. Different vineyard, different vintage.

"Dick," she says, and switches the necks of the bottles to one hand to search for a corkscrew.

wolfman

Wolf snorts. "Why? You're the one that wanted to eat. And drink." He drags a drawer open. Inside's a corkscrew. One of those fancy, mechanized, idiot-proof ones.

witch

"I bet you're not hungry at all," she retorts, setting bottles on the counter. She takes the corkscrew out of the drawer without seeming to notice that he opened it for her. She fiddles with it, figures it out like someone born to anything to do with alcohol, and moments later, out comes the cork from the syrah.

Devon lifts it, sniffs it, takes a drink. Licks her lips, looking at him for a moment.

"You said it yourself," she tells him, looking him over, dragging her eyes slowly back up to his face. "Body does the work. And your body's... workin'."

She takes another drink. Straight from the bottle.

wolfman

Cork comes free with a soft pop. Syrah's damn good. Rich, earthy, spicy-sweet. Girl drinks it straight from the bottle like she was born to do this. Wolf watches her, caught somewhere between annoyed and amused.

Then she licks her lips.

Then she looks him over like he's a piece of prime beef.

Then she says something that drips of insinuation -- at least he thinks it does -- keeps her eyes on him while she takes another drink.

Wolf frowns at her wordlessly for a second. Then he straightens up, shuts the drawer decisively, doesn't say a damn word. Walks the hell away.

witch

"I was teasing!" she calls after him.

At least she doesn't deny it. But saying she's teasing isn't the entire truth, either. That's not exactly what it was.

"Come back," she says to his spine. Takes another drink, somewhere in there. "Rafael,"

and if he has not stopped she is walking after him now as she says his name perhaps for the first time or at least one of the only times, carrying the syrah by the neck,

"it's good. You should have some."

wolfman

Wolf turns at the foot of the stairs. Tight spiral going up. Their bedrooms upstairs, separated by the safety of a long hall. Long for a city residence, anyway. She hasn't seen the house in the hills.

His house. In the hills. He has to start thinking of it like that.

She's got the bottle by the neck like it's a Christmas goose. Wolf's eyes, green as an animal's, flicker from her face to her hand to the bottle and back. He quirks a little smile. He's still hulking, hirsute, huge. Stooped and growly when he speaks.

"Enjoy yourself. I'm going back to sleep."

witch

Devon follows, pauses about six feet away when he pauses at the stairs. Holds the bottle. Doesn't understand his little smile. She's frowning. It's clear enough she doesn't want him to go, that's why she called, why she chased

But he says he's going to sleep, and she doesn't chase after him again, doesn't call after him again. She smirks a little, after a moments. "Cheers," she says, and lifts the bottle to take another drink. Turns, then, going back to the kitchen. She'll drink alone. Bottle the green goop. Eat meatloaf. Watch t.v.

pizza. not a truce.

witch

The rest of the day passes without incident. Devon leaves him alone on that recliner and intends to read or work on some talismans or something, but by the time she gets upstairs, her energy has plummeted. It's only been an hour or so that she's even been awake, but the combination of the very full belly, an exhausted will, and a vicious head wound leave her somewhat winded and worn out just by climbing the stairs.

Devon, fully dressed, curls back into the bed she slept in last night. She peels back her own bandage, sprinkles the last few precious droplets from that purple bottle onto her head, replaces the tape, and tucks herself under the soft sheets and heavy comforter.

The analgesic made from herbs and oil and a bit of magic seeps into her. She exhales gratefully. She sleeps.

Deeply.

--

When she wakes it's afternoon. Hours later. Four, maybe even six hours. She gives great big yawns and rolls over, drowsy, only slowly opening her eyes. She realizes she never even took her hair clip out. Didn't wipe off her makeup. Her head is still free from pain -- what she sprayed onto Rafael and drizzled onto her own cut lasts for a day, sometimes more -- but the bandage is askew. She sits up.

She looks around. Bleary-eyed, she pushes the blankets away, kicks at them, and scoots out of bed. Tugs her fallen socks back up and over her knees. Removes the clip from her hair, wincing at the tangle it's caught itself in, shaking it out, combing her fingers through it.

Drops out of bed light on her feet, going to the bathroom to look at her face.

And tidy up her makeup, cleaning off what's smudged.

And brushing her teeth.

And re-bandaging her head.

Leaves her hair as it is. Indulges, as she turns off the light, in a moment of pride: she cannot feel pain from the torn-open part of her scalp. She is very good at what she does. It gives her a sort of strange, mean satisfaction that that fucker Rafael won't feel an iota of pain til sunrise at the earliest, and it will be because she spritzed him like a misbehaving dog.

--

For the third time, Devon walks slowly down the spiral stairs to the first level of the house. Looking for lunch. Wary of where the wolf is, as you should always be of wounded animals.

wolfman

Turns out the wolf hasn't gone far either. In fact he hasn't moved at all. On the recliner is where she left him. On the recliner is where she finds him, sprawled out, fast asleep, mouth open, snoring.

Comes to with a small start when he hears her. Bleary-eyed, mouth unpleasantly dry, he grimaces his way up out of unconsciousness. Fumbles around until he finds the handle on the recliner and pulls himself upright. Leans over, elbows on knees, scrubs at his eyes with the heels of both hands. Gives his head a long, sharp shake, then looks over.

"Time is it?"

witch

She is soft-footed. But she comes so close, in the end. Does not see lunch set out, so she drifts into the other room. Her feet make a faint scuff, the socks on the floor. Perhaps it is the sound of her with no scent to reassure his sleeping mind of her identity. Perhaps it's the awareness of being watched.

She finds him and looks at him. Sprawled out, fast asleep, mouth open, snoring. Shakes her head in vague disgust, makes a noise,

and he wakes.

Smacks his mouth and grimaces and fumbles for something to sit himself up. She doesn't step back fully; the moon has not risen and after that latest sleep, she can withstand his rage at the level it burns at for now. She sniffs, shrugs.

"Time for you to get a watch," she says dryly, sleepily. It's super good delivery of a lame joke. Totally.

wolfman

Joke earns her a scowl. "Original." Recliner rocks as he gets up out of it, hopping a half-step on a leg gone numb from lying in the same damn position so long. "What you been up to? Were you sleeping?"

witch

She smirks. There, faint, and gone again. She nods to his question.

"Eating. And walking upstairs. Made me sleepy."

There's a small pause. Awkward.

"I bet you're hungry."

wolfman

"Starving."

Wolf's a dynamic thing now that he's up. On the move, on the prowl. He rolls his good shoulder as he heads toward the kitchen.

"You?"

witch

Watching, she keeps still. Watches him roll and move, notices how he knows his body but forgets, perhaps, where the pain is. She is very good at what she does.

"Sure," she says, and starts to follow. "Meatloaf and OJ again?"

wolfman

"Was gonna toss a couple frozen pizzas in the oven. Still got some meatloaf left if you want it though." He's at the fridge, bent over the freezer compartment, pulling out DiGiorno's.

"Think my cook was gonna make ribeye tomorrow." Deliberately offhand, that. "If you wanna stay for that."

witch

She reaches up, touching behind her ear. She wonders, if he throws a couple of pizzas in the oven, what she'll eat. She may not know much she knows how animals can eat. Especially ones that are trying to regenerate.

"I was going to."

wolfman

"Okay. Set the oven to four-fifty, will you?"

Practically invites her to stay, then barely acknowledges it when she does. Meanwhile, wolf's tearing open two pizzas, one a meat trio, the other a meatball marinara. Bit of a theme there. Dropping handfuls of plastic wrap and cardboard into a trash can, he pulls the oven open and slides the pizzas in. No patience for preheating, apparently.

"You need anything else in your room?"

witch

Hearing her say that doesn't make him angry. She wondered if it would. He glosses over it.

She leans over, figuring out the knobs on the oven and then flicking one up high past 400. She looks at him as he sticks them in. Corner of her mouth tugs.

Weird question, then.

"Like what?"

wolfman

"I don't know." A touch of defensiveness there. Doesn't think it's a weird question. Can tell she does. He thumps the oven door shut, straightens up. Tugs restlessly at the bandages wrapped around his middle. Shrugs.

"Toothbrush? Blankets? You know, shit you need to live there. I don't even know what's in that room, I barely go in."

witch

Weird because it's polite. Weird because it's hospitable.

