Wolf almost surges off the bed, first time girl's mouth touches his cock. Flexes right up, muscles in his abdomen sharply delineated against his skin -- deeply tanned now after so many days in the sun. Folds over her, cupping the back of her head, exhaling a groan against her hair.
Drops back down when she sucks. Just that once is enough to blow his mind. His fingers tangled in her hair, he thuds his head once against the mattress. Then she's crawling up his body. Wants to kiss him. Truth is there's a beat of hesitation, instinctive. Maybe she turns away.
Kisses her, then. Cups both hands behind her head, kisses her ravagingly, ravenously. Growls into that kiss the way he does, savage, animal.
--
Later on.
Much later on: wolf's passed out in bed. Girl goes take a shower. Wolf doesn't even stir. Stinks of himself, of sweat, of salt sea. Girl comes back to bed and tucks herself close and he half-awakens, grunts and mumbles, wraps an arm around her and hauls her roughly against his side.
Girl stays close.
--
Morning.
Someone knocks on the door. Wolf doesn't wake. Girl does: with a jerk, which wakes him as well. Girl yells something in Portuguese and wolf doesn't have to understand the language to get the gist of it. Laughs under his breath, doesn't even open his eyes.
Girl tucks herself close again.
Sleep.
--
Afternoon.
After-noon, at least. Twelve forty-three. Wolf opens his eyes and the room is still mostly dark. He's filthy, joints loose from sleeping. Stretching out for so long, after so long on the road. Stirs. Stretches. Reaches out his limbs, pulls in all directions. Bares his teeth and squeezes his eyes closed; a thoroughly pleased sort of grimace.
Pushes himself up on his elbows after. Blinks in the hazy light. Sits up. Gets up. Scratches his ass-cheek and goes to the windows.
Light floods the room, panel by panel. Ocean is an amazing, halcyon blue outside. Air conditioning keeps their room cool and dry, but the streets outside swelter with heat. Can almost see it rising off the sea, a white-hot haze on the horizon.
Wolf leans against the windowframe, observing. Hears the girl moving about behind him. Getting up maybe. Coming over maybe.
Holds his hand out for her. Wraps her arm around his middle. Pulls her against the smooth, sloping lines of his back. Lays her long, lean palm over his heart. Stares absently at the street all the while, thinking of nothing at all.
"Say hi to your family for me," he says quietly. "Gonna go see them today, aren't you?"
witchAfter her first round of sleep is disturbed, Devon does doze off again beside Rafael. Her arm covers him. She rests her foot on top of his beneath the sheet that he, eventually, wound himself under -- if, perhaps, at Devon's encouragement, urging him into the bed where their skins could touch. But she doesn't sleep as deeply, or as long, as he does. She wakes again after a while, just before noon. Watches him for a while. People talk about this. People write about it. People seldom actually do it. She does, this time: lays next to him and watches him for just a short while. Not watching him sleep, entirely: she finds patterns in the growth of hair on his jawline. She stares at his pores. She starts drowsily counting his eyelashes, loses the number, starts over.
When the longing to kiss him is all but overwhelming, she turns her head and presses that kiss into his shoulder, softly, then slips away. She goes to the bathroom and quietly washes her face. Straightens her hair. Puts on a little bit of makeup, light, the way it was when she came back from London to Denver. She reads some messages from her mom. She gets dressed, in a pair of those skin-fitted jeans she wears but not torn-up ones. Puts her bra back on. When he wakes that's where she is, hair smooth and feet bare. She has her thumb sideways in her mouth, teeth moving softly and thoughtfully along her skin. Devon is looking in her suitcase, thinking of what she wants to wear to meet these relatives she's only ever seen in a couple of photos.
Eventually hears him rustling around on the bed, stretching, and her thumb comes out of her mouth. Smirks a little to see him. All filthy. All tousled and tangled. Growly-faced. Sitting up, a bit. She catches his eye, smirking like that. Spreads into a little smile, but she turns away, looking for a shirt, so she -- thankfully -- misses him scratching his ass.
Room opens up with light as he pulls apart the heavier curtains. Looks at the coast. Looks at the heat, the streets. He's too far up for anyone to point at his dick. So he leans, and he watches. And she doesn't come over, partly because he's filthy and she's clean and because she's still figuring out what to wear. Maybe he comes over to her and is rebuffed by her wiggling away from his arm, her nose wrinkling.
Holds his hand, though.
If he wants.
She nods. "Yeah. Mum sent me the address and all. Took a while to get their number. They sent an email." Looks up at him, away from the shirts she's set out: one a sleeveless black-and-white floral that he's seen before and knows follows her curves nicely, one a loose-fitted tunic the color of creamsicles with three-quarter sleeves. Then she looks back at them. "Mum told them I'm here with my boyfriend."
A pause, thereafter.
"They said you were welcome. But... they're human."
She wiggles her finger like a wand, indicating the shirts. "What do you think?"
wolfmanGirl doesn't go over.
