christmas party with devon's mom.

Rafael

Truthfully, party was a pretty formal, stiff affair to begin with. All those goddamn canapes, all those flutes of champagne and glasses of fine wine. But night rolls on and now it's past ten, close to eleven; bottle upon bottle of wine -- and sometimes stuff harder than wine -- have been downed. It's a looser crowd now, a little tipsy, a little loud. There are people making out in his spare rooms. Someone's loud, drunken laugh echoes up to the second floor as wolf and his girl are heading down.

Not the east stairs or the west but the main, grand, broad staircase. Maybe she's still attached by a finger through his belt-loop. Certainly she's not on his arm the way a proper consort should be, and she's not in a proper dress, and he's not in a proper tux. They look ...

well. No. They don't look like riffraff. He looks like a goddamn Silver Fang, even if there's scruff on his jaw, even if he's in old jeans and a grey t-shirt. She looks like a witch, wild and incalculable, eyes as blue as a summer sky. People blink, double-take. There's a brief silence settling in their immediate vicinity.

No one whispers. No one mutters. Someone -- someone very drunk, probably -- tosses him a beer. It's poorly aimed, it's thrown a little too hard. Wolf catches it, barely, and there's always that sense of electricity about him, that threat of violence. People think he might get angry. Whip the bottle back. Worse.

He doesn't. He cracks it open. There's a palpable relaxation in the crowd; conversation starting up again, laughter somewhere in the back. Wolf takes a drink, comes down those last couple steps. Clinks the neck of his beer against the beer-tosser's own bottle as he passes. Mutters: "Can take your tie off if you want."

Devon

Formal, stiff -- less so as the alcohol flowed. The truly stiff have departed and the ones who want to drink some of the harder liquid from crystal decanters have stayed. There is dancing. People are actually laughing, telling stories, and there are some people who have snuck off to make use of unused rooms.

Devon saunters back down into the party holding Rafael's belt loop, her gait lazy and her hips loose. Her hair swings, still curled and shiny and coiffed. Her makeup is heavier and smudged around the eyes; she didn't bother to reapply her lipstick. People look and she ignores them, as she does. Just as she did the first time he brought her in to one of his parties, so long ago. Someone throws a beer at him and Devon flinches out of the way, letting go of his belt loop.

He catches it. A few eyes widen warily. There's some silence. Devon glances at him, and he cracks it open, and some of it fizzes up around the rim, and she continues on down the stairs, just ahead of him. He tells someone they can take off their tie and few people in the room are remotely aware of how big a deal it is that their host willingly spoke to someone, and in what could be (sort of) (almost) (maybe) called a friendly manner.

--

She finds her mum in the remaining crowd -- and make no mistake, those who remain are certainly a crowd. His kingdom. His subjects. And under his example, the party does get looser. Ties are undone, though shoes stay on (but for a few women slipping discreetly out of their agonizing heels). Devon finds whiskey and fills herself a cup. A full fucking cup, like it's goddamn apple juice. She doesn't mingle like her mother does; she does find the woman and says hello to the man her mum is talking to, her eyes unnerving him, but mostly she sticks close to Rafael, who -- she suspects -- doesn't want to be bothered much. Won't be bothered much. They end up sitting on a couch in a lounge, slouching, his arm across her shoulders and across the back of the sofa, drinking and watching a group of slightly younger guests play a game of charades with a game on someone's phone, held to their forehead.

Devon later goes dancing. She says she wants Rafael to dance with her. Maybe he does. Maybe he goes back to watch her dance, and since people aren't really waltzing he mostly sees her dance by herself, drink in hand, smiling because -- as he is perhaps starting to really understand -- she loves dancing. Maybe he stays where he is, getting drunk or wary of having to see her dance with someone else. But Devon goes dancing. And Devon gets tipsy but it takes plenty of whiskey. She finds Rafael again at some point, or tosses herself into his arms, and whispers to him

I think my mum snuck off with some boy, with a laugh. She's on holiday, isn't she? Which, from the cadence and the slips of her accent, doesn't sound like a real question.

People drift. The crowd dwindles and when others notice it dwindling, they begin to exit. Ubers and Lyfts are called. So are personal drivers. And when the trickle begins, then it's a flood. Soon enough the party is not just ending, it is ended. It no longer is; it was. Devon's mum had long ago returned to the party from her little snogging session, fussing a bit over Devon's drinking, sitting with her daughter for a while on a sofa somewhere with the girl's head on her chest and her hand idly stroking Devon's hair. That is where they are when Rafael finds them again.

Bed is suggested. Devon mentions that she's hungry. So skillet potatoes are made, with butter, in cast iron, and eaten with water. It's deep, deep into the night now. Devon's mum eats only a little but excuses herself early, thanking Rafael for a lovely party. So then they are sitting, the two of them, almost alone in the big house with all its new messes, and Devon is tucking into a huge pile of potatoes and swinging her legs a little underneath the barstool she's sitting on in the kitchen.

Rafael

A full fucking cup. Like apple juice. Wolf looks at it askance and thinks of her liver. Wolf remembers the time she drank him under the table. And the other time she came home completely fucking sloshed and then was okay the next day because she had herbs and potions and magic. Wolf decides not to fuss about it.

Doesn't drink too much more than that beer though. Lightweight. Maybe nurses a rum and coke later, while she's dancing, while he's watching her dance because he does like watching her dance. Just likes watching her, period.

He comes out on the floor with her for one song. It's a slower one, and he can keep up with the swaying. She hangs from his neck and he has his eyes closed, drowsing a little. It's getting later.

--

Her mom snuck off with some boy. He's mildly scandalized. She sounds British tonight, girl does. He's mildly turned on by that. Kisses her pretty lips when she tosses herself into his arms; holds her comfortably on his lap, his forearm tossed over her shins.

Later on the party dies. He doesn't bother to see people off at the door. It takes a while for everyone to depart, cars and taxis and lyfts and ubers. When finally the front door is shut for good, the quiet in the house settles like dust. Fires are banked. Lights -- the few dim ones that were still on -- are switched off.

They don't wake his cook. Girls cooks the potatoes or maybe wolf does. He does know how. They eat right there in that huge kitchen, large enough for a full culinary staff, large enough to cook for a feast. She tucks into her plate and he shares it, dipping his potatoes in ketchup. It's very late, and the stars outside the window are impossibly bright.

"Your mom like skiing?" he asks, quiet out of respect for the hour. "Or movies, or ... what's she wanna do while she's here?"

Devon

Devon knows how to feed herself. Cook food. She's at home with these things: it's only alchemy. She always stirs clockwise. Not much stirring to do with potatoes; she flips them over. They get crunchy and browned on the bottom. He eats his potatoes with ketchup; she shakes her head at him for that.

He asks about skiing; she glances up at him and shrugs. "Don't know. Maybe we'll go to town. We could go skiing. Snow-shoeing."

Rafael

Quiet a while. Thinks a while.

"Maybe I'll ask her in the morning." Wry, "Instead of asking you everything." He shoves another forkful of potatoes in, then stands. "Gonna go upstairs, brush my teeth. Come up soon, huh?"

Devon

She smirks a little, her mouth small and wry. "Maybe you should," she quips.

He's going to go. She reaches out with her foot and tries to snag his leg with her toes. It does not work very well and she nearly tips her chair over. "Don't go," she murmurs. "Take me upstairs."

Picks up her plate. "With these."

Rafael

He huffs a laugh. Comes back; catches her ankle gently in his hand. Follows it up to her calf, knee, thigh; picks her up from there, scooping her up off the chair.

"Grab a couple bottles of water," he says.

Devon

They've done this before. He scoops her up and carries her around and touches her any way he can on the way. Devon holds her plate and stares at him when he suggests she also grab water. She holds up her plate. Says nothing, just a nonverbal duh.

Rafael

"Just drop them on your lap," he suggests helpfully. "Not like I've got spare hands."

Devon

"Can't even grab them," she says, because she's holding a plate. "Stop being a toss, we'll drink it from the tap."

Rafael

"Hell's a toss?" he wants to know. Gives up on the bottled water idea. Heads out of the kitchen, down the hall, up the main staircase because neither of them have the hands to open a door.

His house seems vast in the darkness; corners of the great room almost too distant to be seen in the gloom. Curtains are still drawn back and the moon shines in, gleams off the floor. Second-floor hallway's more enclosed, rooms on either side. In one of them sleeps her mother. None of the servants sleep up here, though. They have their own quarters down below.

Hardwood flooring creaks a little. He's barefoot, has been since fucking her and going upstairs and washing up and changing. They get to his quarters and there's a small struggle with the door, but they manage. He kicks the door shut behind him, sets her down on the bed. Turns on a dim bedside lamp and goes to draw the curtains.

Devon

They never turned on more than the stove overhead light. It's dark. Devon eats a few potatoes with her fingers but then tucks her head against Rafael's shoulder lovingly, listening to his heartbeat. Listening to him breathe. He carries her with such confidence; his arms never shake. His muscles don't tremble. She feels comforted. She feels protected. She feels terribly drunk, and it's lovely.

Soon enough she opens her eyes and they are in his room. She is carried right to the bed, not the parlor or the sitting area or anything else. So she holds her plate high and kicks off her boots and then tucks her legs up, sitting cross legged and eating the rest of her buttery, crunchy-edged potatoes with adoration. She watches him, closing the curtains, and tips her head. She wonders why but then remembers the sun will come up in only a few hours and it will stream full and rich and intense through the glass soon enough. She wants to sleep, instead.

Never did bother telling him what a toss is. She licks her fingers. She is lazy and eventually they get glasses from the bathroom, drink cold water from the tap, clear and crisp and with no need for a filter, not here, not in these mountains. She shuffles to the bathroom to wipe her makeup off her face. Devon brushes her teeth. She leaves her clothes in piles on the floor as she shuffles lazily back to the bed. She starts to lie down and then gets up, shuffling back to the bathroom to pee.

She comes back and isn't wearing anything at all, not even the sparkley panties she had on before. Comes back with her softly curled hair and her naked, pale body and her pert breasts and luminous eyes and slips into his bed beside him and tucks herself against his hard, warm side and immediately --

hits the pillow. Falls asleep.

Devon

Night of the party she flops into bed sweet and soft and near, her nakedness a rare treat, almost an invitation, but for the fact that she promptly falls asleep in the crook of his arm.

Wakes up cuddly, though. Wakes up nuzzling him and snuggling against him and touching him until she's kissing him, and sliding on top of him. She's a little hungover. She's slow and tender and fucks almost sleepily, until it starts to wake her up. Faster, then, holding herself above him, panting at him to touch her, play with her.

There are worse ways to start a morning.

--

Or really: there are worse ways to start almost-afternoon. There has already been some significant cleanup throughout the mansion. Devon doesn't take any strange concoctions today to cure her hangover, just takes it like a normal human. And when they meet up with her mother for a late breakfast, perhaps he can see why: her mother is a bit hungover.

Her mother is also a normal human. Not a drop of wolf's blood in her, not a speck of witchery. And her mother, thick hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and face washed clean, sips coffee while her daughter has tea. They both have buttered toast and fruit. They share a plate of cold cuts and cheeses, eating with their fingers and chatting quietly about the party, or: more frequently, simply eating in companionable silence.

Perhaps this suits Rafael just fine. Neither woman makes an attempt to engage him in perky morning conversation, as neither woman is perky this morning or all that conversational. No full English breakfast here: neither woman really considers herself English, though Katia has lived there longer than anywhere else.

Perhaps they make plans for the day, or no plans at all. Devon has her hair in two long braids, her eyeliner light but winged, her freckles shining on a clean face. She is dressed in tank top and oversized flannel, soft leggings and those fuzzy boots of hers, and the morning and early afternoon pass by quietly in the mansion, with at least two of them recovering from drinking and dancing.

