missed you. love you.

witch

It's been awkward.

The last thing she clearly remembers him saying to her was that they could go to bed. 'Go again', if she wanted. The memory of it, the words, makes her skin crawl somehow. She shies from the thought of why, of figuring out why it made her so uncomfortable, what was the matter. Easier to understand how she feels to think of him coming into her room, trying to put an arm around her, pull her in close, and then storming off in anger so taut it made her jump slightly when he closed her door behind himself on his way out. That is just hurt, plain and uncomplicated, and frustration. But it sinks into her like a hot knife, and so she shrinks from that, too.

Devon spends a lot of time in her room. She takes up a fifth of whiskey and some microwaved food and hides up there. Orders a hot plate on Amazon and sometimes weird smells emit from her room -- she works more up there than in the grand kitchen. Going to start a fire one of these days. Doesn't come out much. Usually only when he's gone. She has to come out to do laundry, though. And that's where she is the next time he really sees her: comes up upon her standing there at the washer, moving clothes from one machine to the next. Her hair is somewhat lank. Her eyemakeup, god knows why she needs it if she's not going out, is dark. Her freckles are stark on pale cheeks. She isn't smoking but there's a faint scent of tobacco and flame around her. She is wearing those torn-up black jeans, that sleeveless shirt with Sid and Nancy on it that reveals the sides of the black bra she wears. Her feet are bare and the enamel on her fingernails and toenails is chipped.

Arrests, slightly, when she sees him there.

wolfman

Girl holes up in her room for a few days. Sometimes trash bags appear outside for the maid to pick up, or maybe she actually walks them down herself. A box arrives from Amazon. Gets put on the kitchen counter until wolf sees it, frowns, moves it upstairs and leaves it in front of her door. Thinks of knocking. Thinks better of it.

Weird smells emanate. Simpler smells of food, too, and occasional whiskey. No stink of old laundry. She'd have to have a scent for it to go sour.

Days go by. And then one day she comes out of her little cave. Stands downstairs doing laundry, which is something he used to do himself but these days the maid takes care of more often than not. Always easier to sink into luxury than the other way around. Wolf thinks it's the maid down in the laundry room, in fact, and comes around to tell her to do this, clean that.

Arrests, too, when he sees who it actually is. Girl with her thick hair. Girl with her otherworldly eyes.

Wolf's standing outside the small laundry room, half-eaten apple in hand. T-shirt worn thin on his powerful body. Stares at her a moment, and then his eyes shy sideways to the load she's dumping in the washer. A pause and then he decides: comes into the laundry room. Reaches past her to point at the dial.

"You set the water temp here. Fabric here. Has a couple extra options on this wheel. Then you hit this button to start it."

Just an excuse to talk. Washers are pretty fucking self-explanatory.

witch

A few days. Several days. Long enough for her will to rebuild itself after that marathon divination session in the park -- what was she thinking? Long enough to order and receive and begin using the hot plate. Days and days and days. And she's done laundry before but this time she didn't get back upstairs before he came back. Or came outside of his own room.

Really, other than listening for him to leave, she doesn't really know what he's been up to. His comings and goings. She figured the maid brought the package upstairs.

--

Wet clothes are already shifted from the washer to the dryer. Second load's water is running in, filling up.

Rafael chooses to instruct her on how to use a washing machine and her lips part, her eyes briefly on his interjecting arm. Devon exhales, shortly, not hard to hear the stunned anger in it. She shoves the load into the water, drops the lid down with a metallic slam, and edges past him with her emptied basket.

wolfman

That ... didn't go well.

Wolf watches her go. Half-turns to see her: makeup, torn jeans, Sid and Nancy shirt. Hasn't known her that long, but he's long since come to recognize all her clothes. Maybe once a while a new item appears. He suspects she shops at secondhand stores, or maybe little indie shops in shitty parts of town. Alternative fashion, cheap materials. Lots of pentacle-shaped costume jewelry.

Follows her. Shuts the laundry room door lightly behind him, keeps the low machine hum out of the rest of the house. Townhouse still has something of a sterile feel, what with the bold panes of glass, the open spaces of living room and kitchen. Lessening, though. He's lived here long enough that his scent is here. His stuff, sparse as it is, is here. There are his motorcycle boots in the foyer, one flopped over where he kicked it off. There's his favorite jacket slung over the curving banisters of the staircase.

His cell phone's on the breakfast bar. Car keys next to it. Has a new car now, having sold the other one down in ... god, the fucking amazon rainforest. Well; new-ish. Secondhand, pre-owned, whatever you want to call it.

"Gonna hole up in your room again?" he asks girl's back. "Having a rib roast for dinner. If you wanna have some."

wolfman

[when one is a witch, one FLIES into downtown.]

witch

[on a BROOM!]

witch

She does not own a single goddamned piece of pentacle-shaped costume jewelry.

--

Her back straightens up as he follows her, laundry basket swinging a bit at her side, dangling from her hand.

You gonna hole up --

"Yes," she says, and her tone is flat. Her voice is flat. Her affectations are flat. Like her hair lies flat and everything about her seems muted, harder to read than Braille.

rib roast. if you wanna.

"Not really," she says, with less energy to it than before, trudging up the stairs.

wolfman

Wolf watches her go. Lets her get all the way to the top of the stairs before he says it:

"I miss you."

Look down and he's standing at the bottom of the stairs. Brow knit, hands wrapped around the banisters, one on each side.

"Don't know what went so wrong between us. Wish I knew."

witch

That stops her. Laundry instructions and prodding and rib eye don't, but when he finally says something real to her she stops, and the foot that lifted for the last step comes back down. Her body turns with it, and she looks at him. Those direct, shining eyes which seem dulled right now, their shimmering flattened out -- smudged. She can't always meet his eyes, but she does now.

For a while, that's all she does. Looks at him. Lingers there, one leg straight and foot planted on a step, the other leg bent at the knee, foot on the step above. White, round laundry basket hangs from her hand, fingers cupped under the molded plastic handle.