Wolf stares out at the street a while. Watches sun, watches sky, watches surf. Watches people and watches cars. Gets bored of watching and pushes up, heat and sleep making his strength languid. Turns away from the window and comes across the room, meandering, stopping to pick his phone up and slip it in his pocket before coming over to girl.
Who's laying her outfit out. Who slinks away from his arm wanting to lay over her shoulders. Takes his hand instead. He's okay with that. That's nice, too.
"Your mom thinks I'm your boyfriend?" Of course that's what he notices. Responds to first. Thinks about for a while. Then, "Guess I don't mind."
Shirts, then. Wolf eyes them. Bit of a tough call really. Does he want to see her aglow in orange, or does he want to see as much skin and figure as possible. Hesitation, and then he picks one. Picks up the orange one. Holds it out to her.
"This one."
witchHe reacts to that first and his hand holding hers makes them close. He can feel the slight, almost internal flinch that gets. She's still, though. He guesses he doesn't mind. Sounds like he's talking about whether they consider him her boyfriend or not. And she is very quiet, as he observes the shirts.
Thinks he's going to pick the sleeveless one, when it has no chance against the more conservative and flowy, heat-friendly top. He betrays her, and she doesn't get the chance to pick the other shirt just to be contrary.
When he hands her the orange one she takes her hand from his and takes the orange one with both hands. "All right," she says, and shakes it out from its folds, then simply slips it on over her head, sweeping her hair out from under the collar. "Thanks," she says, and goes over to the sink area where most of her stuff is already laid out, picking out a bracelet, some hoop earrings, a pair of little turquoise ball studs for the second holes, a necklace. All so low-key. Conservative. Normal. Looks at herself in the mirror. Not at him, naked behind her.
wolfmanWolf's almost never seen her look like this. Dress like this. Maybe the day she got off the plane, in her blanket and light makeup. Now: loose top, leggings. Little turquoise earrings. No stack of bracelets, no intense makeup.
She's looking at herself in the mirror. Finishing up. Wolf's leaning against the bathroom doorframe, looking at her through that self-same mirror. Has this look on his face, quiet, shuttered, pensive. Thoughts in his mind. Things he could say.
They pass him by. Wolf settles for something boring. Safe.
"Look good." Quirk of a smile. "Like someone's cousin or niece or something."
witch"Yup," she says, perhaps of looking good, or more: "That is what I am."
Clipped, but not sharp. Terse, but not cold. That is what I am says, and secretly, also:
Dick.
wolfman"Yeah, I know." Smile goes away. "That was the joke."
Couple beats. Then wolf straightens up, enters the bathroom. Tanned to a couple inches below the navel. White to the knee. Seems to remember his modesty, more or less: pulls a towel off the rack, wraps it around his hips.
"Crappy joke," he admits. Standing next to her now; turning, leaning against the sink. Looking at her and not her reflection.
"Don't mind if people think I'm your boyfriend," wolf elaborates. Circles back to that previous, spiny topic. "Just don't see the need to put labels on this for myself, is all."
witchCrappy joke, he says. Just a dumb one, she thinks. Doesn't say, though in her mind the words are spoken kindly enough. He comes closer and puts on a towel, at which point she looks at him in reflection, bewildered. Half-bewildered. He turns, leans.
She goes back to putting on her earrings, while he looks at her and she looks at her ghost-self. And he speaks again. She looks at her hands, undoing the clasp of her necklace. Interrupts him when he says he doesn't mind, saying:
"Don't know why you would,"
rather tightly.
He complains about labels. Or that's what she hears. Rolls her eyes a little, shakes her head to herself, reaching back to clip her necklace. "Well," she says. "I didn't mention it to see how you felt about it so we could have a reenactment of some shitty rom-com argument. Just explaining why you were invited." Dry, those last six words. Sarcastic. Falsely breezy. She's not attempting to hide her irritation.
Looks at him, eyes ablaze, lips together. She has not stormed out. Is annoyed, is in a fit of pique with him, but instead of storming out, she says with all that sarcastic frustration:
"Want me to order something to eat while you wash your stink off?"
wolfmanMaybe that's progress. Fighting without running away. Progress or not, it's what happens, and when girl's blazing eyes flick up wolf's looking back at her.
Mouth set too. Riled, but not angry. Yet. Somehow in the course of all that he'd quite forgotten he'd been invited to meet her relatives. "Do you want me to come along?" he asks, a bite behind the question. Like somehow this has become a battleground to contest.
This, too: "Yeah. Get me some goddamn meat. While I wash my stink off."
Hits that word, stink, a little harder than need be. Riled all right. Stung too, maybe.
witchLooking straight at him when she rolls her eyes this time, but this time it's different. Exasperated. "Fuck," she mutters, then directly: "No."
Get him some meat. He's going to wash. And she doesn't say anything to that this time. She turns back to the mirror, touching some makeup up. Adding more, maybe. Water turns on, rushing downward, heating quickly despite the height of the building. Finest hotel in Recife. One of the nicest rooms. Where they are having a bitter and childish volley of equal parts hurt and aggravation.
Maybe just the former, protected by the latter.