Perhaps later, though, they go on a walk: strapping on modern, space-age snowshoes and heading out into the tracts of land that technically belong to Rafael but are, nonetheless, primarily wild. Perhaps later they just walk down to the pond and breathe clouds of steam into the pristine silence. Perhaps they stay in all day, with a fire in the hearth, books taken from the library, eating when they are hungry and talking when they have something to say, or going down to the theater to watch some old movie, or playing Uno. Or Scrabble.

It is very different from the Boston house, with all the children and noise and fiery Fianna energy filling up every corner. It is quieter, and more mundane, and perhaps more shy but no less welcoming. He can see where Devon got her introversion and shyness as much as, in Boston, he could see where she gets her temper, her magic, her wildness. He can see where she gets that tenderness first exhibited when she put that strange balm on his wounds -- not because they would not heal otherwise, but because she couldn't stand to see him wincing in pain. Katia is like that, too; when Devon murmurs something about her head hurting, Katia's eyes flash with empathetic ache. She holds her daughter's head in her lap and strokes her hair. She lays a cool hand on the back of Devon's neck until the girl's eyes fall closed.

He can see it clearly: all the things Katia gave her, other than that thick black hair.

Rafael

No real plans are laid. Wolf asks, over that light breakfast, if Katia wants to do anything. Go for a walk. Go for a ride on a snowmobile? Go for a ski, go to the village, go to a sauna, watch a movie ... what? He wants to be a good host. He wants, girl might be able to sense, to be a good boyfriend, make a good impression on her mother.

Not just because she told him to. Because he wants to. Because girl's mother is so important to girl, and girl is so important to him.

Ends up being a quiet, gentle sort of day. They're all a little hung over. They're all a little worn out, maybe, from pretending at extroversion the day before. Watching a movie, wolf snacks on an apple. Standing out in the crisp winter air, he holds girl's hand through their gloves, and maybe she holds her mother's.

--

There is tenderness in Katia, which has passed into her daughter. Wolf recognizes that quiet love, the simple empathy of touch. Girl's sleeping like a child, he thinks. And thinking that, asks:

"She do that when she was a kid? Curl up in your lap?"

Devon

Girl is dozing. But he thinks she's sleeping. Close enough. She doesn't open her eyes. Maybe she doesn't hear him.

He asks. Katia looks over at him and smiles a little, with a sort of awkward, sad note that is hard to unpack. "Of course, yes." She speaks softly, and perhaps not only because Devon is dozing. There is a softness to her tone he can imagine someone using with an animal one is uncertain about, but it is notable that her first instinct is to lower her voice, to be gentle with such an animal, who may very well bite her. "She loooves to sleep," Katia says, with fondness and amusement, elongating the word, her accent bleeding through. It is English, Londoner, but it is not: it is hers.

Rafael

Wolf reflects on that a bit. Does she love to sleep? He's actually not sure.

"Loves old movies too," he replies. It's a sort of exchange: like for like, in both senses of the word.

Devon

Katia smiles over at him, her hand still moving methodically, comfortingly over Devon's hair. "Yes," she agrees, nodding. Looks back down at her daughter for a moment, then over to Rafael. "And you? She says you watch movies with her."

Rafael

"Like watching them with her," he says. A couple moments' pause. "Probably wouldn't on my own. Didn't, before I met her."

Devon

Her head tips to the side. Her hand is hypnotic, never ceasing; no wonder Devon is asleep. "What did you do?" she asks him, not unkindly. Nudging, but not probing. "Before you met her?"

Rafael

For a horrible moment wolf's afraid girl's mother is about to ask how he met girl. Doesn't know how to answer that. Is afraid he might tell the truth.

She doesn't ask that, though. Asks about something else, just a little easier to answer. Wolf's eyes shift. Then he takes a breath, measured, like he means to relax.

"Moved around a lot," he says. "Didn't grow up with ... all this. Lived most my life without all this, actually. When I met Devon, I'd just inherited it. Before that, mostly spent my life trying to keep my head above water. In one way or another."

Devon

What did she tell her mother, over a year ago, about how she met this boy? Devon's never told him what her mother does and doesn't know: only that she is mortal. Only that she doesn't know what Devon's father really was. What Devon's boyfriend really is.

Katia's eyes are dark but innocent. She is patient. She seems to understand: he is nervous. She is his girlfriend's mother. And he is shy. Awkward.

So she nods, at his answer, thoughtful and sympathetic. "But... for fun?" she asks, perhaps to clarify. "What do you enjoy, Rafael? The way she likes old movies, sleep, being outside." Her eyes twinkle a little. "And her whiskey."

Rafael

I like fighting.

I like hunting.

I like killing things that deserve to die.

How the hell is he supposed to answer that? His eyes flick at her, then away. Those answers are obviously unacceptable. He casts about for something else to say; discovers, somewhat pitifully, that he can't think of much he does for fun. Some boyfriend. Some normal human being. No hobbies, no interests. And now it's been seconds on end. She must think he's so weird.

"I like muffins." He almost blurts it, having finally latched onto something semi-acceptable. "Don't know how to bake though."

Devon

Could fudge it. Could pretend he has the silvered tongue of a diplomat or the friendly misdirection of a host, but Rafael is neither. He looks uncomfortable, and Katia is confused, at first, and feels a little bad for putting him on the spot when he clearly doesn't like talking about himself.

He likes muffins. And she almost laughs, just because it's so sudden and strange. He doesn't know how to how bake.

"Of course," she says, amused, trying to hold back her chuckles. "You like food, big one like you."

Devon grumbles at her pillow -- her mother's thigh -- shaking from her giggles. She protests nonverbally, then opens one squinting eye. Peers over at Rafael. Peers up at her mom. "What're you talking about?"

Katia smiles at her. "You."

Devon scowls pitifully. "Stoppit," she grumbles, and looks over at Rafael. "You hungry?"

At this, Katia bursts into laughter again, covering her mouth with her hand.

Rafael

Wolf doesn't quite burst into laughter, but even he snorts a guffaw. Looks away, like maybe he needs to hide his humor from the world.

Looks back. Can't fake the smile he gives her, small and wry as it is. "Your mom's gonna laugh if I say yes."

Devon

Which only makes Katia burst into fresh peals of laughter. Devon scowls at Rafael. "Already laughing," she corrects him, and then pulls herself up slowly, rubbing her cheek a bit. Katia settles enough to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.

"I'm hungry," Devon clarifies, and tucks herself up on the couch, leaning against her mum's shoulder. Cuddly thing, she is. He knows that, though: sometimes she is quite entitled when it comes to curling up on his chair, in his lap, taking up space against him and beside him. "Why don't we go to town?"

Rafael

Wolf doesn't quite burst into laughter, but even he snorts a guffaw. Looks away, like maybe he needs to hide his humor from the world.

Looks back. Can't fake the smile he gives her, small and wry as it is. "Your mom's gonna laugh if I say yes."

Rafael

"Yeah, all right." Rubs his palms idly over his knees, stretches, gets up. "There's a rib joint. They give you a bib."

lame party, fishing shack, hallway.

Rafael van der Valk

Morning, and there's breakfast laid out and waiting downstairs no matter if girl's mother woke first. Fresh-cut fruit and pastries, eggs and bacon over a warmer.

Soon enough he's awake, coming downstairs to tuck silently into his breakfast, perhaps grunting a hello. Muttering a few words about the plan: driver'll take them and their luggage up into the mountains. Spend the next few days there, celebrating the holiday. Maybe some sledding or snowmobiling or what have you. A party: which seems odd too, taciturn as he is. Hardly seems the sort to want to entertain.

Their suitcases fill up the trunk of the car. It's the same vehicle girl saw him in, first night they met; sort of car you'd expect to see some magnate or politician in, conservative lines, tinted windows, extended-cab with a spacious back seat. Enough room that it wouldn't feel terribly crowded even with all three of them back there.

Wolf rides in the front seat regardless. They keep the partition down. On the way up wolf naps for the first hour or so, then wakes as they begin to wind into the mountains. He tries to play the good host. Points out a few sights. They even stop at one point, a scenic spot where they can look back, see all the city and the plains beyond it laid out below.

--

If the townhouse was nice, the mountain estate is truly impressive -- sprawling, stately, private. Perhaps girl's mother wonders about him, this boyfriend of her daughter's. Where he gets his money from, when he doesn't appear to work. Why or how he lives this way, and in this day and age. He shows her to her rooms, plural; a suite of well-appointed rooms not too far from the master wing. There are more servants here. Girl's mother has her own maid. She is waited on. She is taken care of. It might be odd for her. It's still odd for the wolf, sometimes.

They have a day to settle in. In the late afternoon, when the sun begins to dip below the shoulders of the mountains, wolf takes them for a walk. He leads them through the snowy woods, down to the frozen lake. Far across the waters are the lights of the little mountain village, busy now with the ski season in full swing. They can go there sometime, he mentions. Maybe get dinner there.

--

House is usually so quiet. No, let's call it what it is: mansion's usually so quiet. Just wolf, girl, and a host of servants who are archaically adept at serving. Night of the party, it's so different. Front doors thrown open. String upon string of tiny twinkling lights hung everywhere. Streamer and tinsels, candles, lamps.

There isn't a single overt reference to Christianity, or Christ, or the Nativity, or the Star of Bethlehem, or Santa Claus anywhere. There is a tree, decorated and towering in the ballroom where the festivities are centered, and as the guests arrive more and more gifts pile up. There are a lot of guests. They all bring gifts. More than a few of them go out of their way to give girl something personally. Little gifts, accompanied by a squeeze of the hand, a gentle hug, so happy for you. There's a certain sense of deference there, or perhaps tribute: it's something that girl might understand instinctively. Girl's mother wouldn't.

Night goes on and the refreshment tables are restocked again and again. Waiters circulate with snacks, drinks. Lights burn lower and the fire in the hearth burns higher and now people are dancing, people are wandering the halls and the corridors and the many, many rooms. Wolf made sure to lock their bedchambers; everything else is fair game. Laughter drifts from the hidden corners of the house. The guests are tipsy and falling on each other, sometimes on purpose.

Wolf finds himself alone for a while. He slips outside. Cold night air is bracing, energizes him. Chatter and noise fades when the door closes. Big moon tonight; sheens off the ice on the lake. Beautiful.

Devon Paredes

Katia does not wake first -- jet lag. She stirs, but sleeps again, unaware of just how powerful her daughter's magic is. Unaware, in fact, that the lotion she smoothed onto her hands and arms last night was magic at all. The soporific was perhaps a bit too strong, because she sleeps through most of breakfast. By the time Katia wakes, Devon and Rafael have already eaten. Devon is heading upstairs and slipping into the guest room and tucking into bed beside her mum, chatting with her a bit.

On the way up to the mountains, after Katia has had a chance to eat and so on, Devon hangs out in the back with her, napping on her mother's lap. Katia, well-rested now, strokes Devon's hair and watches this vast landscape unfold around them. They stop for a snack and Katia takes pictures. The driver takes pictures of the three of them with mountains behind them, Devon in the middle between her mother and her boyfriend.

--

There is little guile in Katia Paredes. She is impressed by the mansion, and she says so. She comments how much room he has, and how vast. She asks him if he ever gets lonely. She doesn't ask about where he gets his money. She knows, because of Devon, that Rafael inherited a lot from his mother, who he didn't get to know, and it's weird and there's family stuff and sometimes he feels awkward about being so rich. And she would not press on his wound like that; her daughter conceals much of her inability to see the suffering of others, but Katia has come to terms with it. And Katia is, in her way, far gentler a soul than Devon.

She is very interested in the house and the layout and what rooms Rafael likes. She asks him what he likes to do up here and logistical questions that they soon realize that only Rafael's servants truly know the answers to: how do they get the shopping done? Do people stay here when he isn't? She is softspoken but curious, and asks a lot about the party tonight. And she is very, very nice to the maid. It is odd. But she makes a new friend with the maid, and the maid is far more awkward about it than Katia is.

--

Devon is staying in Rafael's room with him. It's weird; she's never done that in the mansion.

--

The party.