Weird because it's him.

Devon stands between him and the bar, arms crossed loosely and low over her middle. She shrugs, head tipped to one side, hair hanging down. Opens her mouth, exhales a haa of air. Closes it again.

"Minty fresh," she says. Pauses, looking him over for a moment. "I don't need anything."

wolfman

Haa gets her stared at. She expounds. He snorts a laugh. "Okay," is his answer again. And after a minute, "Good."

Couples flecks of frozen cheese on the stovetop, spilled when he was unpacking the pizzas from their boxes. He swipes them into his palm. Dumps them into the sink. Dusts his fingers off.

"So what are you doing in Denver anyway. Just get here?"

witch

Him cleaning up after himself doesn't seem strange anymore. Not after this morning. His life story. She stands there, arms crossed, and just watches him.

Shrugs. "Hitchhiked. Seemed okay when I got here." A pause, and an answer: "'Bout a month ago."

wolfman

"You been living in that hostel a month?" Thinks about it a while. "You got a job?"

witch

"Nope!" she says, her arms swinging uncrossed and outward.

wolfman

Staring again. Frowning again. "How the hell were you surviving?"

witch

Quiet for a moment.

Arms come down to her sides, slowly cross again. She nods at his chest, then looks back up at his face.

"Been six hours."

A moment.

"You feel even a twinge yet?"

wolfman

"No," impatient. "What the hell does that -- "

Penny drops. Wolf's frown deepens, bringing those dark eyebrows down over his eyes. Utters a wordless, disgruntled sort of noise, folding his arms.

"Oh, I get it. You sell your potions." Thinks a minute. "At that store?"

witch

She shakes her head. But: "I could. Bad idea, though."

A step back, her hands unfolding, pressing to the bar, and she levers herself up. The edge of that fluttery white dress tugs up a bit as she sits on that counter, fair skin between dress and the tops of the thigh-highs. She folds her hands, lacing fingers together, rests them on her lap.

"I do readings. People pay. Herbalism..." she shrugs, drags a shoulder up and down. "When it works? They pay more. But I don't do that much." A wry little smirk. "I'm selective with my clientele, you could say."

wolfman

Wolf's eyes flick down. Then he turns away, pulling the fridge open, digging around until he pulls a six-pack of longnecks out. Basic Corona. Nothing fancy. In Denver.

"How much do I owe you?"

witch

Her brows tug together. He may not see.

"Don't."

wolfman

His back still turned, the wolf twists the head off one of those bottles. Drops it in the trashcan. Swings the rest of the six-pack out onto the counter with his good arm. One supposes it's a way to offer her a drink.

"Don't what. Don't pay you?"

witch

Can't see her. Only hear, quietly:

"Don't offer."

wolfman

"Why?"

He turns. She's on the kitchen counter. He's leaning against the island. They're not quite facing. Good void of space between. Bottle in his hand, bottom cold against his thigh. Her head's ducked, but not too far. He's still a goddamn wolfman, hulking, coarse-featured.

Meeting her eyes now, though. Direct; almost a challenge.

witch

She's meeting his eyes now. Her head is a bit ducked for that, given her perch. Makes her eyes look upward. Makes them fierce, somehow. Her hair hangs down one side, mostly, a dark chaos.

"Because you saved my life. So I eased your pain."

The way she shakes her head, tipped like that, makes that hair wave like a curtain caught in a breeze, sway like a pendulum.

"All there is to it."

wolfman

Last night he was throwing that in her teeth. Saved your life. Said it like something she owed him for. Strange that now it makes him uncomfortable, makes his eyes flash away before he brings them back.

She spells out the unwritten compact. Her life. His pain. Primitive and simple and true; every single kin-Garou relationship ever in microcosm. Wolf's silent a moment, one hand wrapped tight around that bottle, the heel of the other pressed to the edge of the counter he's leaning against. Any number of words tumble through his mind. Or maybe none at all.

What he comes up with in the end: short, blunt, callous, infuriating.

"Ought to be more careful. Might not get so lucky next time." He knocks the beer back. Breaks eye contact. "Get off the damn counter. Pizza's almost ready."

witch

It's deeper than that. More than Garou and Kin. More than male or female. It's humanity. She doesn't argue the transaction: the essence of it, what is perhaps the need for it to keep society from tearing itself completely to pieces. But she lays it out, sparely: her life. His pain.

She hasn't reached for a beer. Takes what he says with a dry look and a faint smirk.

"You telling me or yourself?" she asks,

says: "And no it's not."

wolfman

Wolf's got nothing to say to that. Just shoots her a dark glance. Walks out of the fucking kitchen.

witch

The smirk stays. He walks out and she watches.

Doesn't follow. Doesn't call.

--

Another twenty minutes go by. Something in the kitchen dings.

--

Five more.

There's a knocking on his door. Awkward thumping; not the neat knock of knuckles attached to a flexible wrist.

wolfman

Disappears upstairs when he leaves. Footsteps thumping overhead. A door shutting. Shower runs for a while. Then the door stays shut and he stays in there.

Oven timer dings. Wolf doesn't hear it. Wolf can smell the goddamn pizza though; he's a wolf. But wolf's in the middle of rebandaging, which is as good an excuse as any.

Then there's a thumping on his door. Bit of a flip-around from this morning. Some seconds go by. Then the door opens, a sudden inward swing. Wolf's standing in the doorway, still hulking, still neanderthalic. Fresh bandages wrapped around his middle, around his arm. Face is uncovered now. Nothing but faint pink marks there now, less than twenty-four hours out.

Stares at her mutely a while. Then he steps forward, forcing her back by proximity. She gets a glimpse of his room. Not much of one, because it's hard to see around the sheer size of him. An impression of the same high ceilings and airiness that marks the rest of the townhouse. Not really his style, if one had to pick. Not much in the way of personal items in there either, as far as she could see.

witch

She's got two plates. One in the crook of her elbow, one along her forearm. Like a waitress. Carrying the rest of the 6-pack in her other hand. She knocked with her knee. One the of the plates is, predictably, more heavily loaded with pizza than the other. She apparently doesn't like marinara, either.

Her eyes flick to his face. Six hours ago it was gashed open. She feels a surge of frustration, anger, resentment, jealousy, something. It flickers in her eyes. Can hardly blame her.

He steps forward and she, perhaps surprisingly, holds her ground. Frowns up at him.

"I brought you pizza," she says. The what the hell is implied.

wolfman

"I know." Frisson of irritation. "Rather eat downstairs."

He takes the sixpack from her. And one of the plates. Starts heading down the stairs.

witch

"Why?" she says flatly, staying where she is.

Before he answers -- perhaps because she doesn't expect him to stop walking:

"I served you. To be nice. Why throw it in my face?"

wolfman

But he does stop. Turns -- a step down already. Still taller than her. Pizza-plate held in one clawed hand. Sixpack in the other.

Hard to read a face like that. Maybe she manages. Maybe she sees the weariness. "Listen. Devon." First time her name actually leaves his mouth. "Not trying to start a fight here. Just don't want to eat in my room. There's nowhere to sit. I got a bed and that's it."

Turning again. Thudding down the stairs, the steel understructure of that spiral staircase vibrating with his weight.

"You coming or what?"

witch

At the moment she doesn't try to read him. She just tenses as that Listen. Devon. leaves his mouth. And the rest.

He's going downstairs. Doesn't wait to see a reaction to any of that. Just says what he does as he's walking away.

A few seconds later, another door down the hall opens, then closes.

Perhaps harder than necessary.

an apology. a potion. no excuse.

wolfman

Last girl sees of the wolf, he's pounding up the stairs, deliberate, two at a time still, shoulders hunched and head down. An upstairs door shuts not long after. Far as she knows, it doesn't open again that night.

Franklin takes her to her hostel. Man drives a six-figure car. Man wears a brushed-wool suits and silk ties. Man might be a chauffeur, a servant, but even amongst the underclass there are stratifications. Wonder how he looks at her pitiful dwellings; wonder if he feels bad for her.

Probably does feel bad for her. Helps her with the pot, doesn't he? Helps her with her things too: carries that bag for her if she lets him.