And either there is nothing in her mind but half-formed thoughts, tattered beginnings of sentences that fade until she can't hear how they end, strings of memory that don't give her anything solid enough to hold onto, tug down, and show to him. Sometimes she's good at explaining things to him. And sometimes she can barely look at him. She's scared. Scared of two things in particular, two horrifying things. If she runs from either, she ends up right in the arms of the other.

So she stays in her room. And she doesn't wash her hair. She drinks. She sleeps. She cries. She focuses what energy she has on her craft until that energy is exhausted, and so is she, and she can sleep again, which saves her from thinking about how she is going to ever stop being so afraid.

Devon sniffs, and looks aside, and then she lowers herself down. Dangles that laundry basket in one hand, and touches the railing with the other, as she sits down on the steps. "I don't feel well," she says quietly, because it is the only thing she can think of saying now that is both true and does not exhaust her to think of saying

and does not terrify her to the point of throwing up on his carpet again.

wolfman

"You sick?"

Wolf looks concerned. Worried. Might mistake that for something like caring; he cares about her, he doesn't think of her as expendable, a fucktoy, a sweet little thing he can use when he wants and toss aside when he doesn't. Maybe that's what she thinks he thinks. Maybe not. He doesn't know: knows only that she's so far away, been so far away since that confusing, infuriating night in the bathtub.

"Take you to the doctor," he offers. Comes up the steps a few paces. "Should've told me earlier."

witch

Devon shakes her head. Doesn't flinch when he starts coming up the stairs a bit. She rests her head against the railing, looking over at him. "No," she says. No to being sick, no to the doctor, or no to should've-told-him-earlier; perhaps no to all of it.

"Just don't feel well," she sighs. "I'm tired."

wolfman

Girl doesn't shy away. Flit into her bedroom. Slam the door. Vomit on the carpet.

Girl just puts her head down like she's weary. Which she is. Tells him that. And he starts coming up the steps in earnest, climbing that tight spiral, walking over to her.

Puts his hand on her back when he gets there. It's clumsy, heavyhanded. He rubs in awkward circles.

"Want me to, what... make chicken soup?"

witch

Doesn't run away. Or throw up. Or start crying. She looks at him as he circles up to her, and looks down at her knee where her jeans have torn when he comes to sit beside her, squeezing in on the narrow stairs. Her eyes close when he puts his hand on her, but it isn't a flinch. Just a softness to her, welcoming darkness, as he starts rubbing her back. Breathes out, slowly.

Chicken soup.

Her mouth tugs suddenly. She huffs a sound, not quite a laugh but a sudden pulse of amusement, at least. "No," she murmurs. The almost-smile fades. Her eyes slide open. She looks at him, but only a little. Looks at him with something like longing. Shifts, slightly, turning away from the railing and towards him. Lets the laundry basket set down on a step below her feet. Tucks herself against him, curling a bit between his chest and his lap, her temple against his solar plexus.

wolfman

Wolf's always so stiff and startled when she does things like this. Shows of unspoken animal affection. Bumping against him. Pushing her face against his body.

Minute or two go by. Then wolf puts an arm over her, heavy and secure. Strokes her hair back from her temple. Folds her against his broad chest, solid side, and says nothing.

witch

Devon shrinks. When she feels him stiffen. When she turns herself into his warmth, his arms, presses right up against his heart and he doesn't want that. Doesn't like it. Just makes him tense up. She shrinks, even if a silent part of her is pleading with him, please, please --

and his arm comes down over her. She settles slightly, but she's aching, as throbbing and red as a raw nerve. That beat of hesitation on his part set her heart thudding painfully in her chest. His fingertips, rough to the touch but not ungentle, stroke her hair back. Tuck it behind her ear so it doesn't fall all over her face. Holds her. And says nothing.

And she asks him, after a while:

"Will you talk to me?" A pause, as she swallows, as though just a few whispers left her throat parched. "I know you don't like to talk, but..."

There's no real way to end that sentence. Circles back: eats its own tail.

"Will you talk to me?"

wolfman

Girl can almost feel his discomfort. Wolf rolls his head on his shoulders. Powerful, torquing motion, like a wild creature trying to twist loose of a trap.

"Not that I don't like talking," he says. "Like talking to you. Keep telling you, I like you. Just don't know what to say or how to say it."

Arm stays around her, though. That tells a different story: warm and heavy and comfortable, comforting. Wolf holds her against him like she matters to him, at least.

"What do you want me to talk about?"

witch

Devon can totally feel his discomfort. She feels him -- some part of him -- wanting to twist away. Escape a trap. Writhing.

It hurts her, like she's got no borders at all, like all her guards have abandoned post. Maybe they're still sleeping. Underfed, playing forlorn harmonicas in the trenches. She shrinks in on herself, but does not flinch away. Her hands and feet are cold, and he is very warm.

And she misses him.

"Lots of people like me," she says, but not proudly. No toss of her hair back, no bravery to it. Too soft for bravery, far too soft for the trenches. She's quiet. He's holding her. Asks her what she wants him to talk about. Devon doesn't sigh, or twist away, or storm up the rest of the stairs. She turns a little, rubbing her face on his chest through that thin shirt. She may have no smell to call her own but he does, and she revels in it, rolls in it, having been separated from it for a long time now. Breathes in him, soaks in the heat that emanates from him.

Feels a faint stirring, far beneath everything else and only glowing like an ember, of want.

Sighs out her breath after inhaling his scent. "Want you to tell me you like me," such a paltry word, a weak way of saying it, a fearful way of saying it: feelings. how you feel. how you care. "Even if it's things you've already said before."

wolfman

Lots of people like her.

Wolf can believe it. It's not that she's just so friendly, or charming, or outgoing. Girl's not friendly. Or charming. Or outgoing. Girl's strange, and unforgettable, and sometimes abrasive, and sometimes heartbreakingly vulnerable.

Of course lots of people like her. Wolf remembers her the way she was that first night, smoking in an alleyway, looking like her outfit cost fifteen bucks tops, looking like she was worth a million. More. Everything.

Wolf's arm is still around her. Wolf's heart is still beating under her cheek, or her brow: steady, and slow, and reassuring. Sometimes wolf wishes it wasn't so hard, that the things in our hearts didn't have to limp out through our mouths. Words are so imperfect. Wolf wonders why some people wield them so expertly. Why in his hands they became barbed wire, indiscriminate and rough, cutting every which way.

