grown accustomed to my face?

witch

Could come off as cold, these things she says. Shut up. Don't care. She's gotten the fuck she wanted, now stop bothering her and let her sleep. It's not, though; the way she murmurs at him isn't cold. Her body itself isn't cold, still feels hot to his touch. Her arm and leg over him, her cheek on his body: these don't feel like rejections. The way she asks him to stay, even though this is his bed in his room in his house: not cold. Not distant. Closer, perhaps, warmer, than she's often let herself be with him.

Her body is confused; thinks maybe it's eleven or twelve at night already, but isn't sure, but it's dark and she's happily worn out and very warm. Body decides it's late at night, then. Makes sense. So she just wants to sleep. And does, settling in against him while he wraps his arm around her, thinks fond and absurd little thoughts about her while she dozes off.

In his arms, in his bed, in his room, in his house.

--

Hours later and it's past seven in the morning in London. That does not mean that Devon wakes up. She's barely moved. When he wakes she's a dead weight against him, her mouth slack, her breathing steady and slow. Chances are her breath isn't great either. And he does wake her, because she's lying half on top of him: she's scowling a little, her brow furrowed, as she opens those glittering eyes, disgruntled by the disruption. He murmurs his impending return and kisses her and she slumps over again, burying her face in a pillow, tugging it down and hugging it and rolling over, curling up on the warm hollow he leaves behind him in bed. Doesn't think to cover herself up again, unless he does.

But she hears water running and hears the toilet and suddenly she needs to pee, too. Doesn't want to get up. Tries to convince her body to shut up. Her body does not listen any more than Rafael did, though, so by the time he exits the bathroom she's crawling out of bed, disheveled, her hair big and fluffy. She stumbles across the dark room, into the bathroom where he is about to take a shower, and with squinting, puffy eyes, palms his side and his belly and his back and essentially communicates out. out.

Shoves him, more or less, out of his bathroom and closes the door so she can pee. Washes her hands. Rinses her mouth out with hot water because she doesn't have a toothbrush here. It's something. She comes back out, stumbling and shuffling again. Pauses by Rafael and wraps her arms around that hard, tapering waist of his. She buries her face in his chest. She soaks up some measure of his body heat like that, both of them filthy, at least one of them wordless and only half-awake. Perhaps he touches her. Perhaps he tells her he's going to shower.

Whatever he does, eventually she just gives a soft little grunt, then moves away, crawling back into bed, between the sheets, under the covers, shivering a little. Curls up again, hugs a pillow again, and doesn't think she'll fall asleep while his shower is running but she does. Is asleep, when he comes back to bed damp and affectionate. Gets in with her. Wraps her up, her back to his chest, her body a folded-up ball of long limbs and soft skin and unruly dark hair. She stirs, and she yawns in her half-sleep, and is still again.

Maybe his thoughts are a spell. Maybe he has some magic of his own. He thinks: stay, and she stays.

--

Or maybe she just doesn't want to leave.

Even though she wakes at four in the morning, her body convinced that the morning is wasting away towards afternoon. But there's no sun. Her body is confused again, but alert all the same. She wakes and she stretches her legs out and discovers stiffness in her joints and a heavy, unsettling, comforting, warm dark thing behind her, a firm arm around her body. She yawns, very big and very long but as quietly as she can. Stretches and stretches and stretches and finally, when some of that stiffness is relaxed and limber again, she thinks how nice it would be to get up and shower and comb her hair and brush her teeth and make skillet potatoes with eggs over-medium and maybe some bacon or sausage and maybe chopped-up peppers and tomatoes and maybe some onion and maybe toast slathered in melty butter and two or three cups of tea. Paint her fingernails and toenails. Shave her underarms and legs, which are a tad prickly if we're being honest.

Watch movies downstairs wrapped in a blanket and eating her breakfast, at four in the morning, until the sun comes up.