--
Food hasn't come by the time he gets out, unless he takes a very long shower. Devon hasn't gone anywhere: she's sitting at the little breakfast table by the window, looking out the same way he was earlier, when he got up naked and stinky from bed. She's pensive. Her chin is on the back of her hand, her lower lip forced by posture into an unintentional pout. Looks really lovely, like that. Silken hair and a few glinting pieces of jewelry and those eyes, hit by diffused sunlight. Long and lean, the way she sits.
Looks up, when he comes out. Looks over at him, her chin coming off her hand.
wolfmanIt's not a very long shower. Not a short one either. Enough time to steam up the bathroom. Enough time to wash all the stink, every last trace of it, off his body.
Door's a little stuck to the jamb by the time he comes out. Cracks open, and then swings wide. Wolf steps out, drying his face on a fluffy white towel. Wrapping it around his waist. Drips on the carpet all the same.
Girl's over by the window and the sun hits her just so. She looks over at him and
maybe she can see it: the way he catches his breath. Like suddenly the air's thin. Like suddenly someone slipped a knife into his heart. Like suddenly she slipped into his heart like a knife.
Wolf looks away. Leaves a couple wet footprints, padding over to his stuff. Digs out lounge pants.
"Sometimes," mutters it so low, and without looking at her, that maybe she thinks he's having a conversation with his goddamn luggage, "way you look just kicks the breath out of me." He tosses towel aside. Tugs the pants up to his waist, cinches the drawstring lightly. Then he's looking at her. This is what he retreats to: "Where's breakfast?"
witchThe morning and afternoon in Macapa: all the sweat, the meals, the hustling. The flight from there to Recife. The nightclub, the sweat, the heat of it all. The beach, and the sand. The sex. He washes it all down the drain, after twenty-four hours or more. Has to feel different, after all that. Not getting into a car. Walking out in a towel and seeing her sitting there, in the sunlight, looking as natural and herself as she does when she's in shadows -- admittedly a more obvious element for her.
The way he looks at her, she thinks he's going to come over. Touch her face, her hair. Try to kiss her, if the trillions of little bacteria that have died in his mouth since all those drinks last night have been disposed of and laid to rest. Be close to her, because often when he looks at her like that, he wants to be close to her.
Fact that he doesn't come over doesn't mean he doesn't want to be close to her. She knows that.
Fact that he actually says something about how he feels. Doesn't say anything about feelings but she knows what he means.
Devon says nothing in return to that. She doesn't know what she would say. Turns, looking out the window again, when he lifts his eyes and retreats. She huffs slightly through her nostrils. "Being cooked, I imagine."
wolfmanDoes come over now. Now that his pants are on. Now that his armor's secure. Comes over, stands close; pauses a moment before moving past her, between her chair and the window. Or the little table and the window, if there's no room otherwise.
Looking out again. Roads, ocean, people. They're facing away from the bulk of the city. Can't see the buildings, the traffic, the density of population, which is shocking after so many days meandering through jungles and deserts, fishing villages a hundred years in the past. Wolf puts his palm on the glass, feels the heat of the day.
"You going to spend the day with your family? Stay for dinner and all?"
witchShe feels him near her, but doesn't look at him again. He passes her, looks the same way she's looking.
Her eyebrows flick up, though. "It's past one already," she says, then, realizing this doesn't make her answer obvious: "Yes, probably."
Glances sidelong at him, but only momentarily. Back to the sea, the city.
"You afraid I'm going to go away forever?" she asks.
It's the quietness that tells him she isn't mocking him, though her voice is anything but soft to the touch.
wolfmanDoes come over now. Now that his pants are on. Now that his armor's secure. Comes over, stands close; pauses a moment before moving past her, between her chair and the window. Or the little table and the window, if there's no room otherwise.
Looking out again. Roads, ocean, people. They're facing away from the bulk of the city. Can't see the buildings, the traffic, the density of population, which is shocking after so many days meandering through jungles and deserts, fishing villages a hundred years in the past. Wolf puts his palm on the glass, feels the heat of the day.
"You going to spend the day with your family? Stay for dinner and all?"
witchAlways.
Her brows tug together.
"Why?"
wolfman[DELETE LAS TWOO POSTS CUZ I DUM :[ ]
wolfman" 'Course not," wolf snorts, dismissive.
Few ticks of the clock. Then a confession:
"Always a little afraid. Not in my head. Just in my gut."
witchAlways.
Her brows tug together.
"Why?"
wolfman"Don't know." Wolf turns from the window. Sunlight casting over his bare shoulders, skimming his newly tanned, deeply tanned skin. "Not a conscious thing, and nothing I can explain."
witchShe's looking at him. Not in a hurry, but there's a flicker of movement in her faint reflection in the glass that feels sudden somehow. Her brows are still furrowed together.
"That why you used to say this was all a 'bad idea'?"
wolfman"No."
Not adamant, that, but certain. Accompanied by a short shake of his head. Leans back against the window now, glass bowing ever so slightly outward under his weight.
"Thought it was a bad idea because didn't think you liked me much. Didn't think I liked you much. Want isn't always the same thing as like. Didn't start being afraid of you going away 'til I started liking you, really. Or realized I liked you."
witchSays it in short, choppy ways, biting off the words and gnawing on them even as he says them to her. Devon is thoughtful, hearing him, then looks toward the window again.