It's bizarre, seeing people come and come and come and come and come. Katia is wearing a dark blue dress with a lace overlay and three-quarter sleeves; it's a little retro, a little bit late-1950s cocktail party. It suits her; she has her hair done and a fresh manicure that matches. She, with her daughter, did shots in the kitchen before the party, and don't tell Rafael. But they are giddy when they join him, after he's greeted some of these guests. Or, more likely: awkwardly stared at them.

Devon is not dressed for a holiday party in terms of color or shape of her dress. It's conservative for her. Long sleeves, not low cut. It's very sequined. It fits her body and it's quite short but she's wearing black tights underneath and in some ways she doesn't quite look like herself. This is a fancy party and when she comes over to Rafael and people are giving her gifts she's not giddy anymore but giving them weird looks, not sure what to do. When they try to touch her she's visibly dismayed, pulling backwards, on the verge of the same sort of what the fuck that she gave Rafael when he offered her ten thousand dollars to sleep with her.

In between a couple of guests, she looks up at him, equally confused. She doesn't understand a fucking bit of this behavior. It's obvious how uncomfortable it is for her. She's checking him: does it make sense to him. Does he get it. What the fuck.

Katia is not there; this is not her home, and she doesn't greet guests. She mills about. An older gentleman talks to her and they chat a bit. But if she did see the gifts, the deference, she would understand the intention better than Devon does.

Oddly enough.

--

Devon is hard to find, sometimes, in the crowd. She slips away from Rafael and the people. Drifts in and out. Then drifts out. And then for some time indeed, he can't find her at all. Can't smell her, after all. Hard to sense her purity when so many here have a touch of wolf's blood. But somewhere in this enormous house is Devon, and he hasn't seen her in perhaps an hour. Maybe longer.

Katia is dancing; perhaps he asks. Katia hasn't seen her either, tells him not to worry, she'll turn up. It's just such a big house, and Devon is so small in comparison. Katia laughs at that.

Katia is also drinking, and does not have anything close to her daughter's alcohol tolerance, especially at this altitude. The gentleman with her is quite... gentlemanly, though; he is the one to offer Devon's mother his arm when she's tipsy, asking if she'd like to get some air.

--

Rafael wants some air. Goes outside. Looks at the moon, watches it from the lake.

Sees, or smells, from the corner of his eye, a rising curl of smoke.

Rafael van der Valk

Most of the questions girl's mother asks, he can't answer. He's awkward when she comments on the grandeur of his estate, mutters something noncommittal and changes the subject. He's awkward when she asks about loneliness, too, because the answer is yes and the answer is no. In the end he just shrugs: used to it. He has no idea about the shopping, though he does know that yes, people stay here when he isn't here, and some of them have been here for years and years, since his mother first moved here. Far longer than he's been here, to be certain. Some of them have even had children, raised them here. Some of the children went off to college, to the world. Some of them stayed, became part of the staff themselves. It's fucking feudal.

--

Wolf's in that tuxedo he was trying on back in Denver. He looks good in it, because he is a Silver Fang and Silver Fangs look good in ... anything. He wears it awkwardly, though, fiddling often with the cufflinks, the collar, until he's had sufficiently many drinks that he forgets to fidget.

There isn't much greeting of the guests. He leaves that up to his butler, which isn't the best form, but then: these people don't really care. They're not Silver Fangs. They're not royalty, or nobility, or even bluebloods in any sense. In centuries past they'd be townsfolk, villagers, peasants from the fields gathered for a solstice celebration at the lord's castle. These aren't the centuries past, but wolf's mother ran her territory like it was. Wolf tries to: if only because the people have come to expect it. Strange, that this self-avowed disliker-of-people is trying to make the people happy.

Or maybe he just thinks it'll make girl happy. Or girl's mother. Or something.

--

Night air, cold and clear. Smell of woodsmoke, which isn't unusual. Lots of people light fires up in the mountains, in the winter. It's what you do. Smoke rising from somewhere not-a-chimney, though: that's rarer. And after a while he notices it, sharpens his eyes on it, straightens. Takes a last drink of whatever-it-is he's drinking; sets it on the stone balustrade.

Quick glance around. Terrace is all but empty. Too cold for guests to chatter under the moon; almost everyone's inside, except for a few miserable smokers huddling over their tiny addictions. They're out front, though. No one's watching, so wolf plants a hand on the balustrade and vaults over it, lands a good six or eight feet below. Soft snow puffs out from his impact; packs down as he starts walking, following the smoke. He puts his hands in his pockets.

Devon Paredes

Smoke rising from not-a-chimney. Not woodsmoke, either. Thin, small curl. Obviously, immediately identifiable, though without the pungent, acrid-sweet smell of weed. Just a cigarette. Just a normal, everyday thing.

Rafael follows it. No reason. Except perhaps a hunch.

Not with the other miserable smokers but around the way, off on her own, sitting on a little stone bench on a little cobbled spot with some planters and some other adornments, a bit of garden, a place to sit and look at the view. She's there, wearing some enormous and long camel-colored wool coat pulled from the cloak room. Belongs to a man, belongs to some stranger. Devon didn't even hesitate.

Hell; she took the cigarettes and lighter out of the coat pocket after she stole the coat and came out here, wrapped up it in, covering her long legs and huddling as she smokes that stranger's cigarettes for him.

Looks over when she sees Rafael coming. Takes another light drag.

Rafael van der Valk

Stupid but some other man's coat on her, some other man's scent about her, makes wolf frown. Then he banishes it. Knows it's stupid; no one put that on her, just like no one took that off her way back when. Just stole it out the coat closet, mooch that she is.

He walks toward her. No attempt to mask his approach, and when she looks over he takes a hand out of his pocket to wave. Takes a seat next to her, eventually, cupping his hands together and blowing into the hollow of his palms.

"Too loud inside?"

Devon Paredes

Devon would offer him the cigarette, but last time she remembers smoking around him he grabbed the thing out of her hand and threw it away and it was the point when she never wanted to see him again because he scared her, and he liked seeing her flinch, and she fucking hated him.

Weird memory to have right now; she looks aside. Blows smoke into the night.

Shrugs one shoulder at his question, shakes her head a little. "Too weird."

Rafael van der Valk

That stings him, though he doesn't know why. Looks away. Almost silent out here. Songbirds all gone for the winter. Animals hibernating or sleeping in their dens. Stillness far as the eye can see, except for the evergreens moving softly in the night wind.

"Your mom looks like she's having fun, at least," he says after a while.

Devon Paredes

"Yeah."

That's all Devon says to that. It's a confirmation; her mum is having fun. She doesn't hear that he's stung. Doesn't sense it.

Smokes in silence for a while.

Asks, after ashing the cigarette to the side and turning her head to look at him: "Why did those people try to hug me?"

Rafael van der Valk

"What?" Takes him a minute to remember, figure out what she's talking about. "Oh."

Pause.

"You're gonna think it's weird."

Devon Paredes

Her eyebrows lift slightly. "Already do," she reminds him. "S'why I'm asking."

Rafael van der Valk

Wolf presses his lips together. Looks off through the trees again, that glint of the frozen lake beyond.

"They probably figure I've taken a mate. Want to welcome her proper or something."

Devon Paredes

Nothing, to that. Not a sniff or a smirk or a huff. Devon says nothing. She watches the lake with him. The stillness. The silence with the backdrop of endless noise: clinking glasses, laughter, music.

"Oh."

Quiet again.

"How... how'd they even know about me?"

Rafael van der Valk

A shrug. "Don't know. Staff talk. Word gets out. Some of them might even remember you from last time." Another pause. "It bother you?"

Devon Paredes

"Just weird," she says. "Not like we're sending out wedding invitations."

Smokes. She's using lots of words to say yes. Yes, it bothers her.

"Random fucks hugging me, too. It's just weird."

Rafael van der Valk

Here's the thing. Sometimes he can feel it coming: that snap of his temper, before it happens. Not a thing he can do about it, though. It still snaps. He still stands, abruptly and brusquely.

"Don't know what you expect me to do about it," he says. "Wasn't like I saw it coming and didn't warn you. Wasn't like I wanted to inherit my mother's personal little fiefdom up in the hills."

Devon Paredes

Devon closes her eyes. Reaches up with her cigarette-holding hand, the thing held between two fingers, and rubs at the crease between her brows with her thumb. Exhales through that nose, sighing.

"Want to fight me, then?" she asks, before her eyes open. She opens them a moment later, shaking her hair back, looking up at him. Gesticulates a bit with her cigarette. "Boxing or fencing? What's it to be? Who's running the books?"

It's a joke.

We'll see how it lands.

Rafael van der Valk

It lands ... somewhere short of its mark, neither well nor poorly. Wolf just stares at her, baffled and frowning.

"What are you talking about?"

Devon Paredes

Lifts her shoulders, which stick out too widely from her body because of the man's coat. Shrugs them, lets them fall. "You want to pick a fight. Figured we could make a show of it for the party, get a little money on the side."

Rafael van der Valk

Wolf sighs. And looks away. And looks back. And sits again after a moment, slowly.

"Don't want to pick a fight," he says, low. "Just don't like it when you call all this weird. This is my life is now. Nothing I can do about that. Besides. You're the one that wanted to bring your mom up here, show off. So I'm showing off."

Devon Paredes

He sits. So there's that.

But when he starts talking, she looks away. Shakes her head, and smokes some more.

Mutters: "Full. Of. Shit."

Rafael van der Valk

He rounds on her, snaps: "What?"

Devon Paredes

At that, she flinches. Moves away, instinctive, turning her head towards him but downcast, so she can see him but not look him in the eye -- not that any of these little survival mechanisms would help her. Not with him.

She exhales again. Looks in the man's pockets, fidgeting. "You can do whatever you want about your life," she mutters. "And I didn't make you throw a party. Didn't even know about it 'til yesterday. So don't blame me for that, either."

Rafael van der Valk

He winces to see her flinch. What was it he said once? Liked seeing her flinch? Something like that. A callous, vicious thing to say. A lie. Never did like it; hated it, hated her for it, hated himself for it more.

He sets elbows on knees, rubs his face in his hands. Drops his hands and looks at her.

"Not blaming you for it. But I was trying to ... to make a good impression. Or something. You said something like that, that I should try to impress your mom. And you wanted to come up here. So I wanted to do something. And people who run my house told me my mother used to do things like this, and I figured ... why not. Thought you might like it. You were always sneaking into those other parties. Thought you'd like that I got your mom a gift too.

"Christ." Suddenly he's frustrated again; tears savagely at his collar, strips the bow-tie off and flings it into the bushes. "This is stupid. Don't know why I tried."

Devon Paredes

Hurts, to see him like this. Not because it hurts her, not because he's saying mean things. Hurts because she gets it, instantly and twistingly. Hurts because she loves him, or even simply because she hates to see people hurt. Sees it a lot, and it exhausts her when she's reading for them. Could make two hundred bucks an hour, could do that plenty, but it's too draining. Seeing other people in pain wrings her out.

No wonder she has so few friends.

Her brow is wrinkled. She crushes the tip of the cigarette against the stone bench beside her. Ashes and scorch marks. What the fuck is wrong with her?

Then her hand is on his mid-back. Just rests there. Doesn't rub, yet.

"It's just... different, babe," she says quietly. "Not the same as sneaking in. I'm sorry you don't like hearing it. But it's weird for me, strangers treating me like that. Being all..." a pause. She clarifies her own thoughts before she says anything else. Exhales: "Feeling like I have to act like a hostess. Or wife. Or something." She flinches away from the words. He can hear it in her voice. Like she's scared, well and truly, just to brush up against these thoughts.

Rafael van der Valk

There are lean columns of muscle flanking his spine. She knows they're there because she's seen them; felt them beneath her hands. Feels them now, tensing to her touch. Then relaxing, his back rounding.

"You don't," he says. "Don't have to act like a hostess or a wife. I'm not acting much like a host. Or a husband. They're still in there having a good time. No skin off their back. Probably prefer it this way.