"I like you," he says, low. Cups his free hand over her cheek, the back of her head. Just for a moment. Just to affix her against his heartbeat, as though that meant something. "Care about you. Don't want to see you hurt. Or sad. Like it when you're close to me. Like it when I wake up and you're there.

"Just really like you. Even if I'm shit at showing it."

witch

Something about his hand on her cheek comforts her suddenly an inexplicably. Devon's eyes fall closed as he touches her so, cups his hand around her crown and holds her there at the center of his body. Makes her feel something, the way his hand carefully tucking hair behind her ear made her feel something. It isn't that she doesn't have the agility and breadth of mind to put a name to that something. It's just that everything she feels is clouded in fear: that spiky, raw, shivering vulnerability.

But god, she likes being here right now. Feels good, being close to his chest and his heartbeat. Feels good, having his arm over her. Feels good, his hand on her like that. Hearing his voice in his chest, and his voice in the air.

Her chest moves, as slender tunnels open up and her lungs expand, breathing in and not holding it. Exhales almost silently, and stays where she is. "You like it when I sleep with you?"

wolfman

"Yeah." Almost sounds a little mystified, saying that. "Of course. Wasn't it obvious?"

witch

Her mouth wriggles in a line, lips together, trying not to smile. He can't see her face at all though. He can look down and see her hair, thick and dark and frankly: a little oily right now. Must be why it's hanging a bit lank. Doesn't smell bad, of course she doesn't smell bad, but it's been a while since she's bothered with a shower.

"Maybe," she says, her tone still a little flat despite the moment of near-amusement. Devon turns a little, still resting her head on his chest, still curled beneath his arm as though,

as though she feels safe there. She's unfurling a little, and that counts for something. He can almost rest his jaw over her scalp, if he wanted. She's still a little low on his body, though, still curled a bit too tight to seem entirely comfortable yet. Still too scared to look at him.

"But not everything is."

That's true enough. And though she wouldn't admit it right now, she knows it goes both ways. Still doesn't know how he was quietly stunned to hear her talk at the Wildwood about how much she wants him. All the time. He didn't know that. She didn't know it wasn't obvious. They have this blindness in common. This self-protection; neither realizes just how successful they really are at hiding things.

"Thought I'd ask. Make it easier to talk. If you were answering a question and not just trying to pull it out of nowhere."

Quiet again. For a moment. She breathes, her shoulder lifting his arm only slightly. He's quite heavy. "I miss you too."

wolfman

Thinks a long time before he answers. Rough, taciturn creature. Silent and stoic, if you want to be nice about it. Doesn't quite rest his jaw over her head -- she's a little too low for that -- but he keeps his arm around her. Folds her into his chest like

maybe he could protect her from her own doubt. And fear. And loneliness.

"Well, I'm here now," he says. Grimaces at himself: how inane. Says it anyway, stands by it firmly. That had covering her head, holding her against his chest, stays where it is another moment. He bends to kiss her hair -- nevermind that it's lank and oily and she hasn't been showering.

"Why don't you stick around tonight," he suggests. "Make you some chicken soup. Maybe watch some sappy old movie like we used to. It'll be nice."

witch

Sort of a dumb answer. He knows it. Of course Devon knows it: she's so smart. She's so clever. She knows things mortals and kin alike don't know. How does she do what she does, as though only following a recipe or asking a simple question of the universe? How does it work, when others do the same and receive only vegetable slop or meaningless cards, gibberish on the spirit board, pendulums landing in the middle of blue on the maps they dangle over?

She's very clever. But not always brave.

Dumb answer, but she doesn't mind. At least it's the truth. He's here now, and when she walked away and went upstairs he was saying such dumb pointless things until he told her that he missed her. And that was the truth, too. Might not think the truth matters too much to Devon, but it does.

Matters a lot to her, when it comes to Rafael.

--

Tells her to stick around, though she's barely left the house in all this time. Chicken soup again, like she's sick. Sappy old movies. Nice. And it is nice, all those things, but she's disappointed. She wants him to talk to her. She wants to hear him say again and again how he feels about her. Wants to hear him say that he cares. That he wants her. Wants him to talk and talk and say these things the way she wants to scratch when she has an itch, the way she has to cough when her throat has a lump. She might daresay that she needs him to lay her down and wrap her up and mutter in her ear until his voice goes, telling her that when she pulls away from him or shrinks from him or walks away he'll be able to tell which times he should follow, and stay,

anyway.

Knows that isn't fair. Knows that when he walks away she damn well isn't going to keep chasing him down to keep getting rejected. Knows sometimes he feels the same way: raw. Wounded, somehow. Skittish, though that's a small word for the way it feels. Not-belonging.

Sappy old movie makes her think of Breakfast at Tiffany's. Belonging, and not belonging, makes her think of Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Breakfast at Tiffany's makes her think of that last scene in the cab. The rain. The stupid cat in the alleyway. How well Devon understood Holly Golightly's desperation to find that stupid cat, and all the sources that desperation sprang from.

Which makes her think of Mexico. Or South America, somewhere. It was hot and their skins were always warm and for weeks and weeks they slept in the same bed. Even when they fought. Fought about belonging, and not-belonging, and yours, and not-yours. Three cows in the mud. And her.

Feels very far away and almost forgotten, just like that night in the gallery feels far away and almost forgotten, even though if she had to say when things started feeling different, and deeper, and more, she would say it was there. For her, at least. When she started feeling different.

So not really forgotten. Not at all.

--

Devon sniffs. She lifts her head, slowly so she doesn't whack him in the jaw with her skull, and then she's essentially climbing onto him. Foot knocks the laundry basket, which tumbles and bounces and rolls down the stairs to spin a bit on its side at the foot. By then she has picked herself up and is getting into his lap, one leg to either side of his, awkward on the stairs and hopefully no one falls but she sinks down against him and wraps her arms around him and buries her face against his neck, and she doesn't kiss him there or tell him she wants him because, truthfully, she can't imagine he would want her right now. And she really can't bear it at the moment.