--

Wolf's lying awake when the garage door opens. His eyes are open in the darkness when it shuts again. When the kitchen door opens. When soft footsteps come up the stairs, turn at the top, go down the hall. Wolf lets a breath out when the door to the guest room shuts. He rolls over in bed, punches his pillow into some sort of shape, closes his eyes resolutely and goes to sleep.

--

No one bothers the girl. Her things are left alone and she is left alone. The night passes as it does. House goes quiet; there are no mice to stir.

Early in the morning the front door opens. Wolf's housekeeper comes to keep his house. She comes upstairs and is not surprised to find the door to the master suite closed. She's a little surprised to find the door to the second bedroom closed. Doesn't snoop. Wise woman.

--

Smell of breakfast wakes the wolf. Protein and grease. Eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns. Heavy, simple fare. Maybe his cook is secretly insulted to be reduced to this sort of thing. Wolf imagines that might be the case, but then the wolf always suspects his servants secretly resent him. Maybe it's actually the other way around. He doesn't bother to think of it too much.

Breakfast at the breakfast bar. Wolfing down eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns. Drinks a glass of milk looking over the tiny, neat backyard. Precious, precious space so close to city center. When he's done he puts his dishes in the sink. This time his housekeeper puts it in the dishwasher for him.

He makes up his mind. Goes upstairs. Stands outside the second bedroom for a number of seconds before he picks his hand up and knocks.

witch

The hostel on Broadway is... probably one of the less-sketchy hostels in Denver. There aren't many. But all that aside, it's still a hostel, and not some hip tourist destination hostel in Europe. Some people stay here for a long time. Devon has been for something like a month. She packs up things quickly from a locker in one of the dorms and gets out of there; when she gets outside the driver comes to greet her, takes the duffel.

She lets him.

--

Back at the house she thinks of very little than what is immediately in front of her. The walk inside. The brew she needs to set in the window. The climb to the bedroom. The bed, right there, soft and clean.

And then there's nothing to think of. What's right in front of her, and all around her, and above her, is sleep.

--

She sleeps deeply and for a long time, but she wakes some time after breakfast, or during breakfast. Her eyes stir and her mouth tastes terrible. She turns her head, looking around, and remembers where she is. She sighs and reaches up, touching her sore head. She gets up.

While he is eating, he hears the water go on upstairs. She doesn't shower this time; washes her feet, brushes her teeth. Washes her face, too. Puts on fresh bandages. Arranges her hair, softening the curls and waves into something manageable, twisting two locks back from her face to join behind her head, clasping them with a clip in the shape of wings.

Shortly thereafter, someone knocks.

--

Devon is still tired. She is still weakened, and still injured, and the thought of facing down a wolf whose rage will be just as strong as it was last night does not comfort her. She crouches next to her duffel, very still, then rises up and walks over.

The door opens. Her hair is back. She's wearing eyeliner, mascara. A new, white bandage across her scalp. She's in a dress -- this one actually goes to just above her knees. It's white, a sheer overlay with a few golden leaves here and there above an opaque shift underlayer. It has no sleeves. She has on a tattered black sweater over it, more tunic than anything else: wide sleeves with no cuffs, a hem that goes past her hips. The only reason he can see the rest of the dress underneath is that the black sweater is really tattered: torn and frayed, the holes resembling runs in a stocking.

She has on thick black socks, over the knee styles. She hasn't put on shoes yet. She is wearing a ring on her right hand with a shiny black oval stone, almost a quarter of an inch long. Her other hand stays on the door after she's opened it, right along the edge.

Looks at him for a moment. Then her eyebrows lift a notch, a touch, a flicker of movement. She tips her head.

"Morning," she says, which somehow sounds like a question about why he's knocking.

wolfman

Door opens and wolf is standing there. Night's turned to day, but wolf's still a wolf. Still dark and brooding and those heavy eyebrows and those heavier shoulders.

His bandages are fresh too. His pants are last night's. He's still not wearing a shirt, but that's okay because there's so much gauze wrapped around his torso and taped to his face that it covers more than your average undershirt. His arms fold across his chest. He looks at their feet like maybe he'll find a script there. Gives up when he doesn't. Looks at her.

"I didn't always have money."

That's what he opens with. Comes out of him like he's been holding onto it a while. Since breakfast. Maybe since last night. He bites the insides of his lips a moment. Goes on.

"My dad raised me. He was dirt poor. When he died the state raised me. Group homes, mostly, 'til I was eighteen. Until two months ago I didn't have this house. That car. Those people at my beck and call. I had more in common with people like Franklin than the people that people like Franklin wait on. I was the one hauling crates, washing dishes, mowing lawns and scrubbing toilets. And most people I ever met were trying to take something away from me. Even now, that's true. Maybe especially now."

Shrug of his shoulders. Short, rough gesture, uneasy in his skin again.

"That's no excuse to scare you out of your wits. Or to treat you bad. But I thought if you knew maybe you'd understand better where I'm coming from."

Pause. He steps back. Rubs a hand over his mouth. Jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

"That's all I had to say. Breakfast downstairs if you want."

witch

Any number of reasons for his arrival at the second bedroom's door this morning go through her mind. None of them linger, germinate, hover like a cloud in her eyes. She just waits, looking at him while he looks at his bare toes, separated by several inches from hers, covered in warm socks. She is looking at him when he lifts his eyes again.

No reaction, at first. No well, fucking duh roll of her eyes. No sharp blink of startle or surprise at the way the words tear out of him. She just stands there, one hand on the door, as he gives the the Cliff's Notes of his life story. Each sentence comes out like something he had to dig up, brush off, in order to see it for himself all over again. Her face is impassive as she listens to it.

And as he stops, and steps back, and indicates breakfast.

Thinks for a moment. "Thanks," she says.

Maybe for the explanation. Maybe for the simple acknowledgement that all this stuff doesn't justify being a prick or terrorizing her. She doesn't scoff at that, though perhaps a part of her wants to. Maybe she thanks him for the remorse, which is evident in the weight of his shoulders and the look in his eyes and the admissions themselves, even if he doesn't say sorry. He did last night. He doesn't have to say it now for her to remember the regret which, several hours ago, she was too exhausted and scared to really absorb.

Her hand moves on the edge of the door, turning her grip. She shifts her weight slightly onto one hip. It's not hard to see her discomfort.

"I didn't mean to make you feel bad about the hooker thing," she says abruptly. There's a beat. A one-shouldered shrug that says what do you want me to do? "I mean, it's a little funny." To her credit, it only takes her a second to hear herself this morning, and recognize that he may not -- so obviously has not -- agreed with this. She shrugs again, squirming a little under all this.

"I was just trying to show you it wasn't a big deal. I didn't care."

Silence again. Awkward, uncomfortable silence. Longer, though, by a heartbeat. She isn't looking directly at him anymore; somewhere in all that her eyes fell away, moved around, shifted. Right now she's looking at him somewhere in the navel region. Or looking through him. Her eyes drag back up to his face in her next few words.

"There's nothing I want from you that I can't live without. Or get elsewhere."

It doesn't occur to her that some who might try to take something from him have no motive, no real desire, no need, other than the cruel pleasure of taking it away from someone else. At least: it doesn't sound like it occurs to her.

wolfman

Wolf's on his way downstairs. It wasn't some ploy to get her talking. He was genuinely ready to go. Eager to go. Eager to stop standing here and feeling exposed. Laid bare. More naked and flayed open than any of his wounds could have made him.

Does stop, though, when she speaks. A couple steps away by then. Turning, leaning against the railing that opens to the living room below. Listening. At least a little funny doesn't hit well: pulling his eyebrows down and together, tightening his carriage. He doesn't explode again, though. He keeps listening, and a second later she's squirming; he can tell she's uncomfortable.

That helps a little. At least he's not the only one.

"I know." Practically interrupts her to say it, like it's important that she knows he knows. Frowns again, though not in anger. Quieter, "I know that now."

A couple more beats of silence. Got his hands up on the banister, gripping it like it anchors him somehow. Cords in his forearms standing out. They're really talking about two things. The car thing. The hooker thing. They're separate but entangled, and he has so few words, it seems, to deal with any of it at all.

"People that try to take something from you," he tries, "they're always trying to take your pride. No matter what else they're going for. That's what I thought you were going for. With the hooker thing."

His teeth catch his lip. He frowns at a hole in her sweater, staring at it, staring through it. Pulls his eyes back to her face.