"Fuck it." Wolf straightens up. "There's a fishing hut down that way. Might even be some booze stashed away. You wanna go?"

Devon Paredes

All up and down the core of her body and into her throat, Devon feels tight. Twisted and coiled and ill at ease. She doesn't really feel comforted, and he can tell by the way she lets her hand fall when he straightens, though she doesn't mean to pull away. She just looks at him as he tells her about the fishing hut, about booze.

Devon doesn't know what to say. Wariness rolls off of her in almost visible waves. She says nothing instead. She just shrugs a little.

Rafael van der Valk

[empafee!: wat?]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 6, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )

Devon Paredes

[1: the wariness! she expects him to get mad/yell at her/storm off + this is why she isn't saying anything.

2: the discomfort! she's weirded out + doesn't feel like that's okay/doesn't feel any better about it. feels like he's not connecting with her on it/doesn't understand her. which is sad. also sad is that he clearly wanted to Do Good and she knows he feels Bad and Why Bother and she doesn't know what to do to make him not-sad, so... again, just not feeling like they're connecting or helping each other with their sads.

3: deep down, she's scared of how serious their relationship is, and scared of losing him so she'd better not tell him she's scared of it being so serious, and that is also why she's not saying anything.]

Rafael van der Valk

Her wariness pulls a sigh out of him, equal parts frustrated and -- something else. Defeated?

"Just want to get out of the cold," he says. "And don't want to go back inside right now. We can go down there. Light a fire. Have a drink. Talk, if you want. Figure this out."

Devon Paredes

"Oh," she says.

He doesn't usually want to talk.

She had no idea there was a way to light a fire in the fishing hut.

Devon takes a breath.

"Will you hug me?"

Rafael van der Valk

There isn't a single beat's hesitation. He puts his arm around her, hugs her roughly and firmly against his side.

Devon Paredes

[perception + empathy: general read, no spec]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 7, 7, 7, 7, 9) ( success x 5 )

Rafael

[this is a response to the epic empathy read:

- he would like to go be alone with her somewhere. in fact, when he first approached her, he was glad to see she'd left the crowd and thought they could spend some time together. he still hopes for that; truth is although he said they could go talk, she can probably tell he'd rather just curl up in a fishing shack with her

- maybe a little deeper: he is/was pretty sensitive about her calling the ... weird feudal aspects of his lifestyle weird. she may be able to infer, given 329487293879 succ, that it's because he feels like she's calling him weird (or bad or unacceptable) by corollary.

- up to you if she can infer this or not: to some degree it also upsets/frustrates him that on one hand she'll happily take advantage of his privilege, but then express disdain/disapproval of it when it crosses over some boundary that he can't quite figure out.

- pretty deep in there is that he does want her to like/enjoy/approve of him/his lifestyle/etc. he wants to make her happy.]

Devon

Down in Denver, even in December, it's not all that cold. It's frigid up here, outside, under the pale moonlight. There's a thin film of ice across the snow giving every footstep a crunch. That's why she stole some guy's overcoat before coming outside. But when Rafael hugs her, fierce and sudden and firm, she feels warmth suffuse her skin. She can feel him even through the heavy wool, the thick lining. She closes her eyes; her hair is cold against his chin.

"Let's go," she says, after a moment, and he finds that her arm is around his waist, her hand hiding under his tuxedo jacket.

They go. Rafael leads the way; Devon didn't even know there was a fishing hut here. She's in high heels; unless there is a path and unless that path is cleared, it's possible he may have to carry her. She may even ask him to. It's not as though he isn't strong enough.

Rafael

Truth is he may or may not have known there was a fishing hut out here for days, weeks, maybe months. Maybe happened upon it on day. Comes up here with far greater frequency than she does, and not just because there are Things To Take Care Of. Comes up here because he likes it, the vastness, the silence, the solitude. Runs on four paws, sniffs things out, discovers little things on his own territory that he never knew was there.

Like this fishing hut that he leads her to. Hand in hand first, then scooping her up and carrying her as the snow gets deeper, as the slope gets steepier. Nearer the edge of the lake the terrain levels out again, and he sets her down. There's a path here, nearly buried in the snow. It leads through the dense evergreens to a small hut, sturdy and squat. Walls are stout logs. A stone chimney marks a hearth. Roof is steeply slanted nearly to the ground, but still snow has accumulated atop in a thick white blanket.

Couple racks outside where one might hang fresh-caught fish, but they're empty now. Plenty of firewood stacked against the wall. Still a ways to the lake proper -- a hundred paces or more, thinning screen of trees between. Down at the water's edge there's a little mooring. Unsurprisingly, given the frozen lake, there's no boat to be seen.

No one's been down this way for weeks. Wolf has to pound on the door mightily to crack the ice open. Inside it's frigid, but at least out of the wind. There's a crude stone hearth, a table that probably serves as an all-purpose surface, a bed under an exceedingly dusty bedspread. Perhaps surprisingly, a single electric lamp hangs over the table.

"Got a generator," wolf says. "Want me to turn it on?"

Devon

Scoops her up like a fucking bride. Nevermind that he's in shined dress shoes, tuxedo pants; he trudges through the snow and takes her to level earth. She walks carefully, because even with the moonlight her eyes don't see as well in darkness as his. Holds his hand tightly. She smells of tobacco and night air and alcohol and another man, but her hand is familiar. Her touch is. He knows her, even in the dark. Found her once just by knowing her, understanding her, better than either of them sometimes realize or remember.

It's a cute little house, she thinks. She likes huts. Read books about ancient life when she was a kid, those ones with the overlays so you could see cross-sections of castles and mud huts and all those things. Pirate ships, too. She goes inside with Rafael, still holding his hand, and it's dark inside. She wonders why there's a bed so close to the house.

Shrugs her shoulders. "Fire's fine," she says quietly.

Rafael

"Okay."

It's a signal for him to get busy. Maybe she didn't intend it that way, but he tromps back outside, gathers up a large armful of split firewood. Digs logs out from the middle of the pile, away from the layer of snow atop. Comes back in with dirt and splinters on his nice coat; drops the logs loudly by the hearth.

There's a little closet in the corner. All-purpose, the way the table seems to be. Wolf riffles around in there for a while and comes out with long matches. Stacks the wood and shoves some strips of bark at the bottom, lights those with a small handful of matches that he leaves in there for kindling. Soon enough the first long tongues of fire begin to lick at the wood proper, smoke drifting up the chimney.

Wolf crouches back on his heels, then sits crosslegged on the floor. Something hypnotic about fire, always. He watches it, half-transfixed, as it catches and grows.

Devon

Didn't intend it that way. But she doesn't mind; she sits on the edge of the little bed, wrapped in the coat, blowing on her hands. She thinks of lighting another cigarette but guesses he might not like it. She wraps her arms around herself and waits. Watches him as he comes back in, hauling wood, and something about this feels... familiar. And strange. And comforting.

He begins building a fire. She watches. He sits on the ground; she sits on the bed. It takes a little while -- though not as long as one might think -- for the heat to begin building in the hut, and in that time they are both silent. When it feels right, Devon comes over to him. He can hear the rustle of wool. She sits beside him. Settles beside him, her legs tucked up into the coat. She took off her shoes at some point. She sort of wishes she had brought a flask. Would be nice to share something right now. But she has nothing to offer him.

They stare at the fire. It grows, and consumes, relentlessly.

"It's not because you're rich," Devon says quietly, after a time. "Don't care about that." She doesn't mention her roommate, but it's inferred, perhaps; Naomi is rich, too. Just... different. Nothing feudal about the nouveau riche. The trust fund babies. The hipster elite. She tips her head against his arm, rests on his shoulder.

Rafael

There's booze stashed away somewhere here, but he's forgotten about it. Maybe he put it here sometime after he discovered the place. Maybe whoever built it, fished here, camped here. Likely not wolf's mother; can't imagine someone so royal and ruthless deigning to drink in a hut, let alone overnight in one. Well; it doesn't matter.

She comes over. He turns his head a little, but it's hard to pull his eyes from the flames. She sits close by and he draws a thoughtless breath, tries instinctively for the millionth time to catch some scent. There is none. He is comforted by her closeness nonetheless. Closes his eyes when she leans against him.

Turns his head then, nuzzles her hair. Exhales into it, a warm and humid puff.

What she says is incomplete; an answer to a conversation he's either forgotten or she's had in her mind. He tries to piece it together: "Don't love me for my money, that what you're saying?"

Devon

"No," she says, perhaps too sharply, perhaps a little drunkenly. "Mean... you being rich isn't what feels weird."

Rafael

"What, then?"

Devon

"Don't understand it," she says gruffly, roughly, squirmingly. "Don't like it. Doesn't feel like... me. Don't want to be a part of it. Don't want to be a... queen."

Only word she can think of. Queen to his King. Or his consort. Doesn't want to be seen that way. Doesn't want to be given gifts, be revered, be honored because of who she's fucking. There's a lot of ways she can put it, but that is the one she lands on. She is not meant to rule. It's not in her to rule. Or be attended to.

Devon turns her head against him, hides her face. There is something she's not saying, but only because there is something else right now more important for her to say: "It's not about you. It's... I don't see you as part of that. Or it being a part of you. So I say it's weird; I keep thinking you'll say 'yeah, it is weird' because you understand."

Rafael

He thinks about it for a while, watching the fire. Shadows dance on the wall: their silhouettes, stretched over the rough logs, the exposed rafters.

"It is weird," he says. Or admits. "Seemed weirder when I first got here. Didn't know how to stop it, or if I even should. Guess I just started getting used to it after a while. Stopped thinking about it as much."

Devon

"Didn't think you could fire your staff. But you did."

She's quiet. She has her head lifted up now, is watching the fire.

"Worry you're going to change," she says softly.

Rafael

He frowns at that. Glances at her, down and to the side, but she's watching the fire now. He can't see her eyes. "Change how?"

Devon

Now she's looking down. Her hair is glossy tonight, shiny somehow. Her mum helped her, and she helped her mum. Firelight reflects off of the curls around her cheeks.

"Be more like everyone back there," she mutters. "Want me to be someone I'm not."

Rafael

That makes him think again. A moment of silence. Then: "Don't want you to be some queen. Want you to be you.

"Want me to ... what, tell them to quit acting like this?"

Devon

"No. I don't care what they do. Just want you to not be mad at me because it makes me feel weird," she says, still staring half at the edge of the fire, half at the ground. The hearth. The heart of the fire, the base of it, the foundation. Where most of the heat lives. She mutters it. It's so simple, doesn't he see? She just doesn't want him to be mad at her. She just wants to be herself.

"They make me want to hide," she adds, quieter. "They don't know me. Don't want them to bother me. I want you. Didn't ask for them."

Rafael

Again a long pause. Wolf's not stupid -- but sometimes it seems human thoughts, human logic, moves through his mind slower than instinct would. Takes him a while to process it, see how A leads to B, see beyond the simple animal equations to understand what it is she wants. How it is she thinks.

In the end, just this, quiet: "Okay." He moves a little; nuzzles her. Closes his eyes a moment, face to her thick hair. Then looks back toward the fire, "I'll try."

Devon

Instinct is faster; he can sense when she's hot, when she's ready, and he knows it's time to fuck her. He can sense when the thing he's fighting realizes that he's stronger, and then he wants to kill it, kill, feel its blood down his throat. Instinct is easy. You don't need a brain the size that human beings have to operate solely on instinct.

But he spends so much time in this body, with this enormous brain. There has to be a reason he was made this way. More than just a wolf. More, far more, than just a man.

--

He nuzzles. She closes her eyes. Could tell him that it scares her to think of forever. When he says he doesn't know if she's for real. When people who revered his mother drop by and press gifts into her hands, try to touch her, because they think he's taken a mate. When she thinks that he wants her to be his, always. Could tell him she knows it's stupid and unfair, because she is simultaneously terrified of losing him, being abandoned, being left behind. Could admit that she knows it doesn't make sense, but please love her anyway.