So she wraps herself around him. Holds him. Says nothing for a while, though she's begging him in her head to please just keep holding her, please don't push her away. He can't hear any of that. Just can feel her skinny arms wrapping so tight around his shoulders, her slim legs bracketing his lap. Her body against his, not quite as warm as she should be.

wolfman

Wolf has no way of reading what's in the girl's head. Can only read her words, her eyes, her body. Doesn't even have her scent to guide him, tell him what exactly she means when she lifts her head, climbs onto him. That laundry basket goes tumbling down the stairs, clanging all the way. Clatters to a stop on the floor below. By then girl's in his lap, wrapped all around him, clings with what seems like all the strength in that skinny body of hers.

Skinny thing, he thinks, inane and sudden and so thoughtlessly affectionate that it sweeps up on him, drowns him like a tidal wave. Wolf's chest expands against her body, wolf's arms wrap tight around her. He buries his face in the hollow of her shoulder, her neck.

Big paws cup her ass when he stands. Not really a lascivious touch; just the easiest way to hold her, keep her from slipping off. Must be nice to be so thoughtlessly strong, so powerful of body. Not even a hitch to his rise, or his turn, or his heavy steps up the rest of the stairs. He just carries her away

like she's his prize. Or his treasure. Or simply his.

Top of the stairs and he doesn't go to her room. He goes to his. Kicks the door shut behind him and maybe she thinks he's going to tumbles her into bed but he doesn't. Heads for the bathroom instead, and the bathtub: origin of all that strange misery that bloomed between them, which he still doesn't quite understand. How could he? He's just a wolf.

witch

Something about that breath. His chest pressing into hers while his arms tighten, crushing her close. Devon responds by holding him tighter, too. Their heads wrap, faces hiding against throats, pulses: they tuck together like birds. Like dogs. Animals.

Rafael doesn't say anything when he stands up. His hands aren't lascivious and they -- for once -- don't make her lustful. Her legs wrap around him while he rises, turns, goes upstairs. Far away from her laundry, or the fallen basket. Far away from chicken soup or some sappy old movie.

Doesn't surprise her that they go toward his room and not hers. Doesn't surprise her that he doesn't take her to bed, lay her out, climb on top of her. She doesn't feel that in his arms. Doesn't hear that in his breathing. He isn't kissing her. He would be kissing her. He kisses her so much. Kissed.

Really she doesn't care where he goes. Sort of thinks they might tuck themselves under blankets, clothes and all, and nap. She still feels tired, weary from the core of her bones all the way outward, but even brief bouts with depression will do that to a person.

But he ends up carrying her to his bathroom. Flicks on a light or leaves them both walking by nightlight or moonlight filtering in dimly through a window; Devon tightens her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders and he can feel tension in her back that isn't just from holding onto him but she lifts her head a little. Looks over her shoulder at the tub and then lays her head back down on his shoulder.

"Are you saying I smell bad?"

It sounds quite sincere, because she has very little energy to do anything else with her tone, but it has to be a joke.

wolfman

Joke or not, wolf huffs a laugh. He points out the obvious, "You don't smell like anything."

Kisses her, though. Lays his lips against the side of her neck. Reassurance, maybe: he doesn't resent her for it. Doesn't want to cast her away, doesn't want to tear her open, doesn't want to punish her for something she has absolutely no control over.

Like her magic.

Like the mole on his stomach.

"Thought you might feel better if you got cleaned up," he adds.

witch

Sometimes it stings to be reminded of the obvious. It's an attempt at bravery or the illusion of normalcy, to try and make a joke of it. Rafael doesn't joke with her. He does laugh, though. She doesn't laugh when he tells her she doesn't smell like anything. Her humor barely flickered, and then was gone again. Her head is heavy on his shoulder.

They're just standing in the bathroom.

He kisses her and her eyes close. She feels her heart in her chest. Not much faster, but suddenly so heavy, thudding almost painfully under her breastbone. He makes her feel herself. This rawness, this sensitivity. Devon's breath catches a little, but it isn't lust. Not really. It is want, though, a form of hunger that can't be as easily satisfied as the need for sex.

Her throat is tight when she says: "So you're not saying I smell bad, just that I'm gross." But she's kidding again. Trying to. Even if it sounds like she's knotted up inside, all a tangle.

wolfman

She's joking. He knows she's joking. Still something about that makes him uncomfortable again. Twisting inside his skin. Wolf makes a low sound in his chest.

Gruff: "You're not. Don't say that. Even if you're joking."

He sits on the side of the tub. Now there's a bit of room between them. He takes her face between his hands, looks her in the eye. Doesn't say anything; doesn't tell her he thinks she's crazy hot or that he likes her or whatever else it is he says. Those clumsy cobbled-together phrases like armor around the heart of it which is simply: he cares about her, cares for her, cares.

Even if he doesn't really want to. Even if he is thirty, sixty, or ninety-percent a dick.

Just looking at her now though. Crinkled forehead, lowered eyebrows, frowning. Holds her a couple inches away and looks at her and then says it again:

"You're not gross to me. Never."

Like maybe that cements it. Seals it in stone. Lets go of her then, anyway. Reaches back and twists the knob that turns on the water. Flips the lever that closes the drain. Bathtub starts to fill.

witch

Still holding her, while they stand there. Hasn't put her down. She hasn't lowered her feet. He doesn't strain, keeping her up against his chest like that. Holds her even when he makes that noise of stifled distress. They turn, and he sits, and they're just as precarious as they were on the stairs, but she doesn't think they'll fall. She closes her eyes as he touches her face, opens them with seeming reluctance.

They are so incredibly blue. Even with her pupils blown out in the darkness, they retain their color. Deep and rich and glittering, even when eclipsed by those black pearls drinking in what little light they have.

Just to look at him again, where she hasn't looked at him since he came up the stairs to her, and Devon kisses him. Leans forward, suddenly, and kisses his mouth, with a surprising heat and unsurprising chaos in her that nearly makes her lips vibrate against his. She kisses him swiftly, with a faint breath across his mouth that just feels needful. But she doesn't press, or linger, or even stay. She kisses him, her lips cradling his lower lip for a hot moment, and then she draws away again, looking at him even though she doesn't want to see.