"Maybe that's normal," she says after a short while, her words lowered and slurred slightly by the pressure of her hand under her chin again. "Being afraid like that."
--
Someone knocks on the door in the interim between those words and his answer. She looks up and over, then at him, then away. He can go answer the door, if he's so hungry.
wolfmanRap-rap-rap on the door.
Wolf stays where he is: leaning against the warm window, sunlight spilling over his shoulders. Thumbs hooked in the waistband of his pants.
"Yeah? You afraid too?"
witchDevon doesn't move for a moment. Turns her head slowly and looks up at him.
Meets his eyes for a moment.
After a heartbeat, or two, she rises up from her chair, unhooking her ankles from each other, and walks over to the door to let the hotel staff come in with the cart carrying their breakfast. Brunch. Whatever it is. They set it up quickly, or leave it by the table, and linger until Devon is shooting Rafael a Look, realizing he's not getting it, and going to grab his wallet from his discarded jeans on the floor.
Pulls out a bill, quickly, giving it to the staffer with a murmured obrigado before following them out and closing the door behind them.
Turns to look at him after the door latches. "Eat," she says, going back to her chair. "I'm going soon."
wolfmanGirl's looking at him, and looking into the light. Wolf can see her eyes clear as day. Blue as day. Has that look in his eyes, hungry and intent.
Then she turns away. Goes to let room service in. Wolf straightening up behind her, making the poor staffer's hands shake. Wolf doesn't understand the Look, so girl pays the tip, ushers the man out.
Wolf's still by the window. Girl's by the door. Whole living room between them.
"Didn't answer me," he points out.
witchThe room isn't between them for long; she's walking back, over to the table. The cart. She's opening a bag of tea to put in one of the clean white mugs, pouring hot water over it from a kettle on the tray.
Hair falls around her face a bit as she leans over, doing that. So delicately. The way she learned from her mother. The way she's always done it, her fingertips resting lightly on the lid of the kettle, the steam rising into her face. Ritualistic.
She looks good, performing rituals. Looks natural.
"Told you at the river," she says quietly, without ever looking up. He could hear the hot water hitting the dried, crushed tea leaves in the little white bag at the bottom of her mug. Slowly sets the kettle aside, reaching up to tuck her hair behind one of those adorned ears: gold hoops, little turquoise studs.
wolfmanTakes him a moment to figure it out.
Does figure it out, though. Great dumb beast that he is. Great dumb beast that she acts like she thinks he is, but clearly she doesn't really think so. Otherwise she wouldn't leave it for him to piece together.
Wolf doesn't say much, either, when he does get it together. Just puts a crinkle in his brow. Floor thuds and the lid rattles ever so slightly on the kettle as he comes closer. Wraps an arm powerfully around her shoulders, pulls her against his chest. Sideways: side of her shoulder to the chest of his chest. Kisses her hair, rough in his affection.
--
Leaves the conversation right there, when he lets go. Looks down at the spread. She got tea for herself. Probably eggs over medium. Wolf hunts for meat, though.
witchPlenty of meat, on a plate, under a tray. She has her eggs, her toast, some fruit. Pretty strangely Americanized fare, here; lots of business travelers in this hotel. They've adapted.
And he comes over, no longer damp, and pulls her over. She tenses, or at least: doesn't melt. She reacts this way when she's said something true, something raw, something vulnerable, and he tries to show her comfort, care, affection. She reacts by tensing up, drawing away, rather than leaning into it. Her nose wrinkles as he kisses her hair, mussing it.
Rafael doesn't say anything, though, and she exhales when he slips away, picking up her own plate and sitting down with it, and with her tea. Doesn't look at him, as she starts to eat her breakfast.
wolfmanStrange, quiet, late-in-the-day breakfast. Girl eats. Wolf eats. Neither of them speak.
And eventually his plate's empty. Eventually he's sipping a mug of coffee, black, looking idly out the window. Looks at her only when she sets her fork down. Wipes her mouth, lays aside her napkin. Rises.
His eyes follow her up. He sets his coffee aside. Moment goes by; then he stands himself. Walks her to the door, or follows her.
"See you tonight," he says.
witchThey eat. Silently. Next to a window. On a beautiful day. In a beautiful place. With an amazing view. They look at that view but not at each other. She eventually does all these things: fork down, mouth wiped, napkin dropped. Hands on the chair, rising and pushing it back a few inches.
She isn't looking at him when he looks up at her. She is walking away from her chair and heading over to put on these bright yellow sandals she has. Sits on the edge of the bed, but when she gets up, Rafael is coming over to her. She's shouldering a bag and glances up at him when he comes to the door with her.
He'll see her tonight.
Devon's eyes are shuttered, hidden away. She lifts her chin a notch, and then turns away, heading out into the hotel hallway.