Devon yawns again. She blinks a few times, her eyes falling closed. She might have woken him with all her wiggling and stretching. But still she stays. Turns over in his bed and lays out against him, soft breasts and soft belly and feet tangling gently with his calves and shins. Sleeps again. Not deeply, not even fully, but allows herself to doze, and drowse,

and stay.

wolfman

Weird hours they slept, wolf wakes only an hour, hour and a half later. Rouses slowly and gradually to consciousness, stirring, yawning, stretching his limbs under the sheets. Wraps his arm back around her. Rubs his face against her back.

Goes still again for a while. Breathing goes even. Body goes heavy and slack. Is asleep, but only for a few minutes.

Second time he wakes, wolf sits up. Sudden rush of cool air under the sheets, across his skin, snaps his neurons into shape. Wolf's eyes open. Wolf sits there, knees drawn up and akimbo under the covers, elbows balanced vaguely with arms outstretched. Yawns, all grimace and tooth. Tosses back the covers and climbs out, skin instantly rising into goosebumps. Thumps over to the thermostat on the wall and cranks it up.

Steps into those lounge pants of his. Finds a sweatshirt, old, big hole under one arm. Pulls it on. Wanders into the bathroom and brushes his teeth and splashes water on his face. Comes back and the heating's going, warm air escaping the vents.

Mattress dips. Wolf sits down on girl's side, back a granite monument beneath the frumpy old sweatshirt. Stares out the window a while. Forgot to close the blinds, the curtains. Can see his small backyard. Neighbor's closed windows.

Turns. Looks over his shoulder. Girl's lying there, clouds of hair and narrow wrists and those sooty-dark eyelashes. Wolf moves, leans over her, braces his hands on the mattress so as to not crush her. Nuzzles her roughly, wordlessly, affectionately. Bites gently at her neck. Kisses her mouth until she opens her eyes.

Pushes up, then. Few more inches away. Wolf doesn't smile often, but there's something a little softer about his regard. All he says: "Eggs over medium?"

witch

Devon is aware of him when he wakes. She is alert enough, awake enough, to open her eyes when he starts moving. They are half-lidded at first, dreamy, watching him as he stretches. She feels a hot pulse of lust go down through her body, open her cunt. Wants to crawl on top of him and make good use of that well-formed body that is pulled so taut, quivering like a bowstring, before he relaxes again.

Also she is feeling very gross and her mouth tastes foul. Also she is hungry to the point of her gut snarling at him. Also she feels an even stronger pang of something else entirely as he rolls to her, envelopes her, rubs his face on her. She's facing him now, ever since she rolled over and came back. She watches him, eyes glittering faintly, as he sits up. Feels a breeze beneath the sheets as he gets up. Watches him. Smirks to herself at the sight of his bare ass. Butt, she thinks, fondly.

Stays where she is, silently, as he goes to the thermostat. As he picks up loose clothing. Quirks a brow at the hole in his sweater, like she's one to judge. But she's rolled onto her back, watching him go to the bathroom. The sun is coming up. Dawn approaches, and blooms, and gasps softly at the December chill in the air that greets her.

Devon watches him come back. Breathes in, as he comes over her, leans down. Her eyes close as he rubs his face on her. She presses her lips together, wary of her breath, which -- unlike the rest of her -- most certainly has a scent right now. Her head tips back as he puts his mouth on her neck; her lips part briefly to sigh as he bites her. Jesus, she thinks. Her body is caving in from want, and although it is intense, it is also brief.

She lets him kiss her, but only once. Then she tugs up the sheet over her mouth, opening those gleaming, gem-cut eyes to him. Something soft in his eyes.

Better than a smile, that.

Talks to him through a sheet:

"And potatoes." A moment. "And tea and toast."

wolfman

Girl's got a sheet pulled over half her face like some temptress out of a thousand and one nights. Wolf braced over her quirks at it. Tilts his head a little, eyes flicking down to the sheet, the intimation of her mouth through it.