Maybe he goes on and tells her to me, and also never, all the same. Turns on the water. Starts letting the bath fill.

Maybe he doesn't.

Devon wants to kiss him again.

wolfman

Surprised, but he doesn't pull away. Still, but he's not stiff. Not awkward. Takes the kiss. Gives it back -- there at the end, when she's already pulling away.

They look at each other. Dim in his room. Dark outside. Lights on in the hall. Maybe one of the bedside lamps on over in the bedroom but that's it. Her pupils blown out. His too.

He doesn't turn on the water. Or say it again. Doesn't need to; she already knows. That's what he thinks, anyway, though perhaps he's wrong: she did tell him to tell her again, after all, that he likes her.

He does like her. He lifts a hand to her face after a while. Big brutal paw, she saw him thrash some stupid skink-monsters apart with them once. Crushed their fragile little heads against brick. So gentle on her face now though, his forefinger curled just under her chin; his thumb drawing down over her lips. Top, then bottom.

Wolf leans forward and kisses her again. Initiates this time, and it's gentle, and then it's deeper, rougher, mouth opening, breath hot.

witch

He also yanked a cigarette from her mouth and scared the shit out of her once. Same day that he crushed one of those monstrous things trying to kill her against brick. First time he ever saw her throw up from terror and disorientation.

It's also when he brought her back here, and healed her, and gave her a place to stay. Perhaps not realizing she really was going to stay. Perhaps not caring. Perhaps, over time, not really minding.

Until now, when she lives there, but... they can still miss each other. As though just down the hall isn't close enough.

Devon's lips part against his thumb, and her eyes drift slowly closed. He can feel her breath, humid and warm, against his finger. Sees her waiting, even if he doesn't know that's what it is. For him to do what he does. Kiss her,

and then kiss her.

She makes sound, indeterminate but important, leaning closer to him. Deepening that kiss, in her own right.

wolfman

In time his hands leave her face. Run down her body. Slip through the oversized armholes of that shirt of hers, and of course she has no idea how long or often he's wanted to do this. Her goddamn clothes. Her goddamn style. Her stupid big boots and her stupid big sweaters, shirts, tops, whatevers, almost baggy, almost shapeless, and then she goes and pairs them with almost-not-there shorts, skirts, fishnets,

her body underneath. Those tits.

His hands on her back. He feels for a bra and probably there isn't one. He pulls his hands back out of those not-sleeves and then he draws back and her shirt comes up, comes off. He tosses it to the floor. There's a taste to her skin, as unique as her scent would have been, and he finds it there at the hollow of her throat. There between her breasts. There on the tips of her nipples, which he sucks relentlessly, his hands covering her back, pulling at her waist, raising her up on her knees so he can get at her.

His hunger is silent and ferocious. His hands are grabbing at her skin and flesh and bones. He rubs his face against her skin, lifts his head, wraps a hand behind her head and kisses her again.

witch

Somewhere downstairs and far away, the buzzer on the dryer goes off. Devon can barely hear it and cannot process it at all. She has Rafael holding her, cradling her body, and now kissing her. Now touching her, reaching into that shirt and covering her tits through that lace-and-satin black bra so blatantly visible through the armholes, through the white of the shirt itself. He follows it around and unsnaps it and straps slink down her shoulders.

She's touching his chest. Leaning into him, panting softly now, while he tugs the straps down her arms, off her wrists. Devon takes her hands off of him for a spare moment, while her bra slips down her chest beneath her shirt,

which he's intent on taking off, anyway. Soon enough it's just her, soft pale flesh, faintly freckled breasts, and his mouth. Kisses at her, and opens his lips and sucks on her, and it's fierce but it sends a jolt down her body, a heat that slams right through her. All the same, she pulls away. Kisses him, and while their mouths are sealing together she's pushing her hands up his shirt, pushing them up his chest, urging him to take it off.

"I want to feel you," she breathes, but only just, before she's kissing him again. Mutters, against his lips: "I missed you so much."

They seldom talk like this. During this. In a way, she's a little afraid to. Afraid he doesn't like it. Afraid he doesn't want her to say anything, as though it is some small and shivering creature, and speaking will scare it away. Like it ruins something between them, somehow, to acknowledge it. And she's afraid that he has nothing at all to say to her.

But it tumbles out of her nonetheless. She can't help it. She aches for him right to her core, in her viscera and in every nerve. So she tells him these things that maybe should be obvious, pulling up his shirt and dragging it off of him if he doesn't get to it fast enough. Leans into him and gasps when she can finally feel his skin against her own. When they kiss again Devon grinds herself on his lap, panting to feel him.

And the words keep coming out of her in whimpers, like pleas: "Oh god, Rafa, I missed you."

wolfman

Wolf doesn't say much. Maybe girl mistakes that for unwillingness: he doesn't want to speak, he doesn't want to dispel the moment, he doesn't want to make of it more than it is.

Couldn't blame her for thinking that. She wouldn't be right either, though. Wolf doesn't say much because he doesn't know how to say it. Words. Limping. Doesn't say much because there's too much in his blood, burning him up from the inside out.

Girl's panting into his mouth now. Moaning, whimpering, rubbing on his lap. Wolf comes up off the bathtub's edge, stands dizzyingly fast, grabs towels off the rack. Almost rips the rack down. Throws towels on the floor, soft, fluffed from the last wash. Drops to his knees with her, thud, tumbles her down.

Now she's on her back. Dark hair everywhere. Eyes blue as -- sky, flame, as nothing but itself. Wolf's hands rough on her face, holding her for a moment, maybe it means something. The way he looks at her. Surely it means something. Then his eyes closed and he's kissing her again, making a muffled sound against her mouth. Reaches back and pulls his shirt off. Reaches down and pushes his pants down. Scrabbles at whatever it is she's wearing below, leggings or skirt or whatever the hell -- he gets it out of the way. Peels it down, peels it off, rears back to throw it aside.