--
Hours go by before they have contact again. She sends him a photo from her phone of her with those relatives: men and women and a couple of kids and a couple of elderly-ish folks he will probably never meet. All of them are mortal. None of them have those vivid eyes. None of them have skin so fair as hers, or her freckles. But there are resemblances. He's seen pictures of her mother and can see the similarity there among the six or seven people in the photo. Devon has her sunglasses up on top of her head and she's smiling and there's a bit too much of her teeth in it, which makes her look far more innocent and uncertain than she really is. She doesn't look glowingly happy. He's never seen her glowingly happy, not because she is never happy, but because she just doesn't glow and gleam and glimmer. These are not words that should apply to her. She is not some golden thing.
Always a bit of a shadow, there. She's touched, somehow, by something dark but not evil, and it is evident in the shock of her eyes, the seriousness of her countenance, the elegance of her fingers. Something about her, lingering like an aura because she has no scent.
There isn't even any on the clothes she left behind in the hotel room they're sharing. One of many.
--
Night falls, and she goes out to dinner with her relatives, and sometime around ten she comes back to the hotel. Doesn't text to see where he's at. She just comes back up, alone, carrying a bag with a few little presents from her family that they wanted to send with her. Her hair has started to regain some of its waves, from the sheer humidity of the air. She comes in, stepping out of her sandals, dropping her purse from her shoulder, setting the bag of gifts aside, sighing.
wolfmanTexts go unanswered.
Wolf's not there to greet her when she steps in the door.
--
Is present, though. Unlike girl, wolf's got a scent. Wolf's got rage too. Both hang in the air, intangible, on the edge of perception, but very present. Plus, there are other clues. His shoes kicked off by the door. Shower running in the bathroom, muffled because the bathroom's through the bedroom.
Half-pot of coffee in the kitchenette, cold now.
Ripped shirt stuffed in the garbage can. Blood-splattered.
--
Shower turns off. Door pops open. Girl can hear wolf moving around in there. Bare feet on tile. Clears his throat, mindless the way we are when we think no one else is around. Brushing teeth, running water. Then wolf comes out, towel around his waist. Fresh cuts on his arms and his chest, but nothing bad enough to be alarming.
Stops short when he sees her. Startled. She's so quiet, and so scentless; he hadn't realized she was there. Recovers barely an instant later.
"You're back." Passes her, unrolls a bunch of paper towels, stuffs it on top of the bloody shirt to hide it. "Your relatives nice to you?"
witchHe's there. She knows. Can hear it, when she lends an ear to listen and finds the shower going. She smells something else, too, strange and powerful. Walks quietly across the room, trying to feel it out, until she finds the bloody shirt just shoved into a can.
Looks over at the bathroom, quiet.
--
When he comes out she's getting onto the bed. Housekeeping was allowed in, at least for a while, to clear out breakfast and change the linens, things like that. Bed is made. This must have been before he went hunting. She is sitting on the bed, reaching for a remote, when he gets out of the shower and rustles about the bathroom.
Waits to turn on the television. Sits there, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, feet bare, bracing herself on her hands behind her.
Notices that she startles him. Wonders what he's doing with the paper to-- then shakes her head. "No, that's... not going to help. Leave it. We'll take it out ourselves later."
Drags her legs up, knees bending, drapes her arms over them.
"Why wouldn't they be?"
wolfmanWolf laughs under his breath to deflect it, but she found something there. A nerveline straight back to the truth. Straightening from the trashcan,
rubbish-bin, she might've called it in another life,
he looks down at the ill-disguised evidence a moment. Thinking. Then he turns to her.
"Can think of three relatives off the top of my head. One died when I was little. One ignored me 'til she died when I was big. And one's out there hating me for taking what was his. Guess I don't expect family to be nice."
No real bitterness there. No self-pity. Just fact. Pointing out a piece of himself he's just noticed, as if to say: here, look. This is me. Wolf comes over to the bed, reaching under the lampshade to click his light on. Folds back the comforters and loses the towel, climbing in.
Leaves little droplets on the sheets. Scuffs his palm over his hair, flicking little bits of water every which way.
"You need to see them again? Or want to?"
witchDoesn't realize the laugh means she found anything. Wasn't looking for something. Is frowning a little when he tells her what he does. Only her brow unforrows after the first few words. One died, another ignored him, and one hates him. Her brow wrinkles up again, but not in confusion this time. In dismay
"I suppose you wouldn't," she tells him, when he sums up his expectations.
He's climbing into bed, dropping or tossing the towel. She's on top of the covers, but scoots a bit to give him more room, more slack in the linens. She thinks they've been awake something like ten hours or so. Then again: cuts on his chest. A drop or two of blood hitting the sheets that move over the already-healing slices in his skin. He's probably worn himself out.
Devon shrugs. "Invited me to their New Year's. Told them I had plans with --" well, she thinks, and picks another word: "you. They don't expect to see me again."
wolfman"Should keep in touch with them anyway." Girl might wonder what the hell gives him the right to opine on this. Girl would be right to think that, really. Goes on anyway, "Call them. Invite them to the States. Something. Good to have family that likes you."
Wolf scoots down, stretches out flat. Hasn't been up for long but sure as hell looks like he's about to sleep again. Thumps his pillow into shape, lays his head down, laces his hands over his crown.
