drinking contest.

witch

She's at ink! coffee on the 16th street mall. She is tucked away, far from the door, drinking something from a very tall cup and working her way through a sandwich with roasted turkey, red bell pepper, ancho chili jam, cream cheese, red onion, and lettuce. She also has a half-eaten red velvet cupcake nearby. This is her treat, this time. A new book. A huge cup of what they call 'white coffee'. A fancy sandwich. A cupcake. She's dressed more warmly than usual, since it is currently snowing -- again -- outside, the sun slowly going downward. Thick charcoal-grey leggings without holes tucked into those gray off-brand Uggs of hers, a dark blue dress with little white and pink flowers on it that buttons up the front, that holy black sweater atop it. Hanging on the back of her chair is a leather -- not really -- jacket. No hat. Her hair is loose, aimless, rowdy.

wolfman

Wolf sees her from the outside. Cold out there, air crisp and bracing, snowflakes melting when they hit his face. Collecting crystalline in his dark hair, which is beautifully cut but poorly maintained, and thus just looks tousled and a little unkempt. Wolf thinks of banging on the window to get her attention but she's a table or two away and he could do without the wide-eyed stares, the frightened bystanders.

Wolf ends up going in. Cold follows her, hanging around him as both a sensation and a scent. People think cold doesn't smell like anything but they're wrong. Cold smells like frost, like ice-dry air, like winter.

Wolf's wearing that beat-up old motorcycle jacket of his. Plates still out, so he must not have ridden today. Good choice. Too much ice on the roads. Jeans are solid and sturdy. Boots are bike boots. Wolf stomps a crust of ice off the soles and then comes tromping in, hushing conversations as he passes. Pulls out the little chair across from the girl. She makes it look good, sitting in that little chair. Collected and lithe and long-boned, like her confidence and the long history of her blood alone could elevate her to chicness, holy sweater notwithstanding.

Wolf just makes it look precarious. Like any moment he might snap the fragile back off that chair, or maybe crush it with the immensity of his strength. When he leans back you can practically hear the joints creaking.

--

They haven't really spent much time together, last few days. He has his life, full of blood and violence and occasional resentful nights in black tie. She has hers: herbs and alchemy and mysterious goop in bottles. They talk a little over meals, now and then. Maybe once in a while he drops into his recliner while she's watching some show and he watches a bit with her before he gets bored and wanders off.

They don't discuss the sex. They don't discuss her getting up before he wakes and leaving.

--

Wolf stares at girl a while. Why not, she's easy on the eyes. Then wolf picks up a menu, if this is the sort of place with menus, and glances at it. He wonders what the fuck white coffee is. He wonders why they don't serve simple things, why everything has to be fancy and frou-frou. He wants a damn hamburger. Meat on a bun.

Ends up deciding on a roast beef sandwich. Waits for someone to come ask him what he wants. Puts the menu down and goes back to looking at the girl. This time there's a faint, faint, faint little smile on his face. Really just a hook at the corner of his mouth; a crinkle at the corner of his eye.

witch

She's been... normal. He woke up earlier this week to see one long gray knit stocking draped across his side of the bed, another hidden in the covers, but the woman he'd gone to sleep beside gone. Not gone, though: just down the hall, in the other room, sleeping. Days have gone by with her varying schedule, going out sometimes via Franklin or public transport. She makes brews. She wanders the city. She makes a dime here and there as she can, doing a booth for readings at some indoor farmer's market one evening.

She watches a lot of Netflix. Goes through the entire catalog they have of Audrey Hepburn. Intersperses it with others. And yes: she likes The Craft, Bedknobs + Broomsticks, The Wizard of Oz, Stardust, The Witches of Eastwick, Practical Magic, Escape to Witch Mountain, Hocus Pocus, Teen Witch. Whether the witches have 80s hair or are the villains or heroes or side characters, she likes it.

She cooks occasionally but prefers leftovers; the less effort that goes into eating, the better. When in doubt she eats potatoes, or beans and rice. Orders delivery more often than not, if the cook doesn't happen by. She could drink him out of house and home if she really got down to business, but so far his cellar hasn't been exhausted. She never has a hangover. She never even seems that drunk; just very, very relaxed.