They're naked on his bathroom floor. Or close enough. Wolf comes back to her, covering her with his hard body, his mass, his weight. She tells him over and over that she missed him. He rubs his face against her chest, brutishly almost; bites her lip a little when he kisses her. His hand between her legs, the base of his thumb against her clit, through her panties. He rubs, he grinds, he shucks her panties aside and slips his fingers into her. Wants to see if she's wet. Wants to see if she's ready, if she'll let him fuck her,

be inside her, be with her. Missed her too.

witch

Knows he's going to fuck her. When he stands up, holding her so she doesn't so much as slip down his body. When he starts tearing things from the walls as a cushion. Reminds her of the way he used her clothes, a few of his, in a similar fashion: an animal creating a bed, a nest, a soft place to land. She knows, and she wants it, and all the same.

She can smell the detergent and softener in the towels when he puts her down. This time she doesn't worry for his knees -- she's looking up at him, when his hands are on her face, and there are tears in the corners of her eyes. They gleam in the half-light, white and silver against that inky black, that gem-cut blue.

Please let it mean something.

Her breath catches, shooting into her like resurrection, when he leans over her and kisses her again. She's already torn his shirt off, insistent, but now she's reaching for him, fighting with the fastening of his jeans even as he's pulling at those tight black jeans, all their tears and holes. She gives a little gasp at the roughness of the way he yanks them from her skin. Even as she's pushing down her own underwear she's shaking, and she feels vaguely sick, and she doesn't want him to stop. She doesn't want him to go away.

Those tears roll out of her eyes and down her temples, into the soft little hairs just above her ears. Every part of him touching her is hot, heated, brutish, brutal. No wonder she trembles. He's reaching for her and she makes this sound, overwhelmed and flinching, though when he feels her she's wet. She's so hot. Resistant, though, to his fingers pushing into her. He can feel that, too. Her hand, one of those long-fingered, slender, fair-skinned hands, lifts up and covers her face, though mostly only her eyes. She doesn't want to cry, or be shaking like this, or feel like there's no ground beneath her, she's falling.

"Please be gentle with me," she says, and it's quiet but it's begging. She doesn't sound afraid of him: that he'll hurt her for this, that he'll hate her. Ashamed, maybe. Scared of what it means. That she cares how it is, or how he is with her, and scared that she keeps having to ask, and how confused she is, and a hundred other things clashing together in her mind. Her voice is uneven, her breath wobbling, and she doesn't taker her hand from her eyes because she is so, so ashamed: "Please, I just want you to be gentle to me."

wolfman

That stops him. Right in his tracks. Wolf pauses and frowns and something in him is aching, aching. His hand between her legs pausing. Then withdrawing, though that isn't to say he yanks his hand off her like she's something disgusting, something infuriating.

Just draws his fingers out of her. Gently, for what that may be worth. Turns his hand over and rubs his palm over the outside of her thigh, touches her softly and wordlessly and insufficiently. There are tears running down her cheeks and he doesn't understand them. She's begging him to be gentle and he doesn't understand that either, not really; didn't think he'd been rough with her at all.

Doesn't think she meant her body, anyway. Not completely.

Wolf wraps his arms around her then. Covers her, arching his heavy body over hers. Hiding her away beneath the span of his chest, the curve of his back. "It's okay," he mutters. Covers her head the way he does, his hand encompassing the back of her head. "Not gonna hurt you."

witch

There have been times when he's been so rough he really has hurt her -- small ways. A bite that was too savage, hands too rough on her skin, or those last few thrusts making her wince. Never intentionally. Never because he was angry, or because he didn't care. Because, conversely, he was so far gone. Because, more than that: he's perhaps just never learned to slow down. To take his time. To be gentle.

Devon shrinks into his hand as he rubs it over her leg. Not to say she flinches away, but quite the opposite: she seems to curl somehow into him as he touches her like that. It means something, though perhaps not immediately to either of them, that he doesn't pull away from her, or tell her that he wasn't trying to be rough with her.

It means something, most certainly, that he can catch a hint of a scent here, a whiff of some elusive prey: she doesn't mean her body. Not just. Not completely.

Comes down over her, and everything around her sinks into shadow. The bathroom is still dark, no lights ever turned up. Her hand is over her eyes. His body is heavy, and warm, and so large compared to hers. He shades her, as though even the shadows in the bedroom are too bright for her at the moment. Which, in some way, she feels they are.

The way he is with her now makes her cry harder, for a moment. Gives a soft sob, turning her head towards his covering palm, but no fresh sounds after that. A shaky exhale, which hits his wrist, but she calms. Some of the trembles fade from her limbs. Her hand, after a few moments, wipes her cheeks with two careful swipes, instead of covering her eyes.

Maybe he thinks she'll ask him to pick her up and take her to bed instead. Or that they should just take a bath and go watch a movie. Shouldn't be doing this with her here, like this. Bathroom floor, bunch of towels, what is wrong with him.

But she looks up at him, and though she sniffs and the skin around her eyes is a bit splotchy and her eyes themselves are still a bit wet, she isn't really crying now. Never really full-on wept, just fought it, until she was making those pleas of him, and until he was trying to shield her with his body from whatever scary, scary thing is attacking her,

until she calmed. Devon's lips close and her throat moves as she swallows, looking at him now in the dark. She can barely make him out, but she doesn't need to. She knows his face. She knows where to find him, when she takes a breath and reaches up, touching his cheeks with her fingertips. Slips them around behind his head, touching hairs that she knows are dark and is always surprised to find cooler than the rest of him. Draws him down, at once inviting him and entreating him to kiss her again.

It is very dark. And the closer he is to her, the less she can see, and the warmer he keeps her, and the more protected she knows she is. Safer.

Safe enough to whisper, when they are very close indeed: "Please make love to me, Rafa."

wolfman

Doesn't seem fair, that her eyes are still that crystalline-clear even now. Even in the shadows. Even after crying.

Doesn't seem fair that she cried like that, fell apart a little, let out a little sob that she tried to hold back. Shook like a leaf. Did all that, crucified his heart on his ribs, and then

manages to put it all away. Puts her hands on his face. Wrecks him anew. Works him out of darkness, anew. He is drawn to her. He kisses her, tasting salt on her lips. Tasting her on her lips.

