that old saw.

witch

Two hours north of midnight and she hasn't come back.

Midnight, and she hasn't come back.

Two hours south of midnight and she hasn't come back.

The bars close in a city that sleeps -- comparatively -- quite early. And by then he is asleep, whether in his bed upstairs or in a chair facing the television set. By then the leftovers from the roast have been put away, the wine corked or the beer bottles swept into the recycling bin or what-have-you.

Some time between four and five in the morning, before the sun has even considered waking yet, the door opens quietly.

Her hair is still teased, tousled, tangled. Her eye makeup is brutally smudged, blackened, there's even a couple of tear streaks down her face. Her lips are smudged, the lipstick and gloss worn off. One of the fishnets is torn along the thigh and the soles of her boots are sticky and she's huddled in that flannel shirt, hugging it around her, chilled. There is a smell of alcohol on her, and cigarette smoke, and pot. Her eyes are bloodshot but not terribly. She comes in like a girl used to sneaking around, but not silent.

Pauses when she sees him, sleeping there, the air heavy with his rage.

And then, if he doesn't wake or doesn't show it, she keeps on going toward the stairs.

wolfman

Might have awoken sometime around two, three in the morning. Glanced at the clock. Wondered where the girl was. Conjured some image of some fancy party or other she'd weaseled her way into; seems to be good at that. Conjured some image of short skirts and corsets and debauchery.

Turned heavily onto his side, scowled, thumped the stuffing of the recliner a bit. Went back to sleep stubbornly, refusing to move to bed.

Couple hours before dawn now. Door opens. It's so quiet but this is his den and he is instantly awake. Turns back over, rumpled and stiff from sleeping in that odd position so long. Squints at the shadow of the girl coming in. TV's still on. By that flickering light he sees her as she crosses the room.

She pauses.

He stares.

Wolf explodes up out of the recliner all of a sudden. He's in those lounge pants again. He blows past her and grabs his jacket out of the closet, wrenches it on over bare skin. Starts stomping bare feet into motorcycle boots.

"Fuck happened to you?" Intonation's not even a question. Just a growl.

witch

No luck: he wakes. She should have known. Wolf in his den. So she pauses, looking at him, and then he's up, as though he were never sleeping at all, ready for a fight. He moves toward her and she just flinches backward, a step and a half, watches as he puts on a jacket and boots, which look absurd with no shirt and lounge pants.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she's asking him, their words tumbling together, over each other, colliding.

A beat.

She looks down at herself, then at him. Looks at him like he's a madman. No: they both know he is that. Looks at him like he's an idiot.

"Partying."

wolfman

"Partying?"

Word's a furious echo. He swings around and bears down on her, rage pressing ahead of him. He pushes his hand into her hair. Fingers catch in the tangles. Swipes his thumb over the tear-streaks on her cheek. Ends by tilting her head up, looking for bruises on her neck, her wrists. Thighs.

"Who did this? Who the fuck am I killing?"

witch

Yikes.

She doesn't say it. It'd be dry, sarcastic, and suddenly she hasn't got any of that. She's been up all night and he's backing her toward the wall without, perhaps, intending to or realizing it. And pushing his hand into her hair and touching her face and she wrenches her face away, glaring at him, nearly snapping her teeth at him. Exhaustion and a quiver of anxiety -- no, let's call it: fear -- keep her from doing anything so blatantly dangerous.

"Stop," she says, firmer than any mortal could,

not nearly as firm as she would like. It wavers.

wolfman

"Who did this!"

Used to be a quiet house, this. Used to be a peaceful house, insofar as any house occupied by a wolf, and a wolf of the full moon at that, can be. Now Franklin and James have to deal with shouting matches. Moaning from the upstairs hallway. Their employer literally sleeping on the couch at all hours.

Wolf reins it in. Bottles it back up with effort. Presses lips together and bunches hand into a fist he'd like to drive through a wall, but he doesn't. Forces that hand open again.