"I don't like seeing you flinch. I never did." He's done; can't stand there anymore. Straightens sudden and abrupt and powerful, always so powerful, swinging around the end of the rail and trotting down the stairs. "Look, there's breakfast, if you want it or what."

witch

Whoosh.

He's off. Away and down, talking over his shoulder. She watches a moment, vaguely amused but barely enough to create those hints of a smile at the corners of one's mouth.

There's no reason to do so but to give him some distance, but she waits a few seconds before going downstairs as well. Closes the door behind her. Her feet are soft on the steps, muffled by the thick socks and further quieted by her size, which is... considerably less than his. To understate.

When she gets to the kitchen, she goes to the food. Eggs, sausage, potatoes. She looks for bread to make toast while she chews on a strip of bacon. She checks on her jar: picks it up, examines, gives it a shake, then puts it back, turned 180. Pours herself milk. Makes tea from some dried stuff in a baggie she brought down with her. She finds an apple, perhaps sitting in a bowl artfully, and a knife, and chops it. She eats thin slices of a tart apple with bites of sausage, and puts hot sauce on her hash browns. After a while she mixes sausage and bacon and eggs and hash browns together on her plate, eating it as a mash. Her tea smells like -- hard to describe what it smells like. Flowers. Warm vanilla. Feels like a full belly, a safe bed, the quiet of dawn after a night of hunting and a long rest. The smell feels like serenity.

The woman eating at the breakfast bar looks like the meatloaf didn't last very long in her stomach. She eats silently, hungrily.

If he's around she glances at him. Maybe once. Possibly twice.

wolfman

Townhouse has been his for -- how long did he say? -- two months. Not much in the way of personal effects here. No pictures on the walls. No knickknacks, toys, books, stuff strewn about. While she eats in the kitchen, he drops onto a recliner and flips on the flatscreen TV on the wall. Clicks numbly through the channels while she adds tea and apples to the meat-lard-and-carbs breakfast he'd apparently gorged on.

First time she glances at him he's lounging in the recliner, feet on the floor, rocking a little.

Second time he's leaned back, feet kicked up. Hairy. Clawed. He's shifted sometime between the then and the now. Near-man now, rough and coarse and ugly, slope-browed, nightmarish. He's picking a sharp tooth with a sharp nail. Glances back at her when he feels her eyes. Drops his hand, wiping it surreptitiously on his pants.

"Sorta expected you to not come back. Last night, I mean."

witch

She took a second helping. A half-helping. Mostly potatoes. Her lips are pressed together, pursed. Her eyes are wide. She is not laughing.

A pause.

"You mean -- to here?"

Another beat, a dawning understanding. A lower, more level tone.

"You mean when I went to get my stuff."

She takes a bite of her potatoes, thoughtful. Then shrugs.

"You've never been a twenty-odd girl in a hostel."

Silence, for a second.

"Besides. Left my eyes of newt and wings of bat here."

wolfman

Startles a laugh out of him. Sounds like a growl. Is a growl. Everything's a growl when he's in this form. The recliner creaks under his weight. Must weight three hundred, three-fifty pounds like this. His thighs strain his pants. He tugs at his bandages too, loosens them a bit before he asphyxiated like some 18th century damsel in a corset.

"Well. Now you're a twenty-something girl living with a rabid werewolf. Not sure that's an improvement." Retucks the gauze. Sits back. "Glad you came back though."

witch

She's about to shrug. Tell him he saved her life, that she doesn't think it was so he could rape her. Tell him that he's less likely to try and steal her shit, especially living like he does. But he's fiddling with his gauze and says he's glad she came back,

and her brows tug together.

She's done eating anyway. Her fork sets down. She slides off the barstool she's on and walks over, the dress she's wearing under her sweater fluttering around her knees. Her feet are, as before, surprisingly soft. When she comes up alongside the recliner, she nods a head at his bandages, then looks at him.

"I bet it hurts."

wolfman

Sad that the first thing she thinks of is rape. Then theft. Sad that that's the way the world is. Sad that what she really should think about,

the possibility of sudden bloody death because he couldn't control his temper,

doesn't even occur to her. Sad that that's the case for plenty of kin. Such a fact of life, such a known quantity, that it almost doesn't need thinking about anymore.

Wolf's staring at the TV when she gets off the barstool. He notices. Out the corner of his eye he senses motion, fluttering, soft footsteps. His eyes flick her way, a quick sidelong thing. Then he keeps staring at the TV. Has no idea what's going on.

This time the laugh sounds like a snort. "You gloating, or what?"

witch

They have to have faith. Maybe it's in their blood, that faith. Maybe that's why, when it's betrayed, kinfolk whose faith was broken are the most vengeful, hateful, and dangerous of all the unshifting, unchanging creatures in the world. He doesn't know her. Doesn't know if she has scars, if she's been beaten, if she even knows many wolves, if she was raised near them, if he's an anomaly -- and barely has met him, to boot.

Maybe it's in her blood, to believe he won't lose it, won't splatter the walls with what used to be her body. Maybe that's the only way they can exist like they do, and have, for so many eons.

"No," she says simply. Takes his gloating comment for confirmation. "Stay here," she says, then goes over to the stairs.

Something about her seems right. The way her legs bend and push and do what legs do on stairs. And her hand on the banister, familiar as though she's lived here all her life. She's like that everywhere. He doesn't know. But up the spiral seems natural, seems inherent. She vanishes.

Comes back down, just a minute or so later, carrying a small bottle. It's plastic, and purple, with a spray top. Suitable for air travel. She gives it a shake as she walks over to his recliner again. "You've been ginger," she tells him.

Nods at his body. "Face or body first?"

wolfman

There she goes. There he stays. Isn't sure if he should follow her or run away or what, so he stays. Her footsteps fade. They come back. He doesn't have a view of the upstairs hallway from here, but he can see her legs coming down the stairs. Then her hands, arms, shoulders. Head. He eyes the bottle with distrust. She comes over, shaking it, and the way he leans away from her is almost laughable.

"What the hell is that?"

witch

"White willow," she says, as he leans away. She doesn't reach for him.

She is still wary.

"And rue. Some calendula and aloe." The bottle stops shaking. She stops, cocking her hip again, head tilted. "You don't need help healing. You won't scar. But it hurts. So let me make it stop hurting."

wolfman

Wolf licks his teeth. Quick, animal thing, that. Then he shifts back to center. They're both wary. They both move slow, no sudden bursts.

"Face. I guess. Need me to take this off?"

witch

She huffs. It's almost a laugh. "Yeah," she says, dry enough to indicate the duh that she doesn't add.

Yet she makes no move to do it for him. She's no nursemaid.

But when he has moved the bandage, her brows furrow together, wrinkling. She leans over, rather thoughtlessly touching a fingertip to his chin to tip his head more into the light. Realizing it, she drops her hand, but she didn't consider it to begin with.

"Close your eyes," she says, not because what she does is secret, but because what she does is liberally spray some of what's in that bottle on his face.

Smells botanical. Smells like the ingredients she mentioned, somehow maintaining a freshness that dried and processed herbs should not. And at first,

it stings like a motherfucker.

Which may be why she is blowing on his cheek, even as the misted droplets in the air are sinking into his skin and the grotesque wound. She blows through pursed lips, intentionally keeping her breath cool. The moisture that has hit him tingles. It isn't purely comforting, not right away. It burns, then it stings, then it tickles, then it tingles. And then it hits him, as sudden and strong as a sledge: not numbness.

Lack of pain, though. He can feel his jaw, and his face, and he is aware of the wound. But the pain and soreness and tightness and inflamed red skin around the edges of the wounds is soothed somewhat. It is nearly instantaneous. It is profound.

She shakes the bottle again, rising up from how she'd leaned over to blow on the cuts and bites.

wolfman

So he pulls the bandage off. Tugs and rips and tears at the paper tape sticking it to his face, and when it finally comes away it pulls a bit at the blood dried around the wounds.

Could be worse. Could be a lot worse. Better today than yesterday; will be better still tomorrow. Just a couple deep lacerations. No bone showing. No teeth showing either. Her finger on his chin and his hands close. A muscle in his shoulder jumps a couple times. Then he opens his hands consciously, even as she's taking her hand away.

