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.