first time you came to me.

wolfman

Again that silence. Again that awkward pause before -- with the faintest of sounds -- the handle turns. Door separates from jamb, swings open. Wolf stands there silhouetted for a moment.

This time he comes in. This time he crosses the floor, finds her where she's huddled against the dresser. That new piece of furniture that just showed up one day, that he never said a word about like maybe he doesn't want to admit that he thought to get her a dresser. Or a bathrobe. Or a miniature pizza party plus a movie she liked. Like maybe all these things,

just like telling her he likes her, wants her, would like it very much if she'd come to his room and kiss him and pull him into bed, into her, the way she did that once,

make him weak.

He never wants to be weak.

Wolf comes over and wolf kneels on the carpet. Wolf says nothing, because there's not much to respond to. She said his name, or her version of it. He, as though summoned ex nihilo, came in. Appeared. Hands are warm and rough on her face. Palms cup her cheeks; thumbs wipe tears from her eyes. Wolf touches her in the darkness like he's learning the braille of her face.

Then he wraps his arms around her. Pulls her ungracefully against him, face to his chest, his beating heart. Stubble on his chin scratches her temple. He kisses her hair and holds her a while, stroking her head, her back.

witch

Even this is strangely awkward: her face presses to his chest because of the way he holds her and the way she sits curled on the floor. And she's trying -- with surprising success -- to stop crying entirely. Quickly, now.

She feels him kiss her hair. He will hear her sniff. Twice.

"Don't want it to be like this," she says, her voice a scratchy whisper. Her hand has come to rest on his forearm, fingers wrapped around the outside. "Me crying," which from the sound of the word appalls her. She sniffs again, blinking away what tears his warm, warm hands did not erase.

"Wish you'd said yes, that first time I hopped up on you." Her brow is against his chest; she doesn't dare look at him. "Wanted you so much right then. I can still feel it."

Her throat moves as she swallows. Finally she lifts her head, tips it back, looks at him.

"This was the first time you came to me instead of the other way around," she whispers, earnest. "Wasn't just being a shit, saying that. Every time it's been me chasing after you, flirting with you... throwing myself at you. And other than that one night, those two times, you --"

Devon gives a short, small shake off her head, looking down and away. "I'm no good at this either," she mutters, quiet and diffident and, yes, a bit sulky. "Couldn't keep putting it out there, happy to see you and wanting to be close, just to get shut down. Just to watch you back away, even when you're invited in."

wolfman

Easier for him to act than to speak. Easier for him to do than to think. Holding the girl there on the floor, his arms wrapped around her so tight it's more crush than embrace, wolf nuzzles hard against the side of her head. Makes some low wordless sound in his chest. Precursor to the words that do come, brought up from the deep.

"Shit's complicated. Okay? It's not you."

That's what he comes up with. Couple words flicked out there, the best he can do, far from good enough. Wolf bites his lip in frustration, gives his head a shake. "Was never turning you down. Said later, meant later. Both times. And I'm here now, aren't I?"

witch

At least she's not crying now. She wiped her face. He wiped her face. She sniffed and she shivered and she stopped.

He holds her. And makes a noise, might be a keen in some other form, rubbing his head and his nose and his face into her hair. He tells her it isn't her. And thinks: best he can do. And thinks: not good enough. But it's more than she knew before. Helps to hear it, even if he doesn't realize.

Devon doesn't pull away. She feels a surge of defensive anger, renewed and fresh, frowning into his -- shoulder? Neck? Doesn't matter much. She presses her brow there, rolling it back and forth once. "Point stands," she says.

wolfman

Girl's so damn stubborn. Wolf feels a flash of anger himself. Holds on anyway. Has this feeling if they let go now -- if he pushed her away or she pulled away from him -- could be days before they get this close again. Weeks. Forever.

Sighs, though. Whole torso moves with that sigh, an oceanic rise and fall of arms, shoulders, massive chest. "Point taken." Muttered, muffled. "But doesn't help anybody if you and I keep score on each other.

"Just come over tonight. All right?"

witch

So she bumps her knee on him. It's not quite as forceful or ferocious as stomping on his foot or snapping her teeth at him or even a glare. She just bumps him when he mentions keeping score, drawing back -- but only enough to look at him.

"That's not it," she says, but struggles with saying what it is. Not because it isn't anything; it is. It is something, and it does matter, or she wouldn't feel so bad that she ended up crying, wouldn't have kept her distance from him for so many days. She's not struggling to know how she feels; she's struggling to make him understand. If she could make him understand, she'd know he did, because he'd tell her he didn't mean to make her feel that way. He'd tell her he's sorry, maybe. She's not exactly sure.

She's very stubborn, though. That much is true.

"You still want me to?" she asks him, her shoulders drawn together, her expression furrowed.

wolfman

Wolf resists her drawing away. Not because he wants to control her or trap her -- though maybe for a second, for the girl, it feels that way -- but because then he'd have to look at her. They'd have to look at each other. And use words. And run into problems.