Instead she closes her eyes. She nuzzles him back.

They are silent for a while. She doesn't even understand completely what he's going to try. Maybe just protecting her from Fang weirdos, Fang weirdness. Maybe just understanding her. Maybe just not being mad at her for being afraid. She is more tender than she likes to admit; she is often afraid.

"Can we just stay here for a while?" she asks, softly. "Not really my sort of party. Just want to hang with you."

Rafael

"Wasn't gonna go back anyway," he murmurs. Leans back, hands on the floor. "Maybe text your mom and let her know we didn't just ditch her. We can go back in the morning, or when most the guests go home."

He thinks a little while.

"Should get a rug in here. Ground's cold."

Devon

Devon gives a little laugh at that. "She's fine," she murmurs. "Everyone loves her."

She yawns. "Left my phone upstairs. We'll go back later."

Curls against him. "But you never need to come out here except when you throw parties." She closes her eyes. "You should be like Gatsby."

Rafael

"Yeah," he agrees. "Think she made like fifty friends tonight."

She says they'll go back later. He makes a little sound to agree. In the meantime, though, he makes no move to leave. Doesn't even get off the floor, cold as it is.

"Never saw that movie," he says automatically. And then, because he's not entirely ignorant: "Or read the book."

Devon

Devon shrugs. "Or one very good one," she adds, with a little smirk.

The fire warms her face. She realizes she needs to get the coat back to the cloak room before that guy tries to leave. She's not a total douchebag.

"It's dumb," she tells him, of the book. And movie. "Made me read it in high school."

Rafael

"Yeah? What's it about?"

Devon

"A liar," she says, after a moment. "A very rich liar. But he throws amazing parties and no one understands him."

Rafael

"Huh." More a grunt than anything, as wolf digests this little morsel. "Rather not be like Gatsby, all the same to you. Sounds terrible."

Devon

Devon laughs. "He's a romantic."

Rafael

"Yeah?" Wolf seems amused. Nuzzles her a little, sidelong but firm. "Still sounds terrible. That's why I'm not a romantic. Just straight-up practical fucking, here."

Devon

She pulls away from his shoulder. Fixes her eyes on him, frowning. It has nothing to do with Gatsby.

Rafael

That gets his attention. He sits forward, looks at her.

"What?"

Devon

"Don't say that," she tells him.

Rafael

"That's we're just fucking?" Wolf's brow furrows too. "Know that's not what I think, Devon."

Devon

"I know," she mutters, looking away. "Just don't like it, right now." Closes her eyes, leaning forward.

Rafael

"Hey," soft, "I'm sorry. Okay?"

Devon

Devon nods, "Yeah." It's okay. She breathes in, deeply, exhales but not with measured slowness. "Can I ask you something?"

Rafael

She's leaning forward. Her eyes are closed. Doesn't matter. He's still looking at her, alert, intent. "Yeah," he says; unconscious echo.

Devon

"D'you... want all this?"

Rafael

Catches him offguard. Doesn't even really know what she means, truth be told. "All what? All the money and houses and shit?"

Devon

"Not just that," Devon says, turning to look at him. "The... m'lord part of it." There's a beat. She frowns. "Not saying it's bad. Just can't figure out if you hate it or if you want it."

Rafael

Valid question. Strange that he's never considered it. Thinks about it now -- that beetled brow, that prolonged silence. Eventually he shakes his head a few times, but that's not an answer. Just an expression.

"Don't know," he says. "Sometimes I don't. Think it's weird, think it's like I'm not even living in the real world anymore when I come up here. But then sometimes, guess some part of me figures that's how my mother ran things. And maybe her mother before her. Then it makes me feel ... connected. In some little way. To that past that's supposedly my birthright, that I don't know a thing about."

Devon

Likes it when he thinks so hard. Even if his face gets all wrinkled. She stares at him, leans against him, smelling woodsmoke and nicotine. Smelling him, too, underneath it all.

All she does is listen. Devon has no judgement for it. No answer. She was the one asking the question, after all. She leans against his shoulder and exhales.

"I bet," she murmurs, after a while, "that your mother, and her mother, changed little things. Made it theirs. And if it makes you feel connected, you should do the same. Make it yours."

Rafael

And his brow unfurrows just a little. She can tell he's made some connection he hadn't before. That she sketched it out for him, and now he sees it.

"Yeah," he says, quiet. "Think I will."

Couple beats of quiet. Then, smiling, "Bet none of them ever snuck out of their own party to hang with some card-and-potion witch."

Devon

All she does is shrug to that. "Could be wrong."

Devon smirks to herself. She reaches into the pocket of the man's coat she's wearing. She pulls something out: a small baggie. Four joints inside. Tiny tings, wrapped in pale white skins. Smirks at Rafael.

Waggles the bag.

Rafael

There's a beat of surprised blankness. Then wolf laughs aloud, quick huff of breath and sound. He reaches out and snags the baggie, unapologetically pulling it open and fishing out a joint.

"You bring these, or they already in there?"

Devon

"Tucked inside his cigarette packet," Devon answers. Rafael doesn't seem dismayed at her stealing someone's drugs. Or coat. Or cigarettes. At least: he hasn't mentioned it. She closes the baggie again and puts it away once more, fishing out the lighter to hand over to him.

"Never gotten high with you before," she muses aloud.

Rafael

He smirks. "What, all those times I fucked you senseless don't count as getting high?"

Palms the lighter too. Flicks it a couple times before he gets a steady flame; puts the joint between his lips and lights up the twisted end. Tosses the lighter back at her while smoke is turning into smoulder, then puffs. Passes.

"Been a while since I smoked one," he muses. "Pretty nice coat there; wonder which respectable gent brought these."

Devon

"No," she says, dry as a bone. Flicks an eyebrow up at him, a bit of a challenge. He lights up; she takes the lighter back and tucks it away into a pocket. She takes the joint from him and gets to it, quiet. It's good weed; most is these days, at least in Colorado. Medicinal strength and quality in these joints, though. Goes straight to one's head.

Devon passes the joint back. She doesn't cough, but she sounds a little hoarse at first. "No idea. Just went for something that would cover my legs."

Rafael

"Well, didn't you get lucky."

Wolf takes another puff. Then pushes up off the floor -- "Right back." -- and crosses over to that all-purpose closet. Rummages around for a bit. Returns as promised, and bearing gifts: a bottle of Wild Turkey, which he lowers first into girl's reach, and an armful of something-soft that resolves into a rolled-up blanket, which he shakes out and lays on the ground.

And then, after he's made himself comfortable, he passes the joint back to her. Holds his hand out for the bottle instead.

Devon

She just smirks, but it's not sharp. She knows she's lucky. In lots of ways. "Hey," she says, right as he's saying he'll be back, and getting up, taking the joint with him. She turns around, watching him get dust and dirt all over his tuxedo, til he comes back with a bottle.

Her hand comes up and wraps around the base of the Wild Turkey, and Devon shakes her head as she draws it down to look at it. Of course he'd put Wild Turkey in his fishing hut, when he can afford the finest of everything there is.

As for the blanket, she scoots out of the way while he lays it out, then crawls back on. Trades him bottle for joint, and puffs away while he unscrews the cap.

Devon doesn't say anything. Truthfully, she doesn't mind the silence with him. They have a fire. Booze. Pot. She loosens the coat she's wearing, legs stretched out towards the fire, bare feet now clad only in black stockings.

Rafael

For all she knows he has more than Wild Turkey in his fishing hut. For all she knows he only gave her Wild Turkey because he thought she'd be the type: ragtag-chic Fianna witch who semiregularly wakes up in the woods with twigs in her hair.

While she puffs, he uncaps the bourbon. Takes a swig, sweet and harsh, grimaces as he passes it. Looks at her toes in black stockings, backlit shape of them just visible through the sheer fabric.

"No holes in your tights today," he notes.

Devon

For all she knows.

They share the weed and the bourbon, and it's nice. She's not hungry; there was food inside, and she hid near those tables whenever people were dancing or drinking or talking so there would always be a point where she could excise herself from the situation: her plate full, time to walk away, excuse me. She doesn't even really want to get any drunker, so she takes little sips of bourbon only. It's because she's already a little drunk, and because right now she just wants to get stoned and feel the quiet.

It's nice. Nicer with him there, because then she doesn't have to sit there thinking about him, wondering where he is and what he's doing and why this party is like this when it doesn't seem like him at all, and where that will leave her when he turns into one of them.

"'Course not," she says, puffing again before she passes the joint back. Could be glib. But the thoughts came back, flitting through her mind. So she's honest. "Didn't want to embarrass you." Clears her throat a little, taking the bourbon. "Besides. Think I look nice." She sips.

Rafael

That puts a little wrinkle in his brow. Just a little one, because the weed is good and the weed is smoke and the smoke is diffusing into his veins little by little. He sighs, lays back, folds his hands behind his head. Deep-chested, broad-shouldered, kicking his shoes off one and then the other.

"You look beautiful," he exhales. "Always look beautiful. Wouldn't embarrass me even if you showed up in that holey sweater of yours." He tips his head, looks at her. Up, because she's sitting up. Down, because he's laid out behind her. "Know that, don't you?"

Devon

He lies back. Devon twists a bit to look behind her shoulder at him.

She shrugs. "Don't just mean how you feel. How other people treat you. Don't want you to hear someone talking about me, yeah? Then go mad, ruin your night over it."

Devon shifts, turning her head around again, watching the fire. "If you didn't care about it, don't think you'd be wearing a tux, right?"

Rafael

Now the frown deepens. Somehow they've circled back to this, except now his head's dulled. A bit awhirl too.

"Not gonna wear a tux next time," he decides. "If I do this next year it's gonna be different. Change things up."

Devon

That makes her smile. Lips together but sly and real and warm.

Devon turns then, careful with the joint, shrugging out of the man's coat and laying it over her legs before she reclines down next to Rafael. Snuggles against his side and looks at the ceiling of the hut, passing the joint over to him.

"What sort of party, then?"

Rafael

"I don't know," he says. "Less lights and more booze. Maybe outdoors. Light a fire. Roast a pig. People'd freeze though. Maybe I'll do it in the spring. What is it you guys celebrate. Beltaine?"

She passes the joint. He lifts his head, nips it out of her fingers. Tips his head back to reposition it and then inhales, deeply, as he settles.

Fishing hut's starting to smell of potsmoke. That, and woodsmoke. Poor guy's gotta get his coat back minus a joint and plus some interesting scents. No scent from the girl though. Not even a light hint of her as a consolation prize.

Devon

"Beltane is almost summer," Devon tells him, holding the joint to his lips til he's got it. Lazy thing, she thinks, fondly. She thinks of sliding her leg up his thighs. Thinks of stroking him through those fine slacks. But she doesn't. She just relaxes next to him.

"If you didn't throw a Christmas party," she begins, her words slow, her accent slight and rolling through the syllables gently, "what would you do instead for the holiday?"

Rafael

"Bring you up to the mountains," he murmurs, slow, slurred, but only because there's a joint in his mouth. "Hide in a fishing hut. Fuck for warmth. Fuck for survival." He grins at her, lazy, sidelong. "That's not me propositioning you right now. Comfortable like this."

Devon

She grins too, lazy and warm, looking at the ceiling. Bring her up here. "Hide from who?" she murmurs, when he says they can come out to the fishing hut again. He talks about fucking for warmth and survival, despite the tux on his body, the sequins on hers, the untold wealth that his land and mansion represent.

Yet: he insists he's not propositioning her. He's comfortable. Just like this. Devon smirks at him, turning on her side, propping her head up. Those thick dark waves spill down her wrist, and the firelight catches her sequins, makes her purple, yellow, red and blue. She plucks the joint from his mouth and takes a puff, watching him. She doesn't say anything. Her brain is moving slowly. She may think he can read her mind a little, or that she's said something she hasn't.

Holding the joint away from her, she leans over him, kissing him slowly.