"Thinking of going back to Denver soon," he adds. "Maybe after New Year's. If you want to stay for the parties."
witchDoesn't wonder. Knows why he's talking about it. Not hard to guess. Doesn't tell him to fuck off, though. Just lays out on her side, atop the comforter, propping her head on her hand as he stretches out. She can smell him. Clean and new but still him. Still entirely him.
No idea what she'd smell like, if she had a smell. Wonders if it bothers him. He doesn't really mention it, this lack of hers.
She nods to the next bit. "Been on the road a while," she says quietly. A while. Weeks. Well before Christmas; soon it will be 2015. It's a long trip to take on nothing but a whim. Her hand moves over, unhesitant but thoughtless, touching his chest lightly, right over his sternum. A mindless little touch, grazing and tender.
wolfmanWolf closes his eyes. Doesn't seem to have conscious control over it. She touches him; it happens. Her touch seems to sink right through him. Right into the heart of him.
Opens his eyes again. Wraps his big fingers around her slender ones. Holds her there, loose and close.
"Not tired of being on the road. With you." Smallest little detail but somehow it seems important. Important enough to say, important enough to delineate. Quieter, "Never tired of being with you.
"Went hunting tonight, though. Made me think I should head back. Protect my own turf."
witchHer hand stops moving only because he holds her hand. A little shiver goes up through her, a sensation she feels but which doesn't translate into movement. It runs up her wrist and arm and shoulder, right down through her body.
He clarifies.
She lowers her bracing arm and lays her head on her bicep, on top of a pillow, watching him still. "Denver your turf?" she murmurs.
wolfman"It's where my house is, isn't it?"
Flippant answer. Wolf watching the ceiling; girl watching the wolf. His eyes close. Blink. Open.
Honest answer:
"It's where my home is."
witchShe's feeling curious. About what makes him feel that way. About how he knows. But she doesn't ask. Leaves it there. Is quiet for a bit, slipping her hand out from under his to stroke him again. Pet him, in this little way. It's possible he sinks a bit more, relaxes more, but she doesn't wait until he's on the verge of sleep to speak again.
"You want anything for those cuts?" she asks, still quiet. There's just the lamplight; the curtains have been pulled at least halfway shut again.
wolfmanWolf's soothed by her touch, though he doesn't say it. Soothed in the way animals are by caresses. Soothed, also, the way men are by a lover's touch. Not so much difference between the two, after all.
His eyelids are indeed lowered when girl speaks again. Lift; full awareness glittering back into those wolf eyes that turn her way.
Looks at her a long time. Then he opens his arm. Welcomes her against his side. "Just you," low. "Sleeping next to me. Arm over me the way you like to."
witchShe huffs a little laugh at that, one corner of her mouth pulling into a smirk. He has to pull her to get her against his side. Has to tug her close, the way he does sometimes. Often does. She hadn't realized she had a particular way of sleeping with him. Wonders if he says the way you like to because it's something he likes.
"Only ten thirty," she reminds him. "I was going to watch television."
wolfmanWolf snorts a little laugh.
"Fine. Watch your TV. I'm going to sleep."
Arm still heavy over her shoulders. Still pulling her against him -- the way he does. Sometimes. Often. Likes to.
Eyes closed: "Stick around. Okay?"
witchDoesn't ask if it'll bother him. He wouldn't tell her to go ahead and watch it if it would bother him. But he's wrapping his arm over her lap, or around her, to be close. Even if she's still clothed. Even if she's going to stay up and watch television for a while. Even if she's still looking down at him wondering how he can say the things he does to her and QUITE OBVIOUSLY feel the way he feels for her, and then have to step back a moment and decide if he's okay with how other people might label him her 'boyfriend'.
Asks her stick around. Like he asked her before she left if she'd come back. Her brow furrows a little. She puts her hand on his head, stroking back some of his damp hair with her fingertips, tucking them behind his ear. "All right," she says, as though she were planning on leaving in the middle of the night to go party somewhere.
Though that's just the thing. She wasn't planning on it. Or on staying. She had not thought much beyond watching some television for a while. But now she has a plan. To stick around. To not go out if the mood strikes her. To end up sleeping beside him, because that's all he's asked for, and for some reason she's willing to give it to him. Wants to give it to him. Didn't really consider not giving it to him. In fact: thought it was kind of a dumb, obvious thing for him to ask for.
Which is unsettling, to her.
She does end up turning on the television, keeping it low, while he's still half-awake. She watches RTP1, the Telejornal news. She's leaning back now, his arm around her. Her arm over him, stroking his hair. Feels him fall asleep like that. She only watches, in the end, for about thirty minutes. Then she's slipping away, unwinding herself gently but not gingerly, to go get undressed and wash up.
wolfmanEasy to fall asleep with the tv on in the background, volume low. Easy when you don't understand the language; then it's just white noise. Anchors talk about news of the world. North Korea hacking Sony. Unrest in New York City.