"What?" -- and then she starts spraying and he gets it real quick. Closes his eyes. Squeezes them shut, hisses a breath in through his teeth, crinkles up his cheeks and the corners of his eyes which of course makes it hurt more. "Ow," he's protesting, except by then it's lessening already.

And then gone. Wolf opens his eyes. Raises a hand to his face, works his jaw experimentally. Makes a noise: huh.

Bloody bandage -- not the supernatural sort -- is lying on his lap. He picks it up and replaces it, unsticking the tape just enough to stick it back on his face.

"You really some kind of witch or something?"

witch

Oh, she doesn't like that. The tape tearing at skin, the blood dried and sticking and peeling and new blood rushing. It shows in her face: the rush of ache, the unwanted and unbidden sympathetic pain. But she does what she does. Spritzes her whatever on it from that purple bottle, blows on it as gentle as a mother applying hydrogen peroxide to a scrape.

Ow, he says, echoed by an "Oh, please," from her.

"Don't start yawping," she tells him, somewhat sharply, as he begins working his jaw. "The cut's still there."

Always the danger, with analgesics. Some idiot starts forgetting they're injured to begin with. The injury is real.

He replaces the bandage, and she lets him. No offer to do it for him. No exasperated huff to arrange his bandage just so on his face. He can fucking do it himself. He asks if she's 'really' a witch. She shrugs.

"Depends on how you define 'witch'." She nods at his torso. "Now all that."

wolfman

"Do my arm first." Maybe he's fucking shy. Maybe he's just working up from least to most surface area. At any rate it's easier to unravel the arm. He untucks an end and unwraps it around and around and around and

flesh sticks, dried blood flakes, this time the skin is tore and the flesh is rent, this time there is a glimpse of white bone deep in the wound. Still. Better today than yesterday. Better tomorrow than today.

"I mean like a woman that stirs a cauldron and makes magic potions." He watches her spritz. He grits his teeth and he hisses in pain. This time he doesn't go ow.

witch

"Sir, yes, sir," she mutters, as he unwinds bandages from his arm. He's gone from wary to compliant quickly. That's what she notices. She sprays more generously over his arm, which means that she leans over, blowing lightly from his elbow to shoulder. And it hurts to look at him. She has her hand on his wrist as she does this. She blows, and then gives him another couple of sweeping sprays. No blowing.

The extra fluid makes his arm actually somewhat numb. This time, she tries to help him re-wrap it. Which is probably for the best, since his mind is having trouble telling where his arm is.

"I don't have a cauldron," she tells him. "They're heavy, and really expensive. It's the twenty-first century. We have stoves and saucepans."

wolfman

"I got it," he says when she starts helping him rewrap. Gruff. Not quite rude, or at least he doesn't mean to be. Not much room for argument either though. He fumbles his way through it, even if his proprioception's all off, even if he has to keep tugging at the gauze to check how tight it actually is.

Meanwhile she tells him she doesn't have a cauldron. They're expensive. He laughs under his breath. "So that's basically a yes, right? You are a witch."

He tucks the free end of the bandage under. Wolf's careful to keep his weight on his uninjured arm when he gets up out of the recliner. Even on the ground floor the girl can feel his weight, the subtle vibrations in the foundation beneath her feet. Even before, he dwarfed her. Now he's utterly enormous, slouched, shoulders the size of bowling balls, chest quite literally about the size of a keg. Same deal with the bandage here: untuck, unrolling, over and under and over and under until the deep gouges on his back are bare. He stands turned away, head to the side giving him just a glimpse of her over the mountainside of his shoulder.

"Was this what you were cooking last night?"

witch

Fine. He's got it. She leans back, waiting for him, her mouth a pursed half-smile until he finishes.

Basically a yes, he says. She's a witch. It's not a question. So she shrugs one shoulder.

When he gets up, she steps back. Moves out of his immediate sphere, though not out of arm's reach. She feels her breath catch and exhales slowly. No more smiling. Can't. She glances away as he unbandages his torso, then looks at him for a second. Gives him several quick sprays, but does not blow on his back. Then:

"Here," she says, and holds out her hand for the bloody gauze beneath the wrapping.

She unscrews the cap of the bottle. And -- he has no idea how generous, he has no idea how costly -- she sprinkles and pours the rest of the bottle across the bandage. Soaks it. Then steps closer, pressing it against his body. This is a different sensation. There's almost no time for the sting or burn. Just a flooding relief, like a cold cloth against a fever. Just a faint tingling before numbness sets in, sinking into the pain and transforming it.

"No," she says, holding it against him.

Helping him re-wrap, if he lets her.

"That's for me. It'll help me heal. Reduce scarring."

wolfman

Hesitation before he presses the bloody handful of gauze into her palm. In spite of himself he's impressed. Impressed that she isn't disgusted. Impressed that she does what she does with herbs and plants and eyes of newt, wings of bat.

Wolf turns away when she pours the bottle across the bandage. His hands close into fists again. Stands quite still, compliant indeed, his head down and his shoulders forward, back open. Quick inhale when she presses that cool, wet handful of gauze against his back; tension in anticipation of pain that doesn't come. His hands open and the stretches of muscle in his back relax. He exhales.

"Don't worry about that," terse. "I'll get you another bandage later. Just need to get my spirit back up a bit."

witch

Whatever else makes her brow furrow and her eyes well up for a moment, there's no disgust in her eyes. She holds the bandage against his body.

Flicks her eyes up.

"Keep it for yourself."

wolfman

"Don't argue, okay?" A cord of muscle tightens along the furrow of his spine; he turns to look over his shoulder at her. "I didn't when you sprayed me like a misbehaving dog."

witch

She frowns at him over his shoulder, but it can't last. She doesn't have it in her.

Devon just looks down again, looking at his back. The pad is secure; she steps back so he can re-wrap himself, then.

wolfman

So that's what he does. Rewraps himself, taking it slow. A little ginger, like she said. A little more so now, ironically, because the pain's gone and he doesn't know where his limits are. Turns as he does, passing the bandage around and around, tucking the end under when he's done.

"Thanks." A moment later, grudgingly, "Feels a lot better."

witch

She looks at him. Lifts her eyebrows slightly as she re-caps that purple bottle. Empty, now.

Walks away.

wolfman

Wolf stares after her, bemused. And after a while, amused too. He doesn't follow. He picks up the remote, throws himself back into the recliner, pulls the crank to flop himself back.

Five minutes later he's asleep, some trashy reality show turned down low on the flatscreen.

townhouse.

wolfman

"Good." Somehow he'd expected her to fight. Pleasant surprise when she doesn't. Weird too, though. He sniffs, stops thinking about it. Rolls his discarded jacket up into a ball and stuffs it between his head and the side-beam. "Wake me up when we get there."

His driver starts driving. Wolf is out cold in about ten seconds, arms folded across a chest moving slow and even.

--

Doesn't take them too long to get where they're going. His place in town turns out to be exactly that: a townhouse in a predictably swanky part of the city. A treelined street with custom cobblestone paving. A stone facade. Big windows. A garage. Neighbors that know how to keep to themselves.

Car pulls into the carport. Door closes behind them. The wolf awakens, quickly and completely, inhaling as he lifts his head. Driver comes around to open the door for the girl while the wolf opens his own door, forgetting his seatbelt. Gets yanked to a rough stop as he tries to get out. Curses, unsnaps it, whips it against the wall and gets out once and for all.

Door into the house opens. That thinlipped manservant from the auction is standing there, lips thinner than ever. The wolf glowers at him. "Don't even start," he warns. "Just find me some towels and bandages. And get her a change of clothes."

witch

She is quiet for the ride. Taciturn on a good day, she's dead silent now. She doesn't agree to wake him up, but she tips her head against the glass on her side, welcoming the cool of it. She would clean her face, but she's worn thin. The driver will wake him up.

She does not fall asleep.

--

When the door closes behind them and they are momentarily swathed in darkness, she breathes inward. She lifts her head from the glass, which has a bloody spot on it now as well, and then that door is being opened for her. She has a grip on her side, and a grip on her bag from Herbs & Arts.

During the ride, she has been cataloging the typical kitchen and her purchases. She isn't worried about the wormwood; that's not what it was for. But she can't afford to replace that bottle right now, and -- she's irritated, thinking about it, trying to refocus.