Rafael

Wasn't propositioning her. Really, he wasn't. Doesn't mean his eyes don't spark with interest, though. It's lazy, hazy, smokescreened, but it's there. A deep quiet flicker, a burn in the center of his pupils.

His grin turns into a smirk as she steals his joint. Well, her joint. Well, random guest's joint. It fades away as she leans in, her forearm and her hand on his chest. Reminds him of an animal. He touches her wrist, traces up to cover her hand. They share that kiss, and it is slow, slow.

"Everybody," he answers her, a little later. "Hide from the world."

Devon

Not even that much contact; she leans on her left arm, and the right one is up, held away, pinching that smoking joint. She presses her chest against him for balance as she kisses him. As he kisses her back. As they, softly and unhurriedly, taste each other's mouths. Bourbon. Smoke.

Her eyes open as she draws back a little. Her eyes sparkle; they always do. The firelight ignites her.

"We can do that anywhere," she whispers.

Rafael

"Yeah," he agrees, slowly. "Guess we can."

She's drawn back a little. He opens his eyes, looks at her. Looks at her eyes, so faceted, so brilliant. He touches her mouth, thumb to her lip. Makes this little sound at the very sight of her, low, at once satisfied and hungry.

"Think you're so hot," he mutters. "Know that, right?"

Devon

Her lips part as she smirks, huffs a breath.

"Me too," she says, awkwardly. Tipsy. Stoned. She means something else: he's hot. She thinks he's so hot.

Devon breathes in deeply, and leans over him, kissing him again, a little harder this time. Deeper. But only for a few seconds, before she draws back again. "Wanna go back inside?"

Rafael

Let's be honest. While she's leaning over him, his arm finds its way around her. While she's kissing him, his hand finds its way to her ass. He rubs. He squeezes. He grunts when she pulls back.

"Not really," he admits. Inhales, propping up on one elbow: "Think we should though?"

Devon

He pulls her a little closer, when his arm goes around her. May not mean to do it, but he does it. Her dress is very short; her concession to her own style, despite the class of party she's found herself in. It doesn't take much to get his hand on her ass, under the sequins, rubbing against her through the silky pantyhose.

Devon huffs a breath a little as he squeezes and palms her ass, as he grunts to lose her mouth for a moment. They get closer when he props up. She shrugs. "Mum's inside. She's all right, but... don't want to just ditch her all night."

Rafael

He kisses her again. Leans in across that small space, catches her mouth: her lower lip between his. There's a hint of teeth, but it's gentle, like he likes the taste of her.

"Okay," he says, arm loosening. "Let's go back."

Devon

It was her idea to go back. To not keep kissing him and making out in the fishing hut. To not let him pull her dress up and pull her stockings down and fuck her next to the fire. But all the same, she makes a little noise of protest. Because if it was just them, she might just stay out here. Then again, if it was just them, she might have not come up to the party at all.

"Let's finish the joint," she says, and takes a mighty hit before she trades it back to him.

Rafael

No complaints there. He takes it, sucks it down, narrows his eyes and grimaces just a tad as he holds it in. Follows it up with another hit, smaller, before passing it back to her.

"I'm bringing the Wild Turkey back," he adds. "Practically nothing but wine in there."

Devon

They are slamming the last of that weed. The paper burns and coils as they breathe the heat in. This time, Devon coughs. She waves her hand in front of her face and then, when she can breathe again, she laughs at the both of them. They're going to be so fucking high. She laughs again at what he says.

"What're you going to do, love? Walk around holding it by the neck?"

Rafael

He laughs at her when she coughs; when she waves her hand like that, like she might dispel the smoke in her lungs by wafting the air in front of her face. It's a slow, low sort of laugh. While she recovers, he steals the joint back and pulls another hit off.

Hands it back pinched between finger and thumb. Just a little bit left now; gotta be delicate with it.

"Sure," he decides. "Lost my tie too. Maybe oughta untuck my shirt. Take off my shoes. Slump around and shock everyone. Come here and kiss me again before we head back."

Devon

"Your tie is inside," she says. "You... had it off, when you came outside."

She stares at him for a long moment. "Your shoes are off."

Rafael

"Nah. Threw it in the bushes." He doesn't sound too sorry. Looks at his feet. Nice socks, but all that hoofing around has them looking worn already. "Gonna put them back on to walk back. Might take them off again. You gonna kiss me before we head back?"

Devon

She's sitting up now, finishing off the joint, smirking at him. Tosses the tiny end of it into the fire; fuck it. Reaches for the Wild Turkey. She can't remember where her own shoes are, but they're not far from his. "No," she mutters. "You'll just try to fuck me."

Rafael

His grin is half a smirk, lopsided. "Like fucking you." It's not exactly a denial.

Devon

Her nose wrinkles when she laughs at him for that. "Fuck off," she says, for no reason, and grabs the bottle, pulling it to her to take a drink.

Rafael

He laughs under his breath, relinquishing the bottle. Plants a palm on the floor and -- somewhat unsteadily -- gets to his feet. Holds his hand out again. For hers. Or maybe for the bottle. Possibly both.

"Gotta put the fire out," he says. Sounds so very put-upon. "Gotta put the blanket away. Gotta carry you back up the hill."

Devon

Devon shrugs, taking a drink. She watches him get up and smirks. She hands him the bottle before she gets herself up, looking for her shoes, stepping on the man's coat in her stockinged feet. "You could send someone down here to do the first two," she informs him. "You're all --" and she waves a hand up and down him, indicating his tuxedo.

Rafael

"Nah." Wolf's produced a fireplace poker from somewhere; goes about prodding the heart of the fire asunder. Piles some ashes on the embers for good measure. "I got it."

There's a bit of soot and ash on his tux when he sets the poker aside. He dusts at it. Makes it worse. Steps into his shoes with the bottle sloshing in his hand, then gathers up the blanket, shakes it out, and stuffs it one-handed back in the closet.

With the fire dying the air in the hut starts cooling. He holds his arm out to girl. Pulls her against his side. Takes another gulp of Wild Turkey, then passes it to her.

"C'mon. Ready?"

Devon

The tux is now essentially ruined. Devon has sat back down on the blanket while he fusses with the fire, putting her shoes back on before she totters to her feet. This is a bad idea; the high heels are quite high. She grabs at his elbow and hides behind him as he puts out the fire; he nearly topples her when he gets the blanket. She puts the man's overcoat back on.

"Nope," she says, to the bottle of bourbon.

Rafael

So he upends it again himself. And then tucks it in the pocket of that borrowed overcoat. And then turns around, presenting her with his back.

"Hop on piggyback," he says.

Devon

"Fuck off!" she says again, laughing this time, her -- the stranger's -- coat dragging suddenly with the weight of the bottle. Then, because he might mistake her: "No."

Rafael

"No what? No piggybacking?"

Devon

"No," she repeats, firmly, leaning forward and poking him in the chest with her finger. Her nails are painted black. Look black, at least. It's dark. There's no more fire. She grins up at him; he can see that. Her smile can be so bright. She tugs on his lapels, dragging him down to kiss her. Make out with her, a little.

Rafael

Oh, now she wants to make out. Lucky for her he isn't a shithead who'll hold it against her. Tugged, he goes, meets her rather messily midway. She has him by the lapels. He has her skirt rucked halfway up her ass almost before he thinks about it.

Devon

He is a shithead, but he's a shithead who wants to kiss her. They kiss and she grins into kissing him and he's pulling up her dress and she laughs and laughs, huffily, breathily, smelling of pot. "Shit," she mutters, and starts to stumble towards the door in her men's overcoat, her tottering heels.

Rafael

His hands slide off her reluctantly. Well, not even all the way off. He follows, winds his arm around her waist. They fumble with the door together. He wrenches it open, brute strength. Blast of cold air comes through and he laughs for no fucking reason at all.

"How're you gonna get up that hill in those shoes," he challenges, "if you don't piggyback? Hm?"

Devon

It's a good thing he keeps his arm around her; she's liable to fall. She doesn't. She holds onto him, and sucks in a breath as the cold hits them, and then she starts to try climbing him. "Carry me," she says, small, like she thinks he won't. "Like you did before. Don't be mean."

Rafael

So he isn't mean. So he tugs the door shut, more brute force, jarring a bit of snow off the overhanging roof. Then he slips his arms under her, scoops her up.

"Not my fault if I trip over a branch and we roll into a giant snowball." It's not even much of a pretend-grumble.

Devon

He lifts her. Scoops her like a bride. Surely he's done this before. Did it on the way down? Devon goes easily into his arms; she pulls the coat around herself and kisses his cheek. She rests her head against his shoulder. Up the way, the house is lit from within. They can hear music and laughter still.

"Shh," Devon whispers to him, as he grumbles. He's silly. "Feel it?" which sounds less like a question and more like a request. She points upward. Bright stars, heavy moon. Her fingertips swirl in the hair at the back of his neck. "Feel it. It's so cold. And so dark."

Rafael

Did carry her on the way down. Smoother and surer then, long strides across uncertain terrain. Way up is different. He's so fucking high. He's quite drunk besides. And it's uphill. In the snow. He trudges, struggles, plants his feet heavily and marches upward like a draft horse pulling a cart.

Can see the house before long, lit up, voices and laughter. Beacon of civilization itself. But they're not there yet. They're halfway up the hill, amongst the trees, moon overhead. So cold. So dark.

Wolf pauses, one foot a step ahead already. He tilts his head back, looks at the sky. She points to it like a summoning, a benediction. He lowers his head and kisses her quite without rhyme or reason, lingeringly, ardently.

"I love you, witch," he murmurs. And starts climbing again.

Devon

Devon is looking at the stars. At the dark, dark sky. At the faint sheen the dark sky is given not by the stars but by the stars reflecting off the snow. She is listening to the music and feeling the cold. It hurts her ankles, and her shoes are heavy, dragging her feet down. She can feel her weight and Rafael's weight and the weight of the night pressing him into the snow, and she tips her head back, back so when he kisses her it falls on her jaw, on her throat, and he can feel her heartbeat, and she feels it on her pulse when he whispers what he does,

and he can feel her heartbeat on his mouth, and how it kicks up a notch, becomes fluttering and rapid. He is the one who sees snowflakes

falling upward.

They shimmer on the surface of the hill first, shake themselves free from their millions, billions of sisters. Sees them rise, delicate and effortless, swirling slightly around one another, falling up towards the stars. They rest on the ends of Devon's hair. They melt on his earlobes. They soar, slow and meandering, back to the sky.

Rafael

[delete the "and starts climbing again"!]

Rafael

Standing amidst that silent, inverted snowfall, the wolf is speechless. Has nothing to say. Isn't terrified or fearful or even terribly shocked. Is just ... speechless. Out of words, out of things to say. Out of any desire to speak.

He watches snowflakes fall upward, back into the sky. He watches that gentle column rise and rise, the flakes disappearing into the darkness. Indistinguishable from the stars. He watches, and draws a breath so long and slow that it seems to go on forever.

Whispers: "Beautiful."

Devon

Devon doesn't mean for it to happen. Sometimes she doesn't. When she's confused and enraged and doors shudder on their hinges. When she means for it to happen it's always so sharp, so fierce, like a bottle being thrown in an alleyway at top speed, like every door and drawer snapping open in Rafael's bedroom. That was actually a little exhausting, but she was proud of herself for impressing him. Or rather: startling him.

This just sort of happens. She's so relaxed. She's drunk and she's high and everything is dark and cold and bright and beautiful and he's a wolf. He's a wolf. She watches the snow falling upwards and this seems natural to her. She isn't speechless. Her degree of appreciation does not change. She toys with his hair, smiling at the stars and the snow. They stand in the middle of a circle of rising snowflakes, perhaps as wide across as Rafael is tall. If someone were to look out the window --

Devon blinks and the snowflakes arrest suddenly, then drift back downwards. She breathes in deeply, her eyes wide, her nostils flared. The air is ice cold in her lungs. She blinks a few more times, rapidly. Says, unthinkingly:

"Sorry," a whisper. "Didn't mean to."