Wolf falls asleep. Drops off easily, untroubled. Wakes, ever so briefly, when girl clicks the TV off, slips out of bed. Wolf's eyes glimmer in the dark. He watches her walk away. Closes his eyes again.
A little later she's slipping back into bed. Turning down the covers, sliding underneath. Wolf's eyes open again. He looks at her across the sheets, drowsy. Flops his arm out for her to curl close.
"Knew you'd be back," he whispers. It's not some sort of strange one-upsmanship. Just the truth. He knew she'd be back. Because she told him she was sticking around. And so he trusted her.
Doesn't think overmuch about that, either.
witchHe wakes. A little, at least. And she drifts across the room, in the dim light. Pulls off that orange blouse and drops it somewhere. Brushes her teeth in her bra and jeans. Ties her hair back and washes her face. He can hear the water splashing into the sink. Doesn't see her finish undressing, or comb her hair again. Does sense the light clicking off, when she comes back. Smells the face cream she put on after washing up. Feels her lift the covers, slide in with him, wearing that little nightgown.
Was wearing that one of those early nights. Had on those over-the-knee socks. Told him her toes get cold. No socks now, just the little soft nightgown. In the dark, she senses him moving, alert or close to it, welcoming her close. When she rests her back against him, he murmurs that in her ears and to her it sounds nonsensical. She didn't go anywhere. Just to brush her teeth. She doesn't say anything in response, as though pretending that he's asleep and didn't say a word.
She tucks herself in beside him. They go to sleep.
--
And wake, later. She before him, like the day before. He has healing to do. Only this morning, she's a little more unsettled as to what to do with herself. She stays in bed a while, snuggled close now, turned toward him rather than away. She furtively checks on those cuts but then closes her eyes, ignoring them again. She stays as she is until she can't anymore, and then she kisses his chest.
Runs her hand over his abdominals, his side, around to his lower back. Slides her foot gently between his calves. Wakes him, bit by bit, with her caresses, until he stirs. Until he's awake enough to indicate responsiveness or rejection, either one. Then she's touching him under the covers, in the fading-to-afternoon sunlight that filters around the edges of the curtains. Breathing quietly with him, maybe even kissing him, as she strokes him to hardness. Strokes him until he's taking over, his breathing quickened, his hands pulling at her, tugging up her nightgown, opening her thighs.
They don't say a word, and it doesn't last long. There's something purposeful about it, decisive, eager, becoming needful. She holds onto his back. He thrusts into her, hand wrinkling the sheets when he grabs them. They make each other come, forceful and whole-bodied, and afterward it's Devon who falls back to sleep. Wakes him up, uses him for his body, then curls up and drops off again as though he isn't even there.
He is, though. There to hold her, if he likes. Sleep with her, still, if he wants to.
--
This morning (afternoon) passes much like the other one, though without another weird little fight. She's still a bit distant. They order breakfast. They dump what's in the bin into a bag and Rafael walks it out, tosses it into a dumpster himself. Devon shaves her legs again and they go out to the beach. Don't do much there. Lay out on loungers or towels, Devon slathered in sunblock and Rafael turning only more golden-brown. She still gets a little burn on her nose and across her shoulders. They lay out there on their backs or their stomachs, their hands idly laced.
Their hands idly laced, while they take a walk afterward, going out into the ocean. She swims. Maybe he follows her this time. She goes out so far. She floats on her back and closes her eyes and feels the waves lifting and lowering her body, water sloshing over her. Feels the fear that she'll drown out there, that the sea will take her. Knows the sea is a greedy thing, always hungry, filled with wildness. Knows it, fears it, and stays out there. When she comes back to him she wraps her arms and legs around him in the water, his feet planted where there is still ground. She smells like the sea, and even then he can tell without thinking that this is not her natural scent. Wouldn't be, even if she had one.
--
The next couple of days pass similarly. They eat. They enjoy the water. They go out. She gets him to go dancing with her again. They fuck. She seems to forgive him for that strangeness the day she went to see her relatives, or at least forgets about it. They stay up late and sleep even later.
He goes on another hunt. Or rather: it finds him. Comes across his senses when they're at that nightclub dancing, Devon sweating close to him. It doesn't realize he's there. Doesn't realize until Devon is (angry) in a cab and the thing is feeling itself stalked. Doesn't realize what has found it and is hunting it until Rafael is ripping it open in the basement of a building a few blocks away. Then it doesn't realize anything anymore, because every electrical impulse in its twisted and now mangled body has shut down.
Devon is irritable at being shoved into a cab and sent back to the hotel but knows that she doesn't really have an argument. She's just annoyed. Doesn't like being sent away. Doesn't like being left out. Doesn't like being on the outside looking in. Even if she doesn't want to hunt things, doesn't want to be involved in their dispatch, doesn't care what it was or how it died, wouldn't have wanted to stick around. Just doesn't like missing out on what's going on. No wonder she likes to stay out all night.
The next night they go to a huge beach party. DJs set up on stages, masses of people dancing in the open air, bonfires going, fireworks going off over the water. Devon gets painted on her arms and bared belly and face and long legs with gold paint, her hair in its wildest state. She gets him drunk again. He lifts her up onto his body, his shirt off and his shorts wet from a run into the ocean a while ago, and she wraps her legs around him and it's midnight then, he's kissing her, she's pressed up against him and pants something quietly when they finish about how
it's midnight, they did the party thing,
let's go back to the hotel.