Looks at her eyes again. Gleaming. Gem-cut. Startling and faceted and so very blue in this light, in any light. Girl has preferences, and as with all things she's utterly unshy about availing herself of his hospitality. Eggs and potatoes and tea and toast. Wolf smirks.

"Well, I'm making eggs and bacon and hash browns and coffee. And toast. Maybe I'll steep some tea too. If you kiss me again. Without the sheet."

witch

She's got a sheet pulled over half her face like she hasn't brushed her teeth since she got off the plane yesterday and ate chicken noodle soup and drank milk after that and her breath is like something rancid and dead, in her opinion.

He is making eggs and bacon and hash browns -- well, fine, not quite the same but FINE -- and toast.

Her brow quirks. "Guess I'm making my own tea, then," she says, muffled by fabric.

wolfman

Smirk turns into a grin, quick and wide. Toothy. Wolf kisses her anyway. On the tip of the nose. Then he pushes up and climbs off the bed, deliberate, powerful. "See you downstairs," he says.

Girl's left to herself. Has the bathroom at her disposal. Has her things and her own bathroom too, right down the hall. Floss and mouthwash and toothpaste and soap and bodywash and shampoo and, and, and.

Smell of heavy, filling breakfast foods rises while she washes. Either cook's got a holiday today or they're up too early. Just getting bright outside. Early sunlight paints the walls, lights up the steam from her shower.

Wolf's pawing eggs out of the pan when girl gets downstairs, hardbodied and feral under those frumpy clothes. She gets two over-medium on her plate. He gets a heap of scrambled. Some scrambled falls onto hers too but she'll just have to deal with it. Hash browns are sizzling in another pan. Toast is cooling in the toaster, popped up, and there's coffee in the pot, coffee in a mug.

Hot water too. A jar of Earl Grey set out beside a mug. He just didn't steep it, is all.

Wolf glances at her over his shoulder when she appears. Hair wet, cheeks pink from the shower. Eyes astounding. Wolf gives her a good long look while he holds her plate toward her, tapping his spatula on the empty pan before waving it toward the hash browns.

"Help yourself."

witch

Jesus Christ.

She comes back. Comes ~*~HoMe~*~. He greets her with that hug at the airport and she kisses him in the car and he tries to fuck her in the car. Takes her ~*~HoMe~*~ and feeds her soup and milk. And they ~*~mAke LoVe~*~ like that, slow and sweet and warm and fierce, and she doesn't even care about getting off because she just wants to be ~*~CloSe~*~ to him. They sleep together. He's all cute when they wake, nuzzling her and smooching her and kissing her fucking nose and he's going to make her breakfast and oh. fucking. god.

Devon waits until he's gone. She curls up on her side, tightly coiled, hugging a pillow to her chest, burying her face in it. Oh fucking god.

--

Stretches after a while. Gets up. Her clothes are scattered here and there, so she picks them up, shoes and all, and carries them in a pile in her arms down the hall. Maybe he looks up from the kitchen, sees her crossing straight-backed and slender and naked from one end of the house to the other. Perhaps he hears her drop all her things to the floor in a thump.

It is as she left it. Sort of. Some things washed and folded or dry-cleaned. Put away. Linens changed. Housekeeper might have gone near the bottles, near certain vials and bags and boxes, and felt

something

emanate. Thought better of it, and did not touch. Devon knows she does not have the power to hex anyone; she does not seek out that particular talent. Neither warding, which is complicated and difficult and iffy at best anyway. But magic knows magic, and kin are -- like their werewolves -- magic creatures. How else would you explain the way that one of them, vicious and hateful and cruel, would be so softened towards perhaps one kin in particular? This is not simple genetics or nurturing. Devon knows, when Rafael looks at her with that curious head-tilt and that strange almost-smiling softness in his eyes, that it is a form of magic.

Which is not the same as witchcraft. Which is why that housekeeper looked at Devon's bottles and boxes and bags and went well. perhaps not.