Rafael

Just like that it's over. Gravity reasserts itself. Snow drifts down the other way. Wolf wonders for a moment if he would've felt lighter had he jumped. If she would have floated out of his arms had he let her go.

He doesn't let her go. Holds her a little tighter, brow furrowed. "Should," he says. "Should mean to, sometimes. Doesn't bother me. Think it's ... good. Special and beautiful and good."

Devon

For a while she just says nothing at all to him. She curls up in his arms and he holds her tighter and they aren't walking yet. They stand in the snow. The dark, brilliant, magical cold. And then she does answer him, quietly.

"It keeps getting stronger. I almost never do it on purpose. But it keeps getting stronger."

Rafael

Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's the weed. Maybe it's his innate nature, the wolfsblood in him. He doesn't feel the cold; is aware of it, but doesn't fear it. Stands there in the darkness, the cold, the light of the moon, and listens to her.

"Maybe you use it," he whispers after a time. "Get to know it, learn it, make it yours. So it doesn't get out of your control."

Devon

Doesn't say anything. She's never been around a wolf who has frenzied. She's never dated a wolf. She's never fucked one. Her closest Garou relatives that still live don't come around much; her true closest Garou relative never came around at all after she was a toddler, sticking everything in her mouth and then crying when some of it tasted bad.

But she knows to fear a loss of control over some great power. And she knows great power when she feels it, coursing through her like it does. Tunnel vision. Pin-pricks of light searing into her eyes. The invisible threads connecting her spirit to the things she wishes to exert force upon.

"Don't know how," she murmurs. "No one to teach me."

Rafael

It's too late in the night to be having a conversation like this. It's too cold, it's too dark, they're too high, too drunk. They're having it anyway, and wolf's struggling to clear his head. Shakes it once, quick and brisk, raises his face to the tiny cold pinpricks of the falling snow.

"Someone must know how," he murmurs. "Can't be the only one in the world." Huff of a breath, wry -- "Know you're not."

Devon

Only time they should be having a conversation like this is when it's late, and they're high, and they're drunk, and they're outside in the dark. This is where they diverge. Devon tips her head forward, rests her brow against his jaw. She rubs it back and forth, rolls it against him. Hard to clear his head like that.

She blinks slow and he feels her lashes. "How do you know?"

Rafael

Feels like he could be here forever. Would be fine with that, in a little bubble of warmth between their faces; snow falling all around them until they were softly buried, encased, self-contained. "Met one," he murmurs. "Long time ago. Other life. Remember? If there was her, and now there's you ... there's got to be others."

Devon

Met one. Devon starts to pull back, blinking, surprised. But he says a long time ago. He says other life. Of course she doesn't remember.

No: she remembers him being gone for a month. She remembers him slipping in and out of reality. She remembers how hurt she was, how abandoned she felt, how scary it was, how sick it made her, how she cried all the time and how she lost weight and how she started to slide into depression because he was gone, and yet not gone, and it was terrible, and it was the worst thing he's ever done to her and she can't even be mad at him because neither of them know if he could have helped it or not.

So he mentions it, and she looks away, curling against him in a flash of sudden, remembered misery.

"Wasn't me," she says, roughly, just as she did when he told her about this witch in ancient times, this not-her. This experience of his that one of them is not even entirely sure was real. The thought of it has always made her uncomfortable; even angry. Hurt, maybe. And now she looks overwhelmed: stoned, drunk, freezing. Reminded. She curls deeply. "Doesn't exist right now anyway."

Rafael

"Know it wasn't you," he says. "That's what I mean -- "

but she looks so miserable. And overwhelmed. So he takes a breath and lets it out, steam curling into the night, his brief frustration going with it. Was dull anyway, masked and cottoned.

"Wouldn't have the word 'witch' if witches didn't exist," he says quietly. "If you were the only one in the whole wide world."

Devon

She just curls, and curls, and hides against his warmth. His big chest, his broad shoulders. She rubs her cold nose against the lapel of his tuxedo. They just stand there, in the cold. He insists she can't be alone, and she could probably -- if sober -- try to tell him the difference between witchery and what this other, stranger thing is, and how she's met other witches, even ones who could make amulets and who can read cards and so on, but not this other thing.

This scary, powerful, growing thing that she doesn't know how to practice.

"Let's stop," she murmurs, after a little while. "It's... I don't know."

Rafael

So he stops. And, ironically, starts walking again, step by step up toward his big house, his fancy party.

"Wish you'd let me in," he says. "Wish you'd tell me how to help."

Devon

Fuzzy, and sounding a little lost, Devon huffs a breath. It's not really a laugh. "When I know how,"

and several seconds pass before she remembers the rest of her sentence,

"I'll tell you."

She nuzzles him. Her brow is furrowed. "You are in. You know that, yeah? I showed you."

Rafael

Can't resist: he kisses her, quick and soft but nipping, animal.

"Yeah," he says. "Know. Sorry."

Devon

She is kissed. His teeth come out when he's drunk. Apparently when he's stoned. He nips at her, bites at her lips affectionately -- and it does feel like affection. Devon cannot help but laugh, moving swiftly and numbly from recalled misery to present giddiness. She kisses him back, more softly, because her love has no teeth. Usually.

"Inside," she says. "Cold."

Rafael

"Mmn. Okay."

And he starts moving again. Purposefully now, taking those last few strides up -- and then they're at the wall, solid stone dropping down from the main-floor terrace. He follows this eastward for a distance, a handful of paces. Then there's a door: a back entrance leading past the fucking movie theatre in the lower level.

He sets her down there. Finds his keys and gets the lock unlocked, pulls the door open. This one isn't stuck shut with ice. It swings soundlessly, warm air spilling out.

Devon

He doesn't set her down when they get to a path. Or cleared ground. He carries her around the back and she laughs, tucking her hands inside the stranger's coat. She leaves his warmth reluctantly when they do get to the door, holding on to his jacket with both hands, standing behind him like they're doing the goddamn bunny hop. She shivers and they go inside, smelling of woodsmoke and weed and bourbon. Not terribly; the cold night air and the breeze did some work to air them out. But it's there, in their hair and in the fibers of their clothes.

Indoors, Devon remains in the overcoat for a little while until feeling starts to come back to her toes. She looks around, trying to remember if she's ever been down here. It's dark; she slips her hand into Rafael's hand. He's a mess; dust on his tuxedo, snow melting into his shoes.

"You should change," she whispers,

and then they both hear a giggle. Some breathing. Down the hall or from the movie theater, some escaped couple hiding from the party that is still carrying on upstairs. Devon looks up at Rafael, raising her eyebrows, her eyes sparkling.

Rafael

"If I change I'm going to wear a grey t-shirt," he mutters.

Lifts his head. Looks in the direction of the giggling, soft voices. Smirks.

"Guess we weren't the only ones," he whispers.

Devon

"So," she says slowly, and shrugs out of the man's coat. "Wear a grey t-shirt."

Devon holds on to the coat only briefly; she means to take it upstairs, but she lays it over the back of a chair or a counter or something; hangs it on a doorknob. She'll forget about it.

"Maybe I'll change, too."

Rafael

Loves watching her shrug out of that coat. Something unconsciously sensual about it; her narrow shoulders moving up and down. That sequined gown with its conservative neckline, short hem.

He comes over. Puts his hands on her waist and kisses her. Keeps kissing her tonight. Not much different from any other night, except ... something loose and lazy about it.

"Think you're offering to get naked."

Devon

Well now she's definitely forgetting about the coat. Devon tips her head up to him as he kisses her; she's very tall tonight, several inches above her usual thanks to those heels. She doesn't have to stretch as much to touch his face, but the hem of her dress still slides up her body anyway. He mutters that she's making him an offer.

Unladylike and unconcerned with being unladylike, Devon snorts at that. She knows for a fact he wants to fuck; talked about it in the fishing shack like he wasn't propositioning her but they both know he wouldn't have turned it down. Kissed her like he was propositioning her. Touched her ass as much as she'd let him. Watched her like he wanted to eat her alive when she took off some stranger's coat. Talks to her now in that voice, lower than before; she's obsessed with that note in his voice, when it settles down in the shadows, the underbrush, speaking to her there in the hiding-places.

Her eyes close and open slowly. "M'not."

Rafael

"No?" He's obsessed with that look in her eyes. Drowsy and lush and shocking, electric blue. He handles her gently, touches her carefully: hands on her face, hands stroking her hair. Kisses her again, "Should."

Devon

That sly, slow smirk again. She feels his fingertips on her jaw like they're part of her own face. She keeps her eyes open as he kisses her. She licks her lips, and his, as she kisses him back.

"Offer to get naked and fuck you?" she murmurs. But doesn't. She doesn't even wait for an answer. She turns around; starts walking.

Rafael

Would answer except she just starts walking. Leaves him standing there, empty hands and a hard dick. Well, she doesn't need to know that. Wolf adjusts while her back is turned, follows.

"Where you going?" Doesn't quite call after her, but it has that cadence. Just softer.

Devon

Devon turns her head. Looks at him over her sequined, shining shoulder. Barely any light here; only a few sparkles on her dress now, fewer than the stars in the night sky. No idea that he's hard already, so no jokes about snapping her fingers at him. She licks her lips, keeps walking, hand trailing on the wall so she doesn't stumble.

"Back to the party." Obviously.

Rafael

She licks her lips. Sees him bite his. Sees him pulling his eyes up from her ass, flickers of light sparking off her like electricity.

"Killing me here," he mutters. Tips his head the other way, toward a stairwell. "Gonna go change. Then come find you."

Devon

She laughs at that, low an breathy. "Really?"

And suddenly she's near him, a step or two back towards him, and she's touching him through his slacks. Pants out a breath of discovery and delight when she finds him. Bites her lip

and keeps stroking him.

Rafael

Wolf doesn't have a lot of self control right now. Not a lot of walls up. She comes back and he's so glad, so eager. His hands are on her immediately. She touches him and he sinks against the nearest wall, groaning.

"Let's go upstairs," he manages.

Devon

Devon leans into him, presses her hand to his cock between their bodies. She shakes her head. "No," she whispers, and guides his hands up under her dress, to the silky, fragile fabric of her hosiery. "Rip," she murmurs, and leans against him, kissing his neck.

Rafael

They're out in the hall. Grand old house, this, or at least built like one. Carpet's thick and walls are sturdy. Wainscot, lamps in sconces. Plenty of dim shadows, but fact is they're still out in the open. Visible should anyone wander downstairs, stroll down the corridor, glance down the hall to the theater.

Should stop her. Should, but doesn't. Can't. She guides him to her stockings. Tells him to rip. He stares uncomprehendingly. She kisses his neck.

He rips her hose. Messily, a much bigger gap than needed. He grasps at her thighs, grips her ass, rucks her dress up around his wrists and picks her up.

Then it's her back to the wall. Sconce by her head casts light and shadows on her, him. Dip between her breasts is velvety dark and he kisses her there; follows the shadows to the hollow of her throat. She's right: his teeth come out when he's drunk or high or otherwise altered. He bites her neck, grinding heavily between her legs, moving like maybe he's forgotten they're not fucking yet.

Devon

Doesn't see him staring at her. She's sucking on his neck, licking his pulse, stroking him off through his slacks. And it takes him a few dizzy seconds to grab her pantyhose and tear them open, pull her up. She goes easily into his arms, wrapping her legs around him. She's not wearing panties. Surely he could feel that, all the groping of her ass he's done tonight. Maybe he didn't notice.

Back to the wall, Devon looks down at him, and he's kissing sequins: that conservative neckline. That shiny dress. She smirks. He kisses her and she tips her head back; he bites her, grinding against her now, because her hands left him finally, came to his shoulders.

"Fuck me," she whispers. "Quick, before someone comes."