And he goes hunting. He has his own things to do. He never comes over where she sits watching movies and wraps his arm around her and kisses her behind her ear. He doesn't ask her to come to bed with him again. She watches him go out to black-tie events, dressed in tux or suit and groomed and wearing that signet ring, that watch. Sometimes he sits in his recliner to watch a movie and she looks at him from the corner of her eye.

But they don't discuss the sex. Or 'next time'. Or her leaving. And he doesn't invite her, and she doesn't come knocking. They don't avoid interaction altogether, but... it's narrow. And it's shallow.

--

He sees her from the big front windows. People are shopping, walking, riding the shuttle up and down the mall regardless of the weather. Trees are lit up. Maybe he senses her, sitting as far back as she is, as much as he notices her with his eyes. He goes in, and she doesn't look up. Lots of people coming and going.

She does notice things getting quiet, and the sense of the room changing. She looks up at him and blinks, surprised. He sits, leaning back, staring at her. And since he doesn't say anything, she just goes back to reading her book. Feels him staring at her, just like she hears him turning in his chair to examine the menu over the counter. Just as she notices when he gets up, goes to get a sandwich and whatever else, comes back to the table to wait for it to be brought to him.

She is still sipping. And reading. Making her way gradually through her sandwich.

Pauses, after another couple of bites, wiping a bit of that ancho chile jam off her lip. Catches him looking, almost-smiling, almost-smirking. Finishes cleaning; flicks her tongue over the spot. "What?"

wolfman

"Nothing." Sort of an automatic answer. Someone asks you what, you answer nothing.

Bit of time passes. Wolf takes a big bite out of his sandwich. Chews and swallows. Has no water to wash it down with. No coffee either.

Adds: "Just wondering how the hell you look better in a sweater full of holes than I do in an eight thousand dollar tux."

witch

Someone brings him a sandwich. He refuses to tell her why he's smiling at her. She frowns at him, then rolls her eyes and goes back to reading and eating. He starts eating, too.

She's sipping her white coffee, which is delicious, when he says what he does. She gives him a stare, raising an eyebrow.

"Tits," is her answer. Which isn't much of one, given that her current sartorial choices do more to conceal her body than show it off. It's hard to tell what's going on under that sweater, in fact, especially since her posture sucks.

"Who spends eight thousand dollars on a tuxedo?"

wolfman

"Silver Fangs who let their headservants boss them around," wolf answers ruefully. "Guess some part of me wanted to know how it felt to waste money too."

Wolf shifts his weight to one side, then. Digs around his back pocket, pulls out a scratched, dented, dinged phone. Android, not iPhone. He pokes at it with his big fingers, pulls the calendar up, looks at it for a while. Then he taps the screen off.

"Got another fancy gala thing next Saturday. Want to go with me?"

witch

"Tim Gunn doesn't wear bespoke suits," she informs him, and if he gives her a blank look she makes a note to inundate him with Project Runway until he understands, "you shouldn't have to, either." There's a beat. "You're prettier than him, anyway."

It is about as well-formed a compliment as he gave her a few moments ago.

She goes back to reading as he digs out his phone. She thinks: he's going to fiddle on his phone, she's going to read, they're going to eat sandwiches. Which is what she does. Until he interrupts, and tells her he has a thing. She blinks. It's a fancy gala thing.

And there's a lot to ask: where it is and what it's for and his pushy headservant is going to probably decide what she wears, right? But she just says:

"...um."

Then:

"Okay."

wolfman

Maybe she caught that rare flash of a grin when she called him pretty. It's gone a second later. She eats her sandwich, he plays with his phone.

Then wolf asks her to be his date. For some fancy gala thing. Girl blinks. Girl answers in the affirmative. Wolf sort of doesn't know what to say or do either. Couple seconds go by; then he nods.