When he curses, his breath sharp, she turns suddenly to look at him, watching as he finally gets out of the car. Noting, again, the rough shape he's in.

She looks away again. They go inside.

--

This time she comes in behind him, peering out from his side at the manservant who isn't supposed to start. She glances at her host, then the manservant, and then bends a bit, setting down her bag -- or setting it on a shelf or table or sideboard nearby -- and shedding her jacket.

Her top is a large white t-shirt. Sid and Nancy stare at the camera in black and white, screenprinted onto this young woman's wardrobe. It has no sleeves. Rather: it has no sides, cut down til she is exposed from arms to hips. Her bra is black, the bands sheer even if the barely-seen cups are not. There are three gashes on her right side, smeared with blood from where her hand has been gripping it all this time. Her hair is still in braids, her jeans are still torn up and down, her sneakers are still the once-bright but now-dingy blue they were when he first ran into her at the witchy shop.

She drops the jacket on the ground. And picks up her bag. And tells the manservant:

"I need to use your kitchen."

wolfman

Even entering through the garage, the townhouse is impressive. Nine foot ceilings, vast windows polished until they're all but invisible. Plenty of granite and warm, light woods in the decor. Modern appliances. Accent walls. Potted plants here and there giving a splash of life to the space. Not much in the way of personal effects, and somehow one has trouble imagining this particular wolf sitting down and picking out most of this -- any of this -- himself.

Hardly even glances at his surroundings as he moves ahead of her. They pass a laundry room, a bathroom. The open-plan kitchen, dining, and living areas ahead; a flight of stairs -- light, airy -- spiraling up to a second floor. The wolf takes them in heavy strides, two at a time, bleeding through his rumpled t-shirt as he goes. Behind him, the girl asks to use the kitchen.

"Take a goddamn shower first." He's already most of the way to the second story. "You can use the spare bedroom. James'll show you where it is. Won't you, James?"

James -- the manservant, one assumes -- is taut with barely-hidden disapproval. He bows toward his master's retreating back. "Of course, sir. Ma'am, if you would?"

witch

He's still moving. She's looking at James-the-manservant.

"Kitchen," she tells him. "Then shower."

A pause. "Please."

wolfman

The manservant averts his eyes.

From above: "Fine. Whatever." And a door slams.

James makes a small gesture: indicates the kitchen is hers.

witch

No one stops her. Or shows her to the kitchen. But there she goes. And washes her hands first, at least, scrubbing them up the wrists until they're clean. Then she bangs around for a bit: she pulls open drawers and opens cabinets and does not ask for help. Things move quickly: she wants to shower, wants to clean up, wants to get this started as soon as she can.

Yarrow from her bag goes into a jar, covered in olive oil. She closes it, shaking it with one hand as she finds a saucepan and puts it in the sink, filling it halfway with tap water. She is flipping through a book in her head, flipping through his kitchen. The sage is not clary or white; she will make do. She adds it to the olive oil and yarrow, shakes it again.

The stove -- some massive, expensive, seldom-used thing -- is turned on, the burner high to get the water boiling. The jar now on the counter, she pours a handful of sea salt from his cupboards into the water. Unlike popular wisdom, she stares at the water as it boils, until it boils. As the water reaches a rolling boil she pours the oil infusion, which is far too quickly done, through a strainer. Adds the yarrow leaves and sage to the boiling water and stirs clockwise.

The last thing to go in is the St. John's Wort. She uses very little, sprinkling it over the top and then stirring again. Gradually she lowers the heat down to a simmer, puts the lid on the pot, and then walks away. She doesn't go for her jacket. She even leaves her bag -- herbs and oils and all -- on the counter where they lay. Goes back to James the manservant.

"Shower?"

witch

[-1WP

intelligence (lateral thinker) + occult (witchcraft)]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 2, 6, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )

wolfman

Takes time, even on an expensive, massive, seldom-used stove, for water to boil. In that time the shower upstairs goes on. By the time the girl leaves her concoction to simmer, it's off again. Bedroom door upstairs stays closed, though.

James disappears for a while, returns with towels and a change of clothes. Men's clothes. A t-shirt not her size. Drawstring sweatpants entirely too large. When she is finished, he hands them to her.

She is led upstairs and shown to the second bedroom, which isn't so much a guest room as it is simply an empty, minimally furnished room separated from the master suite by a hallway overlooking the living room. There is a bed in there. There is a nightstand, an empty closet, an empty dresser. A bathroom with some errant toiletries. The shower is spacious, though, and the water is hot.

witch

So she stands, waiting in some anteroom, some empty space that is neither this nor that, because it is an open plan. She takes a moment to look down at her side, pulling aside the emptiness of her t-shirt to look at it. She hasn't moved when James comes back. Takes the clothes and, without thanking him, without saying anything, she follows upstairs.

The door closes behind James, and she avoids looking at herself in the mirror. She strips.

--

Across a hall, you can still hear the shower turning on. How she stays in there perhaps a bit longer than he did. Washes until the water is clear. That takes time. Presses washcloths to her brow and side to catch droplets of blood from freshly cleaned wounds before doing anything else. Looks at her brow in the mirror, finally.

If she went to a hospital they would give her stitches. It will scar. She's less worried about the one on her side. It would probably also get stitches. Will also scar. But it, at the moment, doesn't make her feel weak to look at. Everything feels weak at the moment, though. Everything feels exhausted, though she knows deep down she still has reserves to go on.

The bathroom door gets opened to let steam out. She dries herself slowly, carefully, and bandages herself with gauze pads and adhesive tape as best she can. She knows enough about first aid to do this much. She realizes how badly she's shaking and how dizzy she is and cups cold tap water from in her hand to drink, drinking until the acuteness of the dehydration starts to taper off.

Eventually she faces the clothes. Looks at them, for a while, before doing anything else.

--

Later on she leaves the bedroom. She wears an overlarge t-shirt now, masked by the remnants of someone else's scent. She wears the drawstring sweatpants, the waistband rolled over and the string cinched tight on her narrow waist. The ends are rolled up around her calves. Her hair is not quite dry yet but isn't soaked anymore, lies in damp waves and curls. Her forehead is bandaged, as best she could. Her feet, bare, are nearly silent on the flooring as she starts to head down the staircase again.

wolfman

They've traded places. Wolf's down in the kitchen when she gets out, wearing what looks like the twin brother to her borrowed pants. Fits him, though, drawstring knotted low on his hips. Bandages take the place of a shirt: wrapped around and around battered ribs, clawed back, mauled arm. There's even a square of gauze taped to his chewed face.

He's standing over her bizarre brew, lifting the lid on the pot, sniffing. James is nowhere to be seen. Driver too. The wolf hears her coming, puts the lid back on the pot.

"What the fuck are you cooking?" Hair's still wet. Drips onto the edge of the gauze on his face. Blood seeps through from beneath; red turning a pretty pink at the edges. He wipes his hands on a towel, eyeing her. "Something like that thing you threw in the alley?"

witch

She looks at him for a while, paused at the foot of the stairs for a moment. She can smell the steam released by the open lid, the scent of something familiar to her, even if it is missing a few choicer ingredients. She doesn't start walking further in until he turns and looks at her.

"A salve," she says.

Was it like what she threw in the alley.

Something flares in her eyes then, quickly dampened.

"That was wormwood," she says. "And no. Not really." A pause. "Sort of."

witch

[manipulation + subterfuge: nothing to see here]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )

wolfman

[HMMMM?]

Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (4, 5) ( fail )

wolfman

A lot of space between the stairs and the kitchen. Modern architecture, particularly modern luxury architecture, is all about open environments. Bright lighting. Airy, unconstricted spaces.

Funny how rage changes that, though. Funny how an uncaged animal makes any space seem too small. The wolf in his den: fifteen feet away, and he feels a lot closer. He watches her for a while, heavy brow knit, something not quite convinced in his eyes. He can't see it, though. Whatever it is she's not letting him see. After a while he shrugs, his bare shoulders all cords of muscle.

Fridge is a huge three-door affair, freezer compartment on the bottom. He pulls it open and gets leftovers out: a carafe of orange juice, a big slab of meatloaf. Real high-class stuff, that. "What was that in the alley, anyway?" Two plates. Two forks. Guess he has enough in the way of manners to feed her. "Some wolf make you a fancy talen, in case you got in trouble?"

witch

She inhales.