Please, she says again. Those big hands of his cup her face, keep her safe. He kisses her quite slowly, and quite deeply, and when their lips part again -- though only for a moment -- he wraps his arms around her. Towels between her and the floor. His arms between her and the floor. His body between her legs, and against her body, eclipsing her into that warm darkness that, at least for the moment, seems safe to her.

Wolf doesn't tell her again that he's not going to hurt her. Words only count for so much. What he does and doesn't do: that's the rest of it. So he kisses her. So he nuzzles her cheek, her jawline. So he takes her shoulder in his mouth, gently this time; holds her in his teeth tenderly as he can. And it is tender. It's meant to be: an expression of whatever it is he feels for her that he finds so difficult to frame in words.

Holds her in his mouth as he aligns to her. Holds her in his teeth as he pushes into her, a low growl in his chest, a heavy breath washing over her skin. He lets her go a moment after. Clasps her in his arms, rubs his face against that pale shoulder. That slender, delicate flesh and bone that somehow inexplicably houses her consciousness; her self. He would miss her so much if he ever lost her. He couldn't bear it. Can't bear the idea of her dying, or wounded, or hurt -- and so of course: can't bear the thought of hurting her.

Of course he's gentle with her.

Of course.

witch

He's so warm. And she's been cold lately. Hasn't felt well. Has slept too much or not enough. Not eating well. She's often quite warm but right now he can feel the difference between them, when he wraps his arms around her like that. When he ducks his head and kisses her after that whisper, moving between her legs. Devon wraps around him slowly: her arms, her legs. She draws him back when he holds her in his teeth; her head shakes a little but she doesn't say anything before she kisses him again.

Doesn't want to stop kissing him. Even as he's rubbing himself against her, easing into her, because truthfully: it takes a few moments for her to be ready, for her to open. She does, though, and pants softly against that kiss. Her hands are in his hair, and she's kissing him like she's seeking him somehow.

Looking for him this way, the way he sought her through bone, blood, muscle when he nuzzled her. Looks for him in the air from his lungs.

--

They never turn on a light. Or get up off the floor. No gasping against the wall, or freestanding, bouncing her on him. It's not the slowest they've ever gone, but it's never been like this, all the same. It's not unusual for him to be on top of her, or for her legs to wrap around him, or for him to hold her so close, or for her to kiss him over and over like this. But still: it's never been like this. She's never called it anything but fucking, or sex; asking him for what she did nearly broke her in half.

It's been a long time, again. A while. Neither of them can go quite so slow for very long. Neither of them can bear separation. Devon keeps touching him, and sometimes she murmurs his name, or her name for him. One of his hands braces on cold tile, grips terrycloth, tightening his fist around that rather than her skin. The towels slide underneath them a bit, Devon's breath catching at the way he strokes into her, the way he hits her. It's only been a few months but he knows the way she sounds when she gets close. Those quick, close-together noises she makes, half gasp and half whimper, keeping pace with the way his own body moves.

Devon's hands on his back curl, but she never digs her nails into him. She just holds onto him, sliding her legs up higher on his waist. Devon bites her lip when she comes, as though she needs to stifle what's happening to her. How she feels about it. Her body tightens up beneath his, and around his, wrapping him in long white limbs in the dark and pulling him down, into her, to stay.

But it's warm there. She's warm. She's there.

wolfman

Never been like this before. And it's not the place that makes it different. Or the tempo, or the position, or any of those mundane little details. Difference is something else altogether; hard to put a finger on. Different the way she's different. Different the way he is, to her.

Never called it making love before, though truth is they've never just fucked.

Never made love quite like this before, quietly and achingly and -- yes -- passionately, clutching at each other on a tangle of towels. On a bathroom floor. In his room, in his house, in his den.

Never quite heard her come quite like that before, gasping past his ear, moaning against his mouth. Grabbing at his back, wrapping him in her legs. Never, never quite like this before; his arms folding around her as he tumbles down that rabbithole after her. Pushing his face against the crook of her neck, shoulder. Burying a groan there like he never ever wants it to see the light of day because it's too raw a sound,

too honest,

too vulnerable.

--

He hopes she'll be gentle with him too. Not his body, because he can take almost any measure of abuse; he's not afraid for that. But his heart: that's something else altogether.

--

Rolls to the side afterward. Just enough that he's not crushing her. Sprawls atop towels and tile. Has his head on the floor, eyes closed. Might think he's asleep except then he stirs, then he kisses the curve of her shoulder, soft.

"Missed you," he whispers.

witch

Almost embarrassing, how much better she feels. How she can finally feel and be bothered by the oil in her hair. How her appetite feels like it's come back. Embarrassing because it was never about sex with him, or even being close to him, or the two of them not fighting. There have been longer stretches between them where they barely spoke or interacted. There have been real arguments, not these strange flinches away from each other. What sent her spiraling, hiding from him and from the world for days, was something else.

Which was petrifying.

Which seems a little less scary, right now.

--

They're curled up together on the towels. It's uncomfortable. There's a wrinkle right under her back. His neck is at an odd angle. She's hot; she doesn't move away. When he rolls a bit she shifts with him, not quite letting go of him but reforming their bodies together so they can lie together.

There's sweat on the back of his neck. If she looks very closely with her eyes adjusted like this, she can see it. See the ends of his hair, dark and wet and stuck to him. Devon closes her eyes, just before he stirs, kisses her shoulder, murmurs to her. When he speaks, all she can do at first is give a little nod, curling closer to him. Turns so their brows are together. One of her feet wiggles its way between his shins. Her other foot is under the corner of a towel.

Devon doesn't say anything for a while. She breathes with him, comes down with him. This would be a terrible place to sleep, but for a little while it seems like that's what's going to happen. His arm around her waist, and her leg over his hip still, holding him gently inside of her. Her feet tucked close to keep her cold toes warm. Their brows touching.

But her lips do part, and she takes a measured sip of air, though she doesn't open her eyes. The very tip of her tongue slips out briefly, wetting her lips. Swallows, and takes another breath, and whispers:

"I love you."

wolfman

It's a beat before he reacts.