"Okay." Picks up his sandwich and eats it. "Good."

witch

So they eat. Sandwiches. She drinks her coffee. She reads; he takes his phone out again. After some time she nudges the half-eaten red velvet cupcake towards the center of the table, but doesn't look up from her book.

wolfman

Wolf looks up, though. By then sandwich is just about gone and he's dabbing up crumbs with the pad of his forefinger. Girl manages to catch him before he puts that finger in his mouth. Wolf looks at the cupcake, looks at the girl. Makes a soft sound, a huff of a laugh. Reaches out and pulls a pieces of cupcake off. With icing, of course. Tips his head back to eat it. Sucks his fingers clean, then wipes them on a paper napkin. 100% recycled material and all.

Silence stretches on. Gets awkward. Wolf tips back on the chair's hindlegs. Looks around. Watches the baristas behind their counter. Watches the other customers. Comes back to watching the girl while she reads. Reaches across the table -- it's not much of a reach, really -- and tips the book a little with his finger. Reads the title.

"You staying here 'til you finish that book?"

witch

Peripherally, she notices that he eats the cupcake, but not all of it. Her lips move, but not fully into a smile, as he nomfs it down. She turns the page in her book; takes another bite, another sip. She eats much slower than him. She was here for some time before he showed up, and still hasn't eaten as much as he finished.

The page turns again as he tips his chair back. Then forward. Then pushes on her book to read the title. She starts then, giving him a slightly affronted look, pulling her book away. Frowns at him. The book is called We Never Talk About My Brother.

"Why," she retorts, "you got someplace you want me to be?"

wolfman

There are answers for that. Simmer in wolf's mind, hang unspoken in the air. Wolf just wears that faint little smirk. Lets the opportunity pass. Didn't really know how to take it anyway.

"Figure I'd give you a ride home. Snowing outside."

witch

That makes her smile. That pursed-lip, enigmatic thing she wears sometimes. "Okay," she says.

Pauses, though, after wrapping the remains of her sandwich up in the glassine paper it came atop of on the plate. "How'd you know I was here?"

wolfman

"Didn't. I was just passing by."

Couple seconds go by. Then an admission.

"Sort of felt it though. Maybe. Was going to take that road there," he nods out the window, "but decided to come this way instead. Then I saw you."

Another couple seconds.

"Wasn't tracking you down or anything. Wouldn't do that to you unless you needed me to."

witch

Her tone wasn't overtly suspicious, but it had that tinge of wariness. That feeling in the air around her, that look in her eyes that makes him think of a doe in the woods, or some wisp of light teasing him farther into the woods. Something running from him, leaving just a rustle in the underbrush behind her, and no trace of her scent. It had that sense that, perhaps, is why she's left his bed every time he's taken her there. Both times.

Even when she climbs into it of her own will.

"I didn't --" she begins to protest. Then shrinks a bit, the paper in her hands rustling as she turns the sandwich over, puts the wrapped leftover in the bag hanging from her chair. She tosses her hair back and breathes in, looking up to meet his eyes again, resting her elbows on the table.

"Didn't think you tracked me," she says, voice reasonably low. "Just... sounded like you came looking for me."

wolfman

Wolf's eyes follow the ripple of her hair. Wolf's nostrils flare. It's just instinct. He catches no scent. She left none, each time she left his bed. Both times.

"Guess I did. From there to here." Wolf feels inane. Thinks his answer's inane. Shifts in his seat, uncomfortable now. Abrupt: "Why don't you gimme your number. Stupid that I don't have it yet, and we've been living together for how long now?"

witch

Living together gets him a slightly frozen look. Not cold in the sense of cruelty, but still in the sense of being caught somehow, trapped. She stares at him a moment, unable to answer, her lips going together, then opening again. Takes a breath, realizing she looks like a codfish doing that.

"Guess I thought you had it," she says, a bit stiffly. But she's already turning, digging into her bag, pulling out a pen. It's red, clickable, from some bank. The ink is black and skips. She doodles on a napkin, then writes her number out and passes it to him. Area code says 617. That tells him something, at least.

She clicks the pen again and puts it away before she starts clicking it for no reason.

Watching him, wordlessly now, she starts wondering if every time they get stuck in an awkward silence it triggers some weird Pavlovian response in her, makes her want to kiss him instead of talking, shed clothing instead of shifting aimlessly, and fuck him instead of staring at each other. Which doesn't work, she knows, because then it wouldn't come on when she's sitting there watching a movie and he's over there not staring at her.