"Devon. Just tell me what the hell happened."

witch

"Bloody hell," she exhales, aghast at him, annoyed by him, tense against the wall. The anglicism sounds odd, since she has no obvious accent, but it comes easily to her lips, without affectation. She doesn't say another word for a moment, then glances away -- looks for a route out. Ducks under his arm and steps away, just to breathe. Just to have room, for fuck's sake, to breathe.

But doesn't storm out the front door, or up the stairs. Her makeup is only more smudged, thanks to him.

"I just did," she says, her tone telling him how appalled she is even if she keeps her words clipped. She keeps her arms tight around herself, still chilled from being outside. "You want details, stop acting like a jackass about it."

wolfman

"Jackass?" Second time he's echoed her in that tone: vicious, incredulous. "Someone fucked you up. Ripped your stockings. Made you cry. I'll put his head through a wall."

Some other asshole in a leather jacket say that, it just means he's gonna go try to blacken the guy's eye. Maybe break his nose. Wolf saying it means something different. Alleyways. Skinks. Skulls crunched like styrofoam cups against brick. Felt good.

"Just tell me who."

witch

Again that look: he is mad. He is dumb. He is absurd. She exhales.

"Oh, jesus."

Lifts her leg up, points at her thigh. "Caught on a loose nail." Lowers leg, points both her middle fingers at her face.

Also flips him off like that.

"Drugs," she says, of the tears.

Lowers her hands again. Spreads her arms out like what more do you want. Flops them back to her sides.

wolfman

Loose nail.

Drugs.

Wolf stares a second. Wind goes out of his sails. Eyebrows slam together; he scowls. Starts peeling out of his jacket again.

"Fuck you too," to the double flipoff. "Thought you got assaulted. Hell would I know?"

witch

"By asking," she says. "Without backing me into a corner."

wolfman

Wolf clenches his teeth. "I was worried." Slams the jacket back into the closet, where it promptly falls off the hook. Boots come off next. "And angry."

witch

She stands there, watching him get un-ready to kill someone. Put a head through a wall. Who am I killing. She thinks it's absurd. And upsetting.

He was worried and angry. She huffs. She, perhaps rightfully, assumes he means he was angry at this spectre, created in his own mind or not, who had assaulted her. Torn her fishnets. Made her cry. Made her come in at shy of five in the morning.

"That old saw," she says, resentfully.

wolfman

Disbelieving glance shot over his shoulder. "You trying to pick a fight?"

witch

Shock. She stares at him, furious. Her disbelief mirrors, then amplifies, his own. And something else, too. Something aching from a night spent awake, something still stung from a sharp humiliation earlier, something still sore from what she claimed was missing him.

Devon exhales. Keeps staring at him, but her disbelief changes, turning inward. Turning into something like disgust, though not for him.

"Goodnight, Rafael," she says, and heads up the stairs.

wolfman

For a second seems like she'll walk away and he'll let her. Yet another conversation ended by a walkout.

Then he follows. TV's still flickering, lighting their way like ghostfire. He closes the distance quickly. Strides across the living room, takes the stairs two at a time, one hand hauling his way up the railing.

"You been mad at me since I told you later. Wanna tell me why?"

witch

And she flinches. Turns, but only after a moment, her back tensing. She isn't making herself bigger. Doesn't whip around, snap at him. She shrinks. She sighs. She doesn't look at him.

"No," she says, too drained to put much verve in it. "I want to sleep." A pause. She still doesn't look at him. "And I want you to back off."

wolfman

Girl turns. Wolf's two steps down. Closes that to one, slowly. Girl shrinks into herself. Says what she does. Sighs it.

Wolf's hand on the rail moves like it wants to touch. Maybe girl flinches away. Steps forward. Gets away. Something about her body language gives it away, anyway. Wolf doesn't touch her after all. His hands stay where they are, veins forking over big knuckles, fingers wrapped around the banister.

Says nothing now. At some point girl starts moving again. Wolf lets her get one, two, three, four steps up before he starts following. At the top of the stairs she goes one way. He goes the other.

"Night, Devon."