Doesn't force her to stay though. So girl draws back. Wolf rocks back on his heels. Still kneeling on the ground. Hands on the outsides of her thighs now. Frown's back on his face, furrowing up his brow in an unconscious mirror of her.

" 'Course," he says, like maybe she just asked him if he wants breakfast food she was making. "It's why I came back. That and the fact that I could hear you crying." Maybe it's impolite to point it out. There it is, anyway. "What is it, anyway?" Beat; then he realizes that made no sense. Elaborates: "You counting up how many times you came to me, versus me to you. If it's not scorekeeping, what is it?"

witch

But she's going to look at him. Stubborn thing that she is, she looks up at him for exactly the same reason he wants to avoid it: to look at him. To see him, as she uses words. And also just to look at him. She hasn't been doing it much lately. But she stays close. Just wants to lift her head, see him. She feels his hands on her legs and stays, stays

close.

If it's impolite to point out that he could hear her crying and that's why he came back, she doesn't wince at it. She hadn't tried to cry silently. She didn't, really, want to be left alone. That's why she invited him in. That's why she kept jumping onto him, embracing him. But there's a reason that during the movie, she didn't slip over and curl up against his side.

Her hand is on his torso, somehow. Backs of her fingers against his solar plexus, for no reason. Feels him, that way.

"Point was that... it's fucked," she stumbles, "reaching out over and over like that." Struggles, looks away, comes up with: "Embarrassing, after a while. Start wondering, whatever you say, if you're..."

but no words come. Not the right ones. She shrugs, looking up at him again. "Mum said if this bloke fancies you, he'll show you, and no doubt about it." Her head tips, and that shoudler lifts alone. "Kept making me doubt." And shakes her head a bit, just a little. "I know you don't understand," and whether it's the wine or the talk of her 'mum', there's a tracery of accent there, not Brazilian but English, and at least moderately posh at that. "But it's how I'm feeling."

witch

[SHOULDER. I KAN SPULL.]

wolfman

Mum.

Bloke.

Fancies.

Timing's sort of poor, but wolf's got this little grin on his face. Amused by her britishisms. Warmed, strangely, by this one little bit of her past he's managed to glean from the way she speaks. Backs of her fingers are against his chest. Through a shirt for once: apparently wolf does believe in clothing, so long as he has to go outside.

Palm of his hand cups her cheek again after a while. Curve of her cheekbone, curve of her jawbone: they fit right against his palm. Just right.

"No. I get it. Nobody likes to feel rejected. Or like they're putting themselves out there just to get shot down. Didn't mean to make you feel like that."

Now it's his thumb over her mouth. Now it's the back of his hand along her jawline, all the way until he can stroke her chin gently between pad of thumb, side of forefinger. Wolf touches her like this is a rare treat, and it is. For all they've already done together, to each other, they don't touch too often.

"Last time, just didn't want to get wyrmtaint on you. Know you think it's your call. And it is. But it's also my job to stand between you and the wyrm." Wolf shrugs. His hand falls from her face. Palm rests on her thigh again, and there's a stretch -- a strip -- where it's skin on skin.

"Time before that, I just didn't want everyone to see. And know. And talk. And maybe use it against you or me somewhere down the line. These people don't really work for me. I mean, they do, but they have no... no loyalty to me."

witch

The way her mother speaks is so slangy. Embarrassingly so, she used to think sometimes. Not that she minded. That she minds quoting her mother now, britishisms and all. He knows her mother is far away, but he also knows her mother is alive, and that they will talk at her midnight and her mother's seven in the morning when she's upset about a guy making her feel like he isn't that into her. He can guess her mother is English, or at least has lived there long enough to pick up its slang. He knows Devon must have lived there too, at least some of the time: the way that accent slips back in, so easily. The way she talks, even when the accent doesn't shiver through her words.

He has that little smile and she smirks a bit, corner of her mouth alone. He touches her face; his hands are enormous, compared to her narrow face. He says he gets it. He says he didn't mean to make her feel like that, and it's a balm to hear him say it. Soothes.

His thumb touches her lip. Her eyes close for a moment. The way he's touching her is soft. Delicate. She exhales, hardly listening to him for a moment, but looks up at him again, eyes opening. It's his job. She wrinkles her nose up at him. Feels his hand touch her leg again, where the thick knit knee-high ends, before the slip begins.

"And you were scared to come over when I was cooking breakfast," she adds to the list, even though she says it's not about scorekeeping, "and didn't come in the room when I said you could," but by then it's clear she's sort of half-teasing him. Partly, she wants him to know: these twinges of feelings are small on their own. But added up, day after day -- perhaps it explains why she put some distance in. Perhaps it explains why she ended up crying tonight. She just wanted him to come after her. Or at least take her up on her offer.

But partly, too, she's easing away from it. She's gentling. And wondering, aloud, looking up at him: "How could they use me against you?"

Clearly, she's not too concerned about the reverse.

wolfman

"Wasn't scared," wolf retorts. "Just polite enough not to invade your space while you were making me eggs and sausage."