Devon takes a breath. "I only have Franklin's," she says. Perhaps pointedly.

wolfman

Wolf wonders why she writes it out when his phone is right there. She does it anyway, though, and when she's done he finds himself appreciating it. Likes that he sees her handwriting now. The way she draws her loops and her lines.

617, he puts into his phone. Neat thing about modern technology: you don't even have to google area codes anymore. Your phone tells you. Massachusetts. So he has that now. Puts it with the other puzzle piece that said yes when he asked if she had much snow where she was before. Seven more digits and that's her number.

Girl tells him she only has Franklin's number. Wolf smirks and hits call. Couple seconds later girl's phone buzzes or rings or does whatever it does.

witch

She doesn't reach for her phone. She feels -- and hears -- it buzz, but leaves it where it is. Smirks back at him, across the table.

"You drove?"

wolfman

"Uh huh."

A little later wolf decides to elaborate. "Got a car. Just a used one. Getting too icy to ride."

witch

Which means no Franklin waiting down a side street at one of the parking lots, keeping the engine warm intermittently, reading a newspaper or magazine while waiting to be summoned. Just his car, some used thing he can get around in by himself without having to check anything out from his goddamn servants, sitting in some lot out of the way of the street mall, getting frozen inside.

Devon licks her lips. "All right."

--

She gets up after that. Shrugs into her not-real-leather black jacket, slings her bag on over her her shoulder. It's a backpack, fake-leather straps, one reinforced by duct tape. Pale color, neon pink stars patterned over it. She picks up the last bit of cupcake and eats it, picks up her still-mostly-full white coffee. No hat. No scarf, no gloves. She waits for him, heads outside with him.

The cold seems only to brace her. She inhales deeply, stepping out into it. Snow begins to turn her dark hair starry. It's finally full night; it comes quick once the sun hits the mountaintops. Fewer people on the street. "Do I get to get a new dress?"

wolfman

Girl's sweater is full of holes.

Girl's bag is held together by duct tape.

Girl's jacket isn't even real leather.

Girl's entire wardrobe probably cost less than that eight thousand dollar suit. Probably a tenth as much. Less.

Girl stands up and slings that duct taped bag over her holy sweater and wolf's eyes register naked appreciation. Pupils open up, eyes get a little wider. It's not even conscious. It's pure biology. Wolf thinks she looks so damn good. Wolf remembers how she feels. Wolf remembers her cold toes tucking under his calf, and her slim arm crossing his chest. Skinny thing with sweet tits. Beautiful, wild thing with all that hair tumbling over her shoulders as she rode him.

Wolf stands up a little after her. He's only got to zip his jacket up, which he does. Wolf's not wearing gloves either. He tucks his hands into his pockets. After a moment's thought he untucks one, holds it out to the girl. If she takes it he tucks his hand, and hers, into his pocket. Warm there from being close to the furnace of his body.

Turns to looks at her, grinning over the crest of his shoulder, when she asks about a dress. "Wasn't sure if you'd think I was making you an Eliza Doolittle if I offered." Just a hint, just a whisper of pride there. A sort of foolish showing-off: see, he knows who Eliza Doolittle is now. He watched the movie, or maybe even read the play. He learned something she knows so he could -- what? Keep up with her? Impress her maybe.

"But yeah. I'll give you my credit card. You can go get yourself something to wear. Or you could always show up in that dress you wore to that auction. Could you even bend over in that if you dropped your keys?"

witch

Given how she looks when she's naked, or when she's wearing some skimpy thing like she's fond of, her current outfit is downright frumpy. She does not care. She pushes her hand through her hair when she gets up. She sees him looking at her and sees the way he's looking at her and is caught off guard by it; says nothing though. Doesn't smirk or frown at him. Flicks a lock of hair behind her ear. They go outside.

And while they start walking -- she waits for him to go ahead, since she has no idea in which direction his car is parked -- and he gives her his hand.

She looks at it, then moves her coffee to her other hand. Takes his. Is a bit startled when he tucks them both into his pocket. Hides a smile with a sip of coffee that is now quickly cooling. He can't help but grin down at her when he shows off that he knows who Eliza Doolittle is now, and what her mention of the play -- and the musical -- meant. She scoffs.