--

So she brushes her teeth, vigorously. She takes a hot shower and washes her hair and yawns under the water and scrubs her face and takes some time, shaving hither and yon. She gets out and puts that oil she makes in her hair which smells like white tea and lavender, sometimes mint. She rakes her fingers through her wavy hair and shakes it out in the mirror. She puts on eyeliner. She puts on lipgloss, pale as a trace of honey, and dresses herself in bra and panties and a burnt-orange t-shirt and half a dozen necklaces, a short denim skirt with fraying non-hems, a pair of fishnets with -- surprisingly -- no holes. A pair of thick black socks. And comes down like that, her hair straightened and smooth and dry and her nostrils flaring as she smells food.

Rafael is filling her plate. She quirks a brow at all he's done, half-smirking. He's looking and looking and she

passes him by, and helps herself.

--

Once she's seated, with tea steeping and breakfast laid out, she digs in. She's focused, here: food goes in belly. Greasy everything. Voracious thing. Tosses a bite of scrambled eggs onto his plate away from her own. Smirks at him as she chews her toast. Doesn't say a words. Just keeps smiling, smirking like she does.

Kicks his ankle, with her socked foot.

wolfman

Admit it. Wolf's surprised when she comes down looking like that. Thought she'd frump down in pjs and sweats, just like his slovenly self. Instead girl comes down in eyeliner, in fishnets, in about a hundred necklaces. And socks. Wolf doesn't get why she's got fishnets and socks on, except then he remembers:

toes get cold.

Memory's like a hot bolt down his back. Remembers her thighs opening, soft sound of her voice telling him that. Like a little secret.

Wolf bites his lip. Wolf looks down at the food he's made, which girl's smirking that smirk at. Wolf glances back at her, one black eyebrow quirked. "The hell are you smiling about," he wants to know, but she doesn't use her words. She steeps her tea and lays out her breakfast and then she's sitting up at the breakfast bar beside him, tearing through her meal, tossing eggs onto his plate like even a speck of scrambled would contaminate her over-mediums.

Wolf shoots her a glare. It turns into a smirk. He stabs that bite of egg with his fork, pointedly, and pops it in his mouth.

She kicks him.

He headbutts her shoulder.

And they eat.

witch

She shrugs one shoulder to his 'question'. Sits down to eat. He glares; she ignores. He smirks; she eats. She kicks him; he leans over and headbutts her shoulder and it's absurd and it is exhilirating and it scares her down to her core.

They eat.

--

Her plate isn't exactly clean, but more or less. She eats just before she gets too full to do so. She drinks her tea and he eats his eggs and after a while she looks at the clock and it's what: eight or nine? Is it even that late?

Devon looks at him after a while. Looks a bit pale, despite the rest, the shower, the food.

Takes a breath.

"Missed you, you know," she says, offhand, like it doesn't matter.

wolfman

Wolf's finished one plate and gone back for seconds by the time girl finishes. Wolf's still eating when she's done. Plate more or less clean. Truths rising unbeckoned.

Wolf pauses mid-chew. Thinks a moment. Keeps chewing. Washes eggs and bacon down with a mouthful of coffee, then turns to look at her. His hair's blacker than hers. His eyes are greener, lupine. Shrugs shoulders, a powerful roll.

"Me too." Like it doesn't matter. Sips coffee again -- hasn't put the mug down. "Kinda got used to having you around. Was quiet with you gone."

witch

He's supposed to not say a word. Maybe grunt, or just accept it, or say me too and nothing else, or sweep her off the barstool and fuck her on the table. Anything but telling her why he missed her, even something as shallow and frail as telling her that it was quiet without her.

So:

her brows lick. "Grown accustomed to my face?" she echoes at him, from a song, in a movie, which she only knows he watched because she found the DVD in his movie room. In his mansion.

wolfman

Takes him a moment to get it. Watched the movie. Did it to understand her references better -- a debatable success at best, clearly -- or maybe just to understand her a little better. Wolf does things like that, little things, half-secret things, things he doesn't advertise or make a big deal of.