Humor eases away then. Wolf's frowning again. Topic's a tender, touchy one, and complicated enough that he'd never broach it with a stranger. Which leads to the question: is she still a stranger? Seems there maybe ought to be a rule about that. Once you've seen a girl naked, she can't be counted a stranger anymore. Handful of moments go by. Then all of a sudden the wolf rocks back, unfolds to his feet.

Holds his hand out to pull girl up too. Maybe does that just so she knows: he's not retreating. He's not running away again.

"Remember how I said I got all this stuff about two months ago?" Wolf's hand stays on hers even after she's on her feet. Palm to palm, fingers curved around. Holding her hand like it's a stable point, an anchor that fixes her to the story he's telling her. "My mother died last summer. Bravely. In battle. Or so they told me when they found me. I wasn't invited to the funeral. I didn't even know where she lived or when she died or ... any of that. I didn't know her.

"She left her stuff to me, though. All of it. Damned if I know why, but she had a lot of stuff. She also had another son. My half-brother, born to her and her mate. Most people who knew her think of him as her real son, her rightful heir. Think of me as some interloping thief.

"James thinks like that. Cook and housekeeper, maybe. Franklin doesn't care, maybe. Bitch that has access to all the accounts and holdings definitely thinks like that. Don't know what they'll use against me or how or when, but damned if I'm gonna leave myself open to anything I don't have to."

witch

So Devon rolls her eyes at his insistence that he wasn't scared. That he's polite -- that's really goddamn amusing to her. But she smiles at him, too, even if it fades along with his.

He keeps touching her. Face, sometimes. Or embracing her outright. His hand on her thigh. She very much likes his hand there. She wishes he'd come closer during the movie. Gotten under the blanket with her. Touched her thigh then, tugged up on the edge of that nightgown. Breathed in her ear.

Devon blinks. She's distracted. She listens.

Or will listen, once she gets over being startled at his motion. His rising-up. She takes a breath, and there's a quick pang of something in her before he holds out his hand. She takes it, and lifts herself up with it, is lifted up by it. He starts to tell her things. He starts to tell her, holding her hand.

So Devon holds his hand, watching his face. Her brows tug together when he says his mother died. All he has to say is battle -- not hard to tell what his mother was, before she was dead. He didn't know her, and Devon feels such a surge of kinship that she almost doesn't know what to do with herself. She takes a breath instead of doing anything at all. For some reason when he says that she left all her stuff to him, it just makes her brow furrow deeper, her heart pang harder.

Brother. Half-brother. Real son. Rightful heir. Not him. Thief. And James, who she always knew was a goddamned snake in the grass, thinks of him like this.

Devon just shakes her head. "So fire them," she says. "Get your own crew."

wolfman

Wolf makes a short, scraped-thin sound. A scoff maybe. Nothing like a scoff. His hand turns hers over. He looks down, looks at the slimness of that hand in his, the back of it eclipsed by his palm beneath. Turn it the other way and he'd see the blue veins in her narrow wrist. Everything about her thin, slender, slim, verging on skinny. No wonder she was freezing her ass off.

"Thought about it." Wolf's voice is low. Wolf hates that he has to be furtive in his own goddamn house. "Wouldn't know the first thing about how. I don't even know what I own. I don't have account numbers or passwords or -- I don't even know what banks my money's in, or where the titles to my houses and cars are, or how to balance the ins and the outs. Even the lawyer that executed the will is paid through the accounts Lieke controls.

"They're tolerating me right now. Or biding their time. Or maybe they figure they can set me up as a puppet, and that'll be even better than serving my brother. But If I move against them, they'll turn on me. Probably bring my brother and his whole pack down on my head too."

witch

Devon just shakes her head.

"Take control," she tells him. And steps closer to him, too, lifting her free hand to reach up, touch his face. "It's your life."

She sweeps her thumb across his cheekbone.

"It's there whenever you're ready to take it."

wolfman

That sound again. This time a little more like a laugh. Wolf turns his head. Teeth scrape her palm; catch the thenar muscles gently.

"Like you?"

witch

At that, her eyebrows lift a little. "Maybe," she says. "You're quite good at imagining obstacles where there are none, after all."

wolfman

Wolf's mouth still against her palm. Humor fading from his eyes, leaving them dark and hungry. For all his strength he can be so uncertain. For all his uncertainty, imbalance, he moves so surely. Puts his hands on her waist and picks her up, brings her in, wraps his arms around her. Puts his face to her chest, the dip of her neck, the dip between her breasts.

Girl can feel him inhaling. Hear it. Almost like he can't help it, can't help hunting her scent where there is none. Wolf raises his head, looks at her.

"Let's go to bed, huh? Let's stop talking."

witch

Devon laughs. She's picked up again, just like the first time, when she told him that no one else had taken off her dress because that was such a thorn in him, it made him so crazy.

Call it the wine. She's lifted and she ducks her head, resting her nose against his temple, inhaling him, too. She gets more for it than he does. She nuzzles him, exhaling slowly. "All right," she says, after a short laughter, a long silence. Her hand touches his hair, smooths fingertips through it. "All right."