"You think your headservant would let me?" she shoots back. She doesn't dwell on him giving her a credit card to go shopping. She can't... quite... process that whole thing just yet. Decides she'll feel weird about it when they come down to it.

"Don't have keys, anyway," she adds, shrugging. "Other than yours. Which is just one."

wolfman

Mention of James makes the wolf frown. "Fuck that little prick. I made Lieke give me all the account records to me couple days ago. Don't know what the hell any of it means but I'm looking for a new accountant. Once I get one I'm taking your advice and firing James."

She points out she only has the one key. Wolf snorts, amused. "What, you want another key? Maybe I can put a lock on your bathroom door and you can hang that key on your chain."

witch

Her eyebrows go up. Without really thinking, she gives his hand a squeeze in his pocket. "Good for you," she says, so dry that it may be mockery, but her eyes don't carry that sort of weight. She even smiles. Really.

She snorts. "No. Just saying: won't need to bend over and pick up keys at this 'gala' thing." Sips her coffee. "One, if it's fancy enough someone else will pick them up for me. Two, won't need them on me. Cuz we're going. Together."

Comes a bit haltingly, with that.

wolfman

Wolf gets a little squeeze of the hand. That's how he knows she's not mocking him, because it isn't until he knows that he looks over at her. Sees the smile. Doesn't seem to know what to do with it, so it's several seconds before he twitches his lips back. Something like a smile, anyway.

Girl sips her cold coffee. Girl points out that someone else will pick the damn keys up. And that she's going with him, so she doesn't need keys. They're going. Together.

Wolf's quiet. They've turned off the main pedestrian mall. Going down a side street now. Snow falls quietly. There's a dusting of white on the wolf's shoulders.

"Yeah," he agrees at last. And doesn't say anything else, because he doesn't know what else to say. Not too long later he's saved: keys clink in his pocket and then a car up ahead blinks its lights as its doors unlock. It's not a craptastic beater. It's nowhere near fancy either. Just something serviceable, four wheels and maybe a couple perks. USB connection to the stereo system, maybe a moonroof.

witch

He's the one who said they've been living together all this time. Not that she's just crashing at his place or something, which is how she is more comfortable looking at it. He's the one who said 'home' when he said he could drive her... someplace. And he's also the one who invited her to a gala with him.

It has started to sink in that all these things added up mean that they will be getting ready in the same place. And being driven over to the gala in the same chaffeured limousine. They'll be seated together at whatever-it-is. When it's time to leave, they'll go back out to that same limousine. They'll go back to the same place again. Together.

She tosses her coffee cup in a wastebin that they pass, walking in to one of the overpriced surface lots surrounding the mall. Puts her other hand in her own pocket. She is relieved to see that he didn't just get some 1980s clunker; there'd be no reason for him to do so, but she realizes she was expecting it, like she's come to expect a lot of his resistance to the wealth he's somehow inherited.

Looks up and over at him.

Thinks of one thing to say. Says something else instead: "What's the gala for?"

They are getting into the car.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't open the door for her. Wolf goes to the driver's side, looks at her over the roof of the car until she ducks in. Then he gets in too. Shuts the door, sliding the seatbelt over his shoulder and clicking it into place.

"Fuck if I know. Usually the same shit. Charge a ton of money, spend it on the venue, the entertainment, the food, and the paychecks of the people organizing it. Give whatever's left over to some starving kids in Africa or Southeast Asia or something so everyone there can feel good about themselves. Figure if someone was going to get drunk and have a good time on that money, might as well be you."

Wolf starts the car. Engine turns over smoothly and catches. Girl's probably glad to see wolf can drive a four-wheel vehicle, too. He edges out of the parking spot and heads for the exit.

witch

She grimaces a little, mouth pulling to the side, then shrugs. "I'll at least make them regret an open bar," she says, tucking her bare hands between her thighs.

She ends up fiddling with the radio, some time after. Or his MP3 player. Or whatever.

wolfman

Wolf laughs under his breath. "Don't vomit on your new dress."