Holds a moment.

Exhales something like a sigh, and moments later is coming near her. He can sense her breeding as clearly as he can smell his own scent on her, like a sheer veil laid over --

nothing, beneath.

--

Her hair smells of some guest bathroom toiletry and her arms and legs smell of whatever his servants wash his clothes in. Her blood smells like blood. Like any blood: coppery, warm. But nothing else to identify it. He could close his eyes and stop his ears and there would be nothing to signify her presence but the flashing of stag's hooves in the back of his mind, the murmurs one only hears on a moor and only at night, the remnant sensation on the back of your neck that fairies have walked somewhere before you, or around you.

Yet with eyes open, she is there, and looks and sounds as positively real as anything else.

--

She is walking closer, seeking water. She found the glasses earlier so she gets one out; she doesn't want juice but she fills that glass with cold tap water and starts to drink. Looks over, thinking to ask if there is something to eat, but: two plates, two forks. So she doesn't ask. She drinks, and refills, and drinks again.

"It was just wormwood oil," she says again, sighing it a little. "Artemisia absinthium. Oil and glass in the eyes will distract just about anything."

wolfman

Noncommittal sound. Silverware clinks on plates; he puts enormous portions on each plate. "Get that for me." He means the microwave. He means for her to open the door, because he has one plate in each hand. She does or she doesn't; one way or another he gets the plates in there. Both of them, jammed in together. Microwave's big but not that big. There'll surely be cold spots in their food.

He hits the Reheat button. Microwave hums to life. Wolf pours orange juice into a tall glass, puts the carafe back in the fridge, shuts the door.

"Smart," he adds. Meaning oil and glass. Meaning distractions. "Made my job easier." Pause. "Thanks."

witch

For a moment she has no idea what he's talking about when he says 'get that'. She frowns at him, half a second, then turns and pushes the button, popping open the door. Steps out of the way. She drinks more water, says nothing.

But smart, he says, and she flicks her eyes his way, still sipping. She lowers the glass, empty again, and starts to refill it once more.

"I'm very smart," she says back, without preening. "And I am also not dead."

The water at the tap turns off. She takes a drink, and has not looked at him.

"Thanks."

wolfman

Something about her gratitude -- grudging as it is -- makes him uncomfortable. Turns his eyes from her, sets his arms across his chest, his shoulders pulling up in a vague shrug.

"Wouldn't have been in that alley if you weren't on that bus. Wouldn't have been on that bus if I hadn't sent you packing." His gaze returns to her, troubled, unflinching. "You don't owe me any thanks."

witch

Might have been, she could tell him. Might have been in the alley anyway.

I walked away, she could also tell him, or: I wouldn't have fucking stayed even if you hadn't told me to fuck off, because you're a gigantic prick.

And all these things are true. She looks at him sidelong as he looks away, as he shrugs. Her eyes flick down past his jawline for a moment, then up again. She looks away again, a moment before he turns back.

"For the talen, then," she says.

"Or the meatloaf."

wolfman

His lips flicker; a flash of a wry grin, there and then gone. "What, you have to thank me for something? Fine. For the talen, then."

Microwave beeps. He straightens, heads over to punch the door open and take out the plates. Some parts of the meatloaf are sizzling hot, almost burnt. Others, stone cold. He hands her one of the plates anyway.

witch

"I thanked you for three things," she says. "You can accept or dismiss any of them that you like."

One of her shoulders moves, under his shirt, in a shrug. The movement of the cotton draws attention to the way it sits on her. Her breasts are not bee-stings, and they are evident against the cotton. She takes the plate, though it is as hot as any part of the meatloaf, and then looks for, finds, a table. Or a stool up against the kitchen island. Something. Somewhere, close by, to sit.

Goes there and sits, sighing as she does.

Pushes the tines of her fork into her meatloaf. His meatloaf, given to her. Her empty stomach both wants and fears food; she decides to eat slowly even though she's ravenous.

"My name is Devon," she says, after a couple of these slow bites. Looks over at him.

"What's yours?"

wolfman

There's both. A breakfast bar with stools. A table with chairs. Two stools. Two chairs. And that's probably only because one and one would look too pitiful. Doesn't seem to be a fan of dinner parties, the wolf.

She sits where she chooses. Close by. Maybe he notices that. She doesn't like him but she sticks close. Maybe he notices the way his shirt hangs on her too. Too large, too loose. Hinting without revealing.

Wolf doesn't sit. He stands behind the kitchen counter, on the inside of the breakfast bar. He eats like that, standing up, one elbow folded along the edge of the counter. Thick shoulder pushed up, head down, beastlike. Glances up when she gives him her name.

"Rafaël." Might've told her his friends call him Raff or Rafe or something, except he has no friends.

witch

Not beside each other, then, but across. She takes his name as he gives it.

Then the corner of her mouth quirks, a wry little almost smile of amusement. She drops her head over her plate, hair falling to one side as it dries still. Takes a bite of her meatloaf.

wolfman

Walks a strange tightrope between swagger and suspicion, the wolf. Immediately his eyes light upon the little smile, which he doesn't understand. "What?" he demands.

witch

Not showing her face. Not to him. His plates see her face, her smile. The way it splits into a lopsided grin, half-hidden. Then her head comes up. That thick bandage at her hairline, where cleanliness shows now that some of her hair was chopped short at awkward spots from the clawing that nearly scalped her entirely. There's a spot or two of blood seeped through.

"It's the archangel of healing. And keeping travelers safe."

She digs her fork into her food once more, lowers her eyes to her food to focus on that. "Also bound Azazel in the desert." Her bite is ready; she pauses before eating. "Just. An auspicious name."

And one that would be ironic, if he had not healed her.

To keep her safe. While she was traveling.

wolfman

A frown and a snort meets her. He goes back to his meal, weight settling.

"Just a name my mother liked. What my dad said anyway." Could be more to the story. His eyebrows draw together, though, and down. He stabs at his meatloaf. "Not sure how much healing, keeping safe and binding I do."

witch

His mother liked the name. He only knows this by what his father told him.

Devon doesn't ask. She does watch him for a moment, not smiling now. They don't feel like soft fades, when her smiles are there or gone. Sometimes a grin grows; more often something is there and then it has disappeared. It is like seeing some fey thing out of the corner of one's eye; you begin to doubt it was ever anything more than your imagination.

She shrugs. "You did tonight. Despite yourself."

Stabs, too.

wolfman

Laugh sounds more like a grunt. "Yeah. Guess I did. Lucky you."

Wolf sinks into silence then, unless otherwise disturbed. He eats his meal quickly, savagely, messily. Bits of meatloaf end up on his bandages. On the counter. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand when he's done, straightening up, dumping the plate and fork into the sink with a clatter.

"You staying here tonight?" Eyes direct over the counter. Something he does a lot: defeats discomfort by staring it in the face. Literally.

witch

Silence reigns.

They eat. She eats with efficiency and care and most of what he gave her, though not all. She drinks more water. She is not gross. He is gross. The way he eats is gross, and so she doesn't look much at him. Even though he eats more, he's done before she is.

When he speaks, she looks up, and finds him looking at her. Her eyes meet his for a moment, then flick past his arm at the stove, the simmering pot, the steam escaping through a hole in the lid as the concoction boils down.

Her eyes come back. She doesn't fake politesse or demurity. Doesn't make pretense of oh well maybe I don' t know if it's okay with you. Certainly does not play coy or shy: well if you WANT me to...

She looks him in the eye. Gives a nod. "Yeah."

wolfman

So they nod at each other. Eyes locked. Very direct. Very grim, at least on the wolf's end. "Okay."

He glances down. Pops the faucet on, runs water over the plate, gets the gunk off and leaves it soaking. Seems about to leave it for a minute; then grabs a dish sponge and scrubs off his dinnerware. Stacks them by the side of the sink to dry.

"You can stay as long as you need to," brusque; punctuated by a flash of his eyes her way. "I got plenty of room. I'm not here much." Pause. He thinks a while. Nods, as though confirming something with himself. "I'm going to bed."

witch

Devon isn't grim. She can be. Sometimes. Isn't, now.

She watches him, finishing her meatloaf, as he leaves his dishes.

Then decides to rinse them off.

Then washes them.

