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.