Rafael

"God." Rare that he groans like that, so openly overcome. Rare that he fumbles with his pants, grapples with the zipper and -- worse -- that goddamn lay-flat clasp, the tucked-away button. He gets it open, spreads his feet apart, reaches for her panties, finds none; that makes him groan again.

Makes him stroke her, fingers catching wetness, slicking her up. Wants to tell her how hot she is but the words escape him. Wants to tell her how hot she made him, saying what she did, but the words have long since left him.

What remains is action, physicality, bodies: his hands gripping her ass, his teeth gripping her shoulder, denting some of those sequins. He thrusts into her ferociously, nails her to the wall, grunts hard against that point of contact. Giggling couple fooling around in the theater or the broom closet or whatever the hell can probably hear him out here, fucking his girlfriend noisily and inexpertly in the hall.

Devon

These aren't jeans. They're harder to undo; he has to make his fingers do something different. Pulls his cock out and goes to pull her panties aside but his hand comes away slick, hot from the touch. Devon squirms against him, biting her lip to keep from moaning. "Fuck me," she whispers again, insistent, urgent.

So he fucks her. Holds her and pushes himself inside of her and drives a cry out of her, which rebounds down the hallway before she cuts it off, truncates it, whimpers softly instead while he starts thrusting into her. Devon pants, folding over him, her hand holding him by the back of the neck, her hair swinging around his earlobes.

Giggling couple in the theater can hear something. Groans. A girl panting. The soft thud of their bodies against the wall. They don't know who it is. They have no idea it's their host,the man they came to pay tribute to, and the girl they think is his chosen mate.

Except it is their host. And it is that girl, the only one he's ever chosen.

"Yeah," Devon breathes, the world spinning out from her into the darkness, grinding her pussy against him. "Fuck, yeah. Give it to me."

Rafael

At least she's trying to be quiet. He's not even trying. Or if he is, he's fucking failing. Only salvation he has is that velvety sequin-dress between his mouth and her skin. Absorbs some sound. Dampens the rough-edged groans while he fucks her.

And no. She's not helping. Not with the way she moves, not with what she says. He's dying over here, can't she tell? He lifts his head and finds her mouth, and it's a crushing kiss, it's a ravenous one that eats her alive. He has her ass in his hands still. Grips her hard, lifts her, now they're standing; now he's bouncing her on his body, his cock.

Leans her against the wall and lower his mouth back to her neck, her shoulder, hammers her quick and hard. Apologetically seeks release. Quick, before someone comes -- because truth is if someone walked down the hall now he wouldn't stop, wouldn't care, would fuck her with everyone watching if he had to.

Devon

"No no no no no," she mutters, breathes, when he pulls her off the wall. Laughs at him. "Wall. So I can --"

and she grinds against him again, rubs herself off on the hard shaft of his cock, makes him see stars. Makes her own head tip back, makes her breath catch in her throat while she's trying to get herself off on him. It's very fast fuck. She's wet, though. She's grinding like she means it, but he's fucking her so eagerly, and she doesn't mind, and she doesn't tell him to stop or slow down. She just fucks him right back, whimpering as her cunt starts to pulse and pull around him.

Rafael

Wants her naked.

Wants her bare from head to toe. In his bed. Hair spread over his pillows, body luminous against his sheets.

Wants her there but this is what he gets. For the moment it's enough. For the moment it's overpowering, more than he can handle. He has a hand in her hair now, gripping the back of her head through that tumbling black. He's moaning openly now, groaning on every stroke. Slows as he gets close, paradoxically: slows but goes heavier, goes deeper, leans back just a little to look down their bodies, see where they're joined, see where he's fucking her, see where his cock is wet and thick and driving into her. See her cunt, see her inner thighs and that torn hose, that rucked up dress.

It's the sight of it that tips him over. He lifts his head and kisses her, growling; nearly pins her to the wall with the force of that kiss, that thrust. Comes while he's kissing her and fucks her while he comes, doesn't slow, doesn't falter, makes a fucking mess of them both. It's like he doesn't want to stop.

Devon

He always wants her naked. Always wants to strip her bare, have her in his bed. Only reason he fucked her at the top of the stairs that one time was because he couldn't wait. Because he'd been waiting. Because he needed to fuck her right then. Because until she made him believe she wanted him, he hadn't let himself want her. Because she was there, and looking at him, and he couldn't smell her so he had to touch her.

Devon kisses him. Kisses him while she grinds on his cock. Kisses him while he's fucking her, slower now, which makes her melt, and makes her tremble. She didn't think she was going to get to come. She wraps her legs higher and tighter around him, takes him deeper, the heels of her shoes scraping his ass. She shudders; he thrusts. She whimpers and he fucks her a little harder, a little slower, and it's torturous.

As he looks down, she tips her head back. She imagines what he sees; she opens her eyes and watches his face as he looks at her pussy, his cock. Sees that lust, overpowering, come over him. Devon giggles a little and bucks on him, feels the first flickering surges of her own orgasm. She gasps as he slams her against the wall, kisses her, fucks her a little faster, harder, driving himself into her, fucks his cum into her. She cries out, and it echoes through the hallway again. She's so fucking wet. His cum is so fucking hot. And they're a mess; he's getting it on her stockings and on her thighs; now she really will have to change out of this dress. She grips his shoulders hard, digging her nails into him, working her own orgasm off on him while he's finishing himself off inside of her.

Rafael

Grips him hard enough to leave minute wrinkles in that fine dinner jacket. Grips him hard enough that she can feel the shape of his shoulders, the solidity of the body beneath the clothes. Rides him, rather mindlessly and rather greedily, while he's panting and groaning and sliding a hand between them to paw inexactly at her clit. At least he tries. He tries: rubbing it for her while she strains, and arches, and comes. Kissing her mouth when her mouth comes near enough to be kissed again.

That's an inexact thing too. Lazy and a little sloppy, the kiss. They're a mess. Kiss might as well be too. His cock jumps inside her. He'd fuck her again if he could. If he had time.

He slips his thumb off her clit after a while. Wraps his hands under her ass, leans against her as she leans against the wall. His heartbeat slows. Dick softens. Breathing evens out. He likes that she's filthy, cum on her stockings. He likes that he's disheveled, wetness on the front of his slacks. Something neanderthalic and primitive about his satisfaction; he knows it, doesn't care.

Like you, he thinks at her, resting against her, knowing she can't hear him. It's all right. He thinks it anyway. Love you.

Devon

Gets her off. Just fucking barely. And it's enough for her. She shudders and she melts and she's left panting, held between his body and the wall. All told it was minutes, minutes only, a fast and insane little fuck. She holds her head back, tipped to the wall, letting the cool air brush over her throat. She's really not thinking much at all, and when she does it's about how filthy they are, and how she wasn't going to fuck him at all until she felt how hard he was, until she thought about fucking him in the hallway while he has a party going on.

Devon closes her eyes, and opens them, and breathes in deeply as her heartbeat slows and as her boyfriend's dick grows soft inside of her. Pulses a little; twitches. He'd fuck her again if he could, she thinks. If she let him. She tips forward, kisses him softly, inexactly, nuzzling his cheek.

"Have to sneak upstairs," she mutters. "Clean up. Change."

Doesn't add, not with his dick inside of her still, that she needs to find her mum. Says instead:

"You should wear jeans."

Rafael

He's still rather overcome. A lot of climaxing going on in a short period of time. Not to mention that fuck, wild and energetic. Not to mention she got him so high, so drunk, damn Fianna witch-girl.

He nuzzles her neck. Murmurs, "And a grey shirt."

--

Few more seconds and then he takes a breath, pulls himself together. Straightens up and sets her carefully down. Pulls his shorts up, and then his slacks. Just clips one of the clasps this time, fuck the button. Zips the fly.

"We can take the east stairs," he says. Holds his hand out for hers. "Stairwell's behind doors."

Devon

"Mm."

This is an affirmative, though it's hard to tell. It's just a noise. She holds him and doesn't try to move. It's a little while before he moves her. Takes that deep breath, pushes away from the wall, and gently lets her down. She wiggles her dress down again over her bare ass, her ripped hose. She seems a little dazed; who wouldn't be? She watches him, fearlessly, as he puts his dick away.

Looks up at him then and just nods. Then chuckles: "Oh, the east stairs," she repeats, in a hoity-toity voice. But she reaches for his hand, and takes it, and they stumble down the hallway. She realizes she left a bottle of Wild Turkey in the pocket of that man's coat. It makes her laugh, and stifle her laugh against her hand.

--

They sneak upstairs. They aren't seen. They go to his room and then Devon is all business -- though still stoned. She gets out of her heels and peels off her hose and tosses them in the wastebin. Shimmies out of her dress and then she's walking around in a black bra edged with hot pink lace. She shoves him out of the bathroom and locks him out so she can wash up.

Comes out a few minutes later and she has fixed her hair a bit but she hasn't bothered touching up her makeup: it's cloudy around her eyes, dark, smudged the way it is after a long night, a desert night, one of those parties. She swishes past him to go get a pair of underwear on: those black spangled things, like tonight she just really needs some kind of sparkle. Puts on a different pair of tights: the same kind she had on a minute ago, but a clean pair, from a three-pack she and her mum got today. She puts them on and then she's yanking holes in them all over with a pair of nail scissors, letting skin flash through here and there, through ever-widening holes and long runs. She puts on a dress, a nod to the occasion, but it's the dress she was wearing the second (third?) time he ever saw her, and he knows that even if she just walks around he's going to see those sparkly panties.

Devon puts on those boots she likes, the grey Uggs knock-offs from Target. And then a heap of necklaces and bracelets. Looks over at him to see his

jeans. Grey tee.

Rafael

Well no. Not yet. She goes in the bathroom so he takes a seat to wait his goddamn turn. Master suite here is fucking absurd: large as a city apartment. A bedroom, a bathroom, and then something that might in another century be called a solar. A little room with a couch and some plants and maybe a flatscreen tv; a place for him to relax in private, as if the rest of the house wasn't enough.

He doesn't wait in there. He waits in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed. Is still there when she comes out, only by then he's stripped bare, has his discarded clothes over his lap. His eyes flicker and spark when he sees her. He thinks she's so hot.

While she's getting her clothes on he grabs a quick shower. Gets clean, gets de-stinked. Comes out in time to see her finish up on her little arts and crafts project. Shakes his head, disbelieving, as she pulls those now-wrecked tights on:

"You do that on purpose?"

She pulls a dress over her head. It's the one that she can't bend over in. The one he saw her at Green Russell in, when she snuck into a party -- his party -- talked to him a little. Then they fought. They always fought back then.

He towels off, tosses towel and clothes into a hamper. Goes into his closet and comes out in a pair of old jeans. He's not wearing underwear. Maybe he thinks he'll get lucky again later. Jeans are riding a little lower without boxers, and he drops

a grey tee

on top of that. Unrolls the hem down to his hips. He comes over while she's stringing necklaces on. Paws around, fishes out one that looks more or less unisex, wraps it a couple times around his wrist.

"Now we match," he says.

Devon

Looks at him over her shoulder as she finishes up with her tights. "Of course," she tells him. There's a beat, and a shrug. "Sometimes."

Sometimes they get torn not-on-purpose.

They didn't fight at the Green Russell. He was rude. She was flippant. He left, angry. She watched him go. She doesn't remember fighting with him then.

Devon leans back, elbows on the bed, feet hanging off the edge, while he walks around naked. She cocks her head, watching him. He takes one of her necklaces. She smirks as he puts it on like a cuff.

"Almost," she says, and as she gets up, hooks a finger in the belt-loop of his jeans, walking with him towars the door. He may not even be wearing shoes. Whatever: it's his house.

Rafael

He's not wearing shoes. At least he's wearing a shirt. Guests might wonder what the fuck. Guests might draw their own conclusions: two attractive known-to-be-mutually-fucking people disappearing for a while and then coming back cleaned up and dressed in different clothes. Whatever: it's his house.

She attaches herself by a belt-loop. He slings his arm around her. They head out the door, back to the party.