Like watching the movies she likes. Like remembering how she likes her eggs. Like covering her toes.

Penny drops. Wolf's frown shifts; he snorts a laugh. "Yeah. Guess so. I'm not Henry Higgins though."

witch

Goes without saying that he's not Henry Higgins.

Still: she looks at him, raises a brow. "No. You're Eliza Doolittle."

Smirks.

wolfman

"What!"

witch

Grins.

wolfman

Wolf puts his fork down. Puts his coffee down. Faces girl.

"How the hell am I Audrey Hepburn with a Cockney accent?"

witch

Devon shrugs.

"Poor gutter snipe," she says, a little droll. "Trying to pass in places you don't belong."

There's a beat. Sounds harsh, perhaps mean; doesn't mean to be.

"Wanna watch Roman Holiday?"

wolfman

Words find their mark with more accuracy than girl intends. Wolf's amusement vanishes. Eyebrows pull together; eyes shy away. He picks up his mug of coffee and takes a big gulp, sets it down.

"Oh. Yeah. Guess so."

On his feet, then. Gathering up his stuff and clearing his place by the time she asks about Roman Holiday. Wolf's back is to her, and he's scraping trash into the trashcan. Burnt bits of egg and stuff like that.

"Maybe later. Ought to go hunt. Maybe go by the Sept. You need anything while I'm out?"

witch

Off he goes. She watches him. Asks about the movie anyway. The one that hurts her soul to watch and makes her,

as the princess says in the movie,

so happy.

--

Later. Hunt. Sept. Out?

Devon is quiet.

She watches him a long moment. Waits for him to turn.

wolfman

Which he does. Maybe because of the silence. Maybe just because he likes to look at her. Not even just that she's pretty, though she is. Or that she's gorgeous, though she is. Or that her blood is pure and wild, though it is, or that the sight of her make him feel --

wolf doesn't even know.

Looks at her, though, greasy plate still in hand. Meeting her eyes over the breakfast bar. Wolf's eyes are darkened, a little shuttered. Closed off a tender piece of himself, too easily scratched. Still watches her, though.

witch

"Just got back," she says softly.

That's all she says.

wolfman

Wolf frowns. Exhales; sounds like a sigh. He takes his dishes to the sink and turns the water on. Starts washing, detergent and sponge and all.

"I know." Quiet, too. "Just don't want to end up fighting or something."

witch

Her brows tug together.

"Why would we fight?"

wolfman

It's a little while before he answers. Scrubs for a few seconds, head down, sleeves pushed up, muscles locked in his arm. Then wolf sets the plate aside. Looks at her frankly; eyebrows together, but not out of anger.

"Didn't like what you just said," he says. "Kinda hated it, actually. Know you didn't mean anything by it." Ends there, sudden and awkward. Shrugs.

witch

They stay together. Her eyebrows. Tug harder, firmer, the line between them deeper and darker. He scrubs at the plate; she wonders if she's about to hear the stoneware crack in half from his strength.

She's confused a moment, watching him. Doesn't say anything. Then shakes her head.

"Didn't," she echoes. Confirms.

Is quiet another moment, longer now, heavier.

"Sorry," Devon mumbles, and looks at her lap. Her hands, in her lap. Her fingers, twisting together a little.

wolfman

They're both so obviously uncomfortable now. She's so obviously sad. So is he, the wolf realizes. And realizing, reaches up. Shuts the tap off. Wipes his hands on the seat of his pants -- still a cluster of suds on his wrist when he comes around the counter. Comes over to her. Wraps his arms around her and pulls her awkwardly, roughly against his chest.

"Don't worry about it." It's muffled. His mouth pressed to her hair. Says it again: "I know you didn't mean anything bad. Just -- tender there. Understand what I mean?"

witch

Not sad. Frustrated. Not with him.