When he is done she is watching him still. Her eyebrows are up. But only slightly.

She can stay as long as she needs to, and he has plenty of room, and he's not here much. She considers this. "Can I borrow your driver to go get some stuff? From the hostel."

wolfman

Wolf's already started to head off. Turns. Scoffs.

"Why're you asking me? Just talk to him. His name's Franklin." He's at the foot of the stairs when he thinks of something else. "You going right now?"

witch

As condescending as he tries to make it, that's still a yes. And she is finished eating now, so she just hops off the barstool, carrying her plate around. And she scrapes it. And she washes hers, too.

The water is running, and he speaks, and she looks up. The water cranks delicately off.

With a glance at her brew on the stove, she turns back to him. Nods. "Have to wait on that a bit. May as well use the time." And the leftover adrenaline.

wolfman

Brow wrinkled again; mouth flattening. A couple seconds before he says, "Go tomorrow. I'll go with you. Just in case." A hand reaches up, rubs the side of his neck, ginger over the bandages. "I'm not much use right now."

witch

She looks at him. Level. "One bad thing --"

if you leave out the guy terrorizing her on the bus

"-- doesn't necessarily invite more."

Devon shrugs, putting the plate and fork and glass on the mat by the sink to dry. She dries her hands on a towel somewhere. "I want clean underwear. And I don't like leaving my stuff there overnight."

wolfman

That hand curved around the back of his neck turns into a hand mopping down his face. "Fuck." He turns, comes down the step or two he'd gone up. "Whatever. I'll take you on my bike. You don't have that much stuff, do you?"

They're not heading back toward the garage. The other way: the front entrance. He stops by a small closet to pull out a battered motorcycle jacket. Looks almost exactly like the other leather jacket he frequents, except with padding. There isn't a second one for her. As he's zipping himself in, the wolf realizes this. Pauses, reaches into the closet, pulls out some random hoodie or something and hands it to her.

witch

She wrinkles her nose a little.

Maybe she was hoping to watch him go upstairs, get his driver, and get her stuff in peace. Maybe she doesn't want his company. Maybe she doesn't want to get on a bike. Maybe she does have a lot of stuff.

They aren't heading anywhere, since she's not following him. He's zipping up, turning to hand her a hoodie or something, and instead of a wrinkled nose her brow is up. "Why?" She gestures at the garage. "There's a car. With heated seats."

Oh yes. She noticed that.

wolfman

"Because I don't want to bother Franklin. And because I hate riding that thing around. Makes me feel like Paris fucking Hilton." He shakes the hoodie at her. "Put that on, unless you like windchill."

witch

"Well that's just too fucking bad," she says mildly, of either his not wanting to bother Franklin or not liking riding in the car. She cross her arms loosely over her chest, gingerly because of the way the muscles pull at her side. Doesn't wince, though. "I'm not riding bitch on your bike."

Before he can reply: "Franklin?" she calls out.

Rather loudly.

wolfman

Hoodie hits the ground hard, flung there in a sudden flash of fury. Wolf advances on her, stormy brow and clenched jaw. Explodes: "Where the hell do you get off?

"I saved your goddamn life. I healed you, I fed you, I clothed you, I'm putting you up in my house because I don't want to see you dead. You said you want to get your stuff. Fine. I told you Franklin can drive you in the morning. You said no, tonight. Fine. I'm taking you tonight, with my face carved open, with my back half-flayed, with my bones showing in my arm, because you can't live without clean underwear for eight hours.

"But that's still not enough for you. You gotta wake another man up, drag him out of his house, make him drive you. Because you need your shit. Tonight. And you need to get it in a goddamn chauffeured limousine, like a fucking movie star. You spoiled, selfish little shit."

Franklin's standing in the kitchen doorway, mute. Eyes wide.

witch

[wp -4]

Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (3, 3) ( fail )

witch

She flinches.

We ask again, still, if he laughs.

And she rears back a bit. Keeps her feet but pulls her upper body away as he roars in her face what he has done for her. Calls her spoiled, selfish, star.

Shit.

After he's done there's really nothing. There's silence. And he can see that some of the blood has drained from her face. Sees that what adrenaline had worn off in her has surged back. If he listens, might hear her heart pounding. Her eyes don't blink but that's not the same as staring him down. More like a deer. More like the doe that her breeding says she is, caught motionless in the woods until the nearby fury of a wounded wolf goes quiet again.

Having her arms crossed already makes it easier to hide that her hands are shaking. She isn't standing her ground bravely or proudly in the face of this; she's frozen, trembling, standing stock still like any prey animal would, alarm bells clanging in her mind while some instinct of hers calls out to the gods of her people that she doesn't get eaten.

Then her lip trembles like her hands do. And her brow wrinkles in whorls and furrows of skin. Tears well up. They aren't even cognizant. He's just... scary. And his rage, sparking against his anger, so vastly eclipses her inner strength right now that she can't do anything else.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't laugh. Wolf hasn't laughed once, for all his caustic, vicious words. Wolf snarls, and roars, and shouts, and when he's done girl's pale-faced with tears in her eyes.

The wolf wheels away. Rough, angry gesture, shoulder-led. He grabs the hoodie off the ground and throws it again, flings it furiously back into the closet. Flings the door after it. SLAM. Franklin jumps, all the way across the room, but man like him has served wolves all his life. Wolves stronger than this one, mightier, more experienced, more deadly.

He doesn't go running. He stays there, seen and unheard, the way he was taught.

"I'm sorry." That comes out of the wolf eventually, hard-bitten, muttered. His back is turned. "I'm sorry. Okay?" He makes an angry, exasperated gesture, means nothing. "Just take her." Talking to Franklin now. "Get her stuff. Bring a gun. Fuck."

witch

They are nowhere near the same size.

They aren't even, really, the same species.

On a better day, a different hour, she can at least withstand it. Knows not to look him in the eye too long, challenge him to brazenly, piss him off. Right now it's all she can do to stay on her feet instead of throwing herself on the ground, quite literally begging for mercy.

don't kill me don't kill me don't kill me

So that's what she does, but it's all she does. She doesn't throw herself down. She doesn't beg. She just starts crying, obviously trying not to. Makes a noise when the door to the closet slams, and her hand is covering her mouth when he starts to talk again, but he's not looking. He's saying he's sorry. Sorry, okay?

Behind him, she sniffs. She doesn't dare say a word. Not until he's gone. Not until he's out of sight and somewhere else, a door closes. She looks at Franklin, then, tears staining her face, her head pounding now from the blood rushing upward into her face. A few more seeping drops through her bandage. She's shaking hard enough, still, that when she goes to turn off the burner and move the pot off the hot surface to a cold one, Franklin has to help her so she doesn't spill scalding fluid all over herself, or burn her hand off.

Wherever he is, a few minutes later, he hears the garage door opening, hears the door to the kitchen opening and shutting. Hears the car pulling away. Franklin takes a gun. Devon stays barefoot, huddled in the back of the limo in her borrowed clothes against the heated seats.

--

It doesn't take very long, all told. She goes to Broadway and the hostel. She gets herself in and she gets what she came for as quickly as she can, and then she's back out to the limo. The driver is watching. Maybe he's even with her, standing stoically by the door. She doesn't tell him what to do. She hasn't said a word since she called the driver's name.

They drive back.

Nothing bad happens.

--

So again: the garage door opening and closing. The door to the rest of the house opening and closing. Something thumping on the floor as it is dropped: that would be the duffel bag she carried in, along with a backpack with leatherette (reinforced with duct tape) straps and the pale grey background and the pink stars all over. The duffel has a zippered top and is larger than a gym bag, smaller than Army surplus. It's mostly green and white and black.

Devon isn't shaking anymore, and her face is dry. She feels exhausted now. All the night has gotten to her, finally. She's so tired.

But she stops in the kitchen. She needs to pour the cooled-off brew into a clean jar, the lid screwed on tight, left on a windowsill where the crescent moonlight -- and tomorrow, the sun -- can get to it. Which she does. She is shaking again when she's done, but not from terror. Just weariness. All the same: she carries her own stuff up the stairs and into the bedroom she used earlier. She collapses then, on the bed, with her teeth unbrushed and her bags still packed and the soles of her feet a little dirty and the bright red droplets that seeped through her bandage turning a dark brown, then black.

She doesn't even get under the covers.