Glances out the corner of his eyes at her hands, her thighs. Turns the heat to max and bats the vents her way. Doesn't do much good. Takes the engine a while to warm. Still, the thought's there.

Girl plays with the radio. Wolf drives homeward. Truth is he didn't even notice saying that. Drive you home. Didn't notice he's started calling the townhouse home. Didn't notice he's started thinking of it as her home, as well as his.

witch

She scoffs. "Fianna," she reminds him. And challenges: "I could drink you under the table."

wolfman

"Nah. I'd cheat." Least he's honest about it. "Shift my innards and burn it off."

witch

The look Devon gives him could wither flowers. "You can't cheat at drinking contests," she informs him. "Spirits of earth turn against you."

wolfman

"One of us has to stay sober. Spirits of the earth'll understand."

witch

"Why does one of us have to stay sober?"

wolfman

Wolf clearly hasn't thought that far. Stares through the windshield a beat, stumped.

"Just the rules."

witch

She laughs. "Bullshit," she informs him. "I formally challenge you to a drinking contest. No shifting."

wolfman

Bit of silence while the wolf contemplates. Weighs pros and cons in his mind. Glances over at her at the next red light.

"Fine. You're on. What do I get if I win?"

witch

Her eyebrows go up. "Bragging rights? You remember I'm Fianna." Her hand rests lightly against her chest as though to remind him: he'd be beating a Fianna. At a drinking contest.

wolfman

Another one of those sidelong glances. "I don't brag."

witch

She laughs again, but it's more amused than sardonic. "All right. Then what do you want, if you win?"

wolfman

This time wolf looks over at her. Looks right at her. Red light's a dull glow on the side of his face. Casts his face into chiaroscuro: light and dark divided by the crest of his nose. Wolf's looking at her eyes. Wolf's looking at her mouth. Girl's got narrow, fine features. No one would ever call her lips lush, but those eyes are something else altogether. Those eyes could catch a man

or a wolf

from across a room without needing to a say a word. From the other side of a limousine window, and across a night-dark street.

Wolf's got thoughts in his head he doesn't voice. Suddenly he realizes light on the girl's face is green, not red. He looks forward: time to go. Steps on the accelerator and they cruise through the intersection right as the light turns yellow again.

"You cook me breakfast for a week." That's what wolf settles on.

witch

"Deal," she says, perhaps too quickly. "What do I get when I win?"

When.

wolfman

When. Wolf snorts.

"Hell do you want?"

witch

She shrugs. Nice thing about not driving: she doesn't have to look away when she's looking at him. Which she is.

"Bragging rights," she says, and smirks, eyes sparking. Sparkling.

wolfman

Wolf snorts again. Louder this time. "Sure hope all that booze drowns out the taste of crow."

Getting near his neighborhood now. Stylish and wealthy. Wolf takes a left, another left, a right. Pulls up on the driveway to his townhouse. Guess the motorcycle gets the garage spot. Wolf kills the engine, gets out. Holds the door into the house open behind him for the girl.

witch

As soon as the engine cuts she grabs her backpack from between her knees and gets out. It's stopped snowing now, and the night is dark and still. Every sound, even close-by noise, is muffled by the snow blanketing the area. She stamps her feet a bit and heads up to the door, remembering last-minute that she doesn't have to grab keys. They head inside, and she starts shedding: drops the backpack off to the side of the entryway. Slips out of her jacket and steps out of her boots. Starts heading for the kitchen, shaking out her hair.

"Whiskey?" she asks, over her shoulder.

wolfman

"Vodka." Wolf kicks his boots off in the vague direction of a closet. Jacket follows, peeling off big shoulders, big biceps. Gets slung over the back of some chair or other. "Crime to pound whiskey."

witch

That makes her smile a little. She's paused halfway across from door to kitchen and pantry, watching him over her shoulder.

Paused, watching, looking. Smiles to herself and turns again. She pulls out a previously opened bottle of vodka, as well as a second, still-sealed one. Sets them both on the island. Gets a couple of shot glasses down. Brings all of it not to the table, but to the living room.