He comes around and she stiffens a bit at first, she who held him and touched him and snuggled him and slept beside him so readily. So comfortably. She takes a breath and turns her head a little, half-glancing at him past her shoulder. He wraps her up, nearly hauling her off the barstool.

Devon leans against his chest after a moment. Just a little.

"Yeah," she says, remembering

the bathroom, her bath, her naked body. Drawing his hand between her legs, showing him: tender. yeah?

Devon has one hand up, cupped over his forearm. She tips her head against his pectoral, closing her eyes.

"Don't go," she says, after some time. It's quick and it's tight and she doesn't want to say it, but she does.

wolfman

Wolf sips a breath. Painful, like his ribs are cracked. They're not, though. He's whole. He's hale. It's his heart that aches. Doesn't understand that, though. Never did understand hearts, fickle, strange things that they are.

"Okay." That's all. That, and his arms tightening a little. Subtle shift of cords and tendons under her hand. Subtle pressure of his fingers against her scalp, his bicep encircling her.

witch

She smiles, quick and darting as a fox. She wiggles a bit into his embrace.

"Roman Holiday," she repeats. Not a question this time.

"You'll like it," Devon also says. "Audrey hits someone over the head with a guitar in this one."

wolfman

Wolf exhales; it's laced with humor. Something like a laugh. "Fine. Roman Holiday."

Still another beat before he lets go of her. Unwinds his heavy arms, steps back a little. Slowly. He's pulled her half off her chair. Doesn't want her to fall in a heap.

Nods at her plate while she straightens up. "You done with that? I'm gonna clean up while you set it up."

witch

Grins again.

She gets up on her knees on the barstool, and loops her arms around his neck. "Fuck it," she says, of the plate.

Looks at him. Meets his eyes with that shining, uncanny gaze of her own. "Come with me. Watch a movie." Tips her face forward, hair falling toward his cheeks, her brow and nose touching his brow, his nose. "Get under a blanket."

witch

Grins again.

She gets up on her knees on the barstool, and loops her arms around his neck. "Fuck it," she says, of the plate.

Looks at him. Meets his eyes with that shining, uncanny gaze of her own. "Come with me. Watch a movie." Tips her face forward, hair falling toward his cheeks, her brow and nose touching his brow, his nose. "Get under a blanket."

wolfman

Snort -- "We just slept fourteen hours." Wraps his arms easily around her all the same. Like they belong here. Like she belongs here, in his arms. Lifted off the stool and onto his body. "Gonna fall asleep again."

witch

Devon kisses him.

Sometimes she does this. Sometimes she kisses him before he kisses her but it feels rare. Is it rare? Kisses him when they aren't fucking, when each kiss bleeds into the next, where such things are hardly separate from every breath they're gasping, every growl that comes snarling out of him like a caged dog released, every long moan that trembles through her entire long, lean, pale, freckled, soft, beautiful body.

Those kisses are all one thing. These kisses, away from that, still catch her breath and make her frightened and thrilled and aching all at once. She kisses him like that, sweet, coming off the stool and wrapping herself around him. She doesn't even mean it to be lustful, but it is.

At least a little.

Should tell him that she doesn't mean to sleep under that blanket, but it will sound like flirtation. It will be as easily misread as climbing onto his lap and kissing him in the airport parking structure, which just led to his fucking hands in her fucking pants, ready to fucking go. The truth is something else, which she does not want to say aloud, because it is closer to her body curled up against his in bed, doesn't matter whose bed, sleeping without waking, leaving, escaping, disappearing. Curling up together under a blanket. Watching a movie. Maybe even holding his hand, hidden under that blanket.

All of these things are fantastic, and traitorous, and she doesn't dare hint at them.

Just kisses him, wrapping herself around him as he lifts her up, carrying her toward the living room. To curl up together. Lay a blanket over their bodies. Watch a movie.

~*~HoLd hAndS~*~