--
January first, there's flecks of gold body paint on the sheets, dusts of it in her hair and plenty of it on his body and under his fingernails as well. The weals where she scratched his back are already gone but still tingle slightly: he can feel where they once were. There's that red spot on her lip where he bit her while they were kissing, that hard growl he couldn't contain that somehow made her come underneath him, her cunt clutching hard on him. A tiny spot of blood. It was rough. She didn't mind this time.
Devon has run out of her brews but even so, her hangover is slight. She recovers faster, too: eats some eggs and fatty bacon and toast drenched in butter, drinks some tea, eats a banana, and after a bit of a soak in the tub and then a very long, very hot shower to follow, she's doing quite well. They watch movies most of the day. They order food in. Near the end of the night Devon mentions to him:
"Full moon coming soon," which he knows. Which he can feel in his bones, his rage swelling. They're cuddling. She turns to look up at him. "Want to be home for it?"
And he does.
--
So they make plans. They'll fly back early on Saturday morning. Friday Devon wants to shop and look around and visit a few places. But on New Year's Day, that's all they do. They cuddle. They watch some movies. He calls one of his people to set up travel arrangements for them. He touches her arm, and she holds his hand, lacing their fingers together.
wolfmanDays could go by, back in Denver, and they wouldn't say two words to each other. Barely even see one another. Out here it's different. They can't help but see each other. Drove together for days, weeks. Even here, even in Recife where they've got a hotel suite, got a base camp -- even here they spend more time together than apart.
Maybe that's a shift. A sea change in the nature of their relationship. Or maybe that's temporary. Time will tell.
Even so: days together, and sometimes they say little. Sometimes it's easier that way. Girl wakes him sometimes with nothing but her touch. Wolf fucks her sometimes with no words at all, no murmurs, no whispers, nothing but his eyes looking into hers like he's hunting for the truth of her. His mouth kissing her mouth. Kissing her neck, kissing her tits. Biting at her skin and her flesh, eating at her like he can't get enough of her.
Sometimes she falls asleep right after.
Sometimes he does.
Usually they don't even talk about it later.
--
Spend time together, though. The water, the sand. Swimming in the sea. Eating lunch at one of the beachside cafes, cantinas. Once in a while wolf misses those little fishing villages, the fresh-caught fare, the fresh-squeezed fruit juices that would, in truth, probably make give your average traveler a horrendous case of food poisoning.
Eat barbecue off streetside grills sometimes. Pass open-air markets. Wolf buys the girl a stack of bracelets at one point. Costs about a thousandth as much as that mirror cost, but neither of them treat it any different. Any less or more respect.
Wolf buys himself a trinket too. A shark's tooth hung from a leather cord, long enough to be worn as a necklace. Shines white against his skin for the rest of their days there. Days on the beach. Nights in the city. Parties that the girl ferrets out somehow; wolf wouldn't even know where to start. Wolf still doesn't like dancing.
--
She's angry with him when he sends her back to the hotel.
He comes back scraped and bloodied, raw triumph in his eyes.
Spends that night in his most wolfish shape, curled at the foot of the bed. Stretched out by morning, nose at one end tail at the other. Healed by then, whole and hearty.
--
Beach party and girl's painted like a savage, a pagan, a priestess. Wolf's almost surprised she's gold and not blue. Girl leaves gold flecks on his body when he lifts her up. Is laughing, laughing, and then kissing him so singlemindedly that she moans into his mouth. Makes him growl.
Makes him rush all the way back to the hotel, where they slam the doors and forget the lights and tear each other's clothes off. Where he tosses her onto the bed and she backs up to the center of the mattress and he all but pounces atop her, and it's wrestling and furious and wild, exhilarated. Bites her, tasting gold body paint. Tasting her, even if he never can smell her.
January first and he wakes with his face pressed between her shoulderblades. Geometry of it all is unclear. She's hungover and he's lazy, quiet, social'd out. Not much of a partygoer to begin with. Never does understand what she seeks or what she likes in the crowds, the noise, the bodies. He knows what he likes. He likes her.
--
Friday they shop. They visit places. They do the tourist thing. She takes pictures to send to her mom, and maybe her relatives out here. They find a place to eat, nice place by the water. Tables with tablecloth, menus in fine binding and heavy-stock paper. Wolf's not used to it, even now.
They walk back to their hotel, after. One last stroll along the warm ocean. One last night in the humidity, the equatorial heat.
Saturday morning a cab takes them to the airport. Their tickets are first-class, but there's a layover in Miami. Late by the time they get back to Denver. Dark, and bitterly cold. They're wearing their winter clothes again. Wolf has his arm around her, sharing the warmth of his body, as they step out of the terminal.
Black car at the curb, driver standing beside it with his white gloves, his deferential manner. Sweeps them back into a world of soft leather and warm privilege. Takes them back home.
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