And plops herself on the floor beside the coffee table.

wolfman

Wolf's the one to take down the shotglasses. Pulls a cabinet open and sticks his fingers into two, grips them against his palm. So much for sanitation. Clinks them down on the breakfast bar first, but then wolf sees girl's heading for the coffee table. Living room.

So wolf swipes those shotglasses up again. Follows her, all rolling gait, athletic frame. Comes up behind her and has a hand on the small of her back as he leans around her. Click, click. Two shotglasses.

Girl plops down. Wolf inspects the terrain a second. Then he steps over her and plops down on the other side. Both of them by the table, a bottle and then some of chilled vodka waiting. Wolf reaches out and pours them each a shot. Liquid clear as water but subtly more viscous.

Glances at girl, sidelong, smirking. Tips his shotglass her way in a small, wordless toast.

witch

He stays with her, near her, almost on top of her. She smiles at him when she gets vodka, he gets glasses.

She breathes in when he touches her back, and looks over at him. Her eyes are hooded.

They sit. He pours. She smiles that smile at him, lifts her glass, touches it to his.

They drink.

witch

[Drinking Contest Rules!

Soak 3 Bashing per shot!

Game is over when either character reaches 'Crippled' / 6B!]

witch

[Round One: Soak!]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 8, 10) ( success x 2 )

wolfman

[SOAK]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 5) ( fail )

witch

[Round Two: Soak!]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 5, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )

wolfman

[HALP, I'M LOSING TO A SKINNY THING]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 8) ( success x 1 )

witch

[Round Three: Soak! Make your ancestors proud!]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 5) ( fail )

wolfman

[PLZ NOT TO BE EMBARRASS YOUR ANCESTORS.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 5) ( fail )

witch

[Alcohol Tolerance: Resist Pain for drunks!]

Dice: 4 d10 TN7 (4, 5, 7, 10) ( success x 2 )

witch

The vodka is smooth. It has a sweet, fragrant burn with no bite at all. Rafael can't tell that the beer he gets is shitty; Devon's range of what is considered acceptable alcohol is wide, but she can tell this is fine vodka. Takes the first shot slower than she needs to, tastes it, mulls it over.

Their glasses come down. She feels the vodka warm through her chest and stomach, flooding her limbs. That's the nice thing about it: it hits quickly. Looking at Rafael, she can see his eyes swim a bit after that first shot. She smiles, and then she lifts the bottle, pouring another.

They toss those back as well. She tastes this one too, but not as lingeringly. Her shoulders are relaxed. They are counting a bit before the shot, one, two -- three! and she laughs, rocking forward a little. Her hand touches his knee as though for balance.

But it is the alcohol that makes his head spin.

Rafael reaches for the bottle to pour again but he fumbles a bit, fingers miss it on the first pass. Devon shifts onto her knees, laughing, wrapping her hands around his hand and the bottle, helping him pour. They spill a little.

She leans over to him before they pick up their shot glasses. She puts her face close to his, smiling that lopsided smile, nuzzling his cheek for a moment. It isn't drunken; she inhales, scenting him, sighing a little. Kisses his mouth, tasting of vodka and his own faint sweetness. She tastes like vodka and the lingering flavor of white chocolate and espresso. At least she has a taste, if not a scent; no wonder he kisses her so hungrily, sometimes.

When he kisses her.

Third shot goes down, and this time it hits Devon like a mallet. She exhales through a little 'o' of her lips, the breath whistling slightly. She closes her eyes, opens them slowly. Looks at Rafael, who is... looking odd. Maybe smiling. Looking drowsy. Closing his eyes

and

tipping

backward.

This is why she brought the vodka to the living room. No sense sitting at a table. Devon can't help it; she laughs to see the mighty Ahroun flop backward, laughs to win the contest, laughs out of sheer fondness and delight. But then he isn't laughing, or rolling over, and she screws her forehead up. Sets her glass, which is wet on the outside from their shaky pour earlier, down on the coffee table.

Devon crawls over, in her little white socks and leggings and dress and sweater. She closes her eyes for a moment, exhaling, forcing the room to stop its spinning, and touches his face. Pats his cheek gently. "Wake up, Rafa," she says, not even meaning to sing-song (but sing-songing). "Wake up so I can make fun of you."