Opens his eyes, then. Dark lashes unweaving. Green eyes almost colorless in this light. Just dim, and glittering, and animal. Looks at her a long time, brow furrowed.

Raises a hand to her face. Hand warm on her cheek. Palm hot, almost. Thumb rough across her lips, the same moist path her tongue traced. Wolf breathes in. Leans in. Kisses her over his thumb, soft and silent. His hand slips away midway through; covers the outside of her shoulder.

Doesn't paw at her tonight. Doesn't play with her tits, squeeze her ass. Just covers her like that, like he wants to warm her up.

Wraps his arm all the way around her, after a while. Pulls her close to him again. Rolls onto his back, brings her atop him; drags one of those rumpled towels half over her to cover her.

witch

There's a reason she never opened her eyes. Same reason that she ended up sinking into depression, same reason she stayed away from him. Same reason why she wept when he touched her, and clung to him.

Still doesn't, when she says what she does. Or when he looks at her. He can see how tight her brow is, furrowing in the silence. He can tell, when he touches her, that she's holding her breath. His thumb strokes over her lip, which seems to kickstart that again: she takes in a shuddering breath, exhales a moment before he kisses her.

But by then her heart is thudding, and painfully again. So much worse than it was earlier, so much harder. Hard enough to crack glass. Or bone.

Rafael does what he can. Touches her shoulder, and pulls her close, and starts trying to cover her up, and Devon

just

breaks.

This time it isn't fear that hits her, starts boiling out of her in a hot rush of tears or the sudden closing of her throat. It's the realization. And it's worse. The embarrassment of it makes her want to choke, the shame, the bitterness that she even got this far, she never should have stayed here, she never should have gone to that stupid gala with him, she never should have gone to that fucking mansion in the mountains, never should have let him send her to see her mom, shouldn't have gone south with him, definitely shouldn't have told him what she did about her parents, anything that led to where she is right now,

hungry and filthy and heartbroken.

At least it doesn't matter now if he sees how weak she is. Takes some of the urgency out of getting away. Which is why, when she starts crying like that, she doesn't shove away from him and bolt. She just curls up, right against his chest like seeking comfort from him, crying harder than he's ever seen her.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't know why girl starts crying --

that's a lie. He knows exactly why. She said she loved him. Most painful, naked truth there can be. Said it in the aftermath of their lovemaking, when she couldn't be more naked, body or soul. Said it to him, bravely, even though she's so obviously stripped raw, even though her heart is so obviously wounded by the very thought of it.

Said it. Got nothing back. Not even a word, not even a grunt. Just his arms around her, her body close to his. Which means something to the wolf. Means a lot to the wolf; everything. But girl's not a wolf, and girl needs words sometimes, even if wolf isn't good at them. He knows that.

And now she's crying. Now she's sobbing, clinging to him, which is pitiful and poignant at the same time because he's the author of her pain. Wolf's wrapping his arms around her, tighter, kissing her temple and her hair and making these low sounds, unhappy, trying to soothe.

Girl's thin body shudders with the force of her weeping. Wolf holds her like he's trying to hold her together.

"Doesn't mean I don't feel anything for you," he says, low, "just because I don't say it. Doesn't mean I don't want you to feel it. Just not good at saying it. Words aren't even right for how I feel about you."

witch

Loves him. Made love to him. Begged him, quite frankly, to make love to her. After begging him to talk to her, please, even when it's obvious (he thinks), even when he's already said it (so many times). Her clothes are in sagging piles around the bathroom; her skin is laid bare and she's laid bare, and she was so brave.

Asked him to make love to her and he did. Touched her like that, fucked her the way he did, and --

and this. He doesn't say anything to her because he can't. Because it wouldn't be true. He is honest, after all. Has always been with her, at least. That's what sinks into her. That's the only explanation she has for it. If it were true, he'd just.

He would just.

--

"Stop kissing me," she says, trying so hard to be ferocious, which is a challenge when you are skinny and fragile and sobbing. "Stop it." She's so angry with him now, hurting her like that, acting like he can comfort her. She isn't storming off because she's hungry and filthy, that's it. That's why she hasn't started packing. That's why she's holding onto him, even as she's squirming away from him, trying to make him not be inside of her anymore.

Crying again. Because if he stops kissing her it might mean that's it, that's the end, he never will again. These are the last kisses he'll give her because they're the last ones she'll accept.

This is what sucks about loving someone who doesn't love you back. How starved you feel.

"I know," she says, choking the words out as angrily as she can muster. "You like me." Her hands on his arms, like she's about to push him away. Decides to, in the end. Not like it would mean anything now, even if he f0und the words. The way boys react to girls crying: they'll say anything to get it to stop, to not feel so responsible for it.

wolfman

Those arms like stone under her hands. Except stone isn't hot, and stone doesn't move, and his arms are and his arms do. His biceps flex under her palms; hands come up, wrap around her forearms. Now they're each holding the other.

Wolf's looking up at her. On his back beneath her and still his eyes are so ferocious. He grips her in his hands. Grips her with his eyes, too, holds her fast.

"I'd do anything for you." Words come through gritted teeth; intensity making him bite down. "Kill for you. Die for you. Anything. Love's roses and valentine's cards. This is more than that. You're mine and I'll do anything to keep you."

Beat.

"If you want to be," he adds. Belated. Relenting a little. "Only if you want to be."

witch

Devon wants to slap the shit out of his stupid face when he says love is roses and valentines. Love has had her lying in bed staring at a wall in the dark for hours these past few days. It's killed her appetite and made her bones feel brittle. Love keeps making her cry, keeps making her care more about being loved back than getting up and taking a shower. Love -- foolish, stupid, ill-placed love -- brought Devon into this world and love is what made abandonment so painful after she was here. Love has kept her running her entire life, and love has kept her stuck here for longer than she's willing to admit.

She's done enough readings for enough lovelorn people. She's heard people asking for potions and she's even tried to find one and it doesn't exist. She's heard more people asking for something that would make them stop feeling it and that doesn't exist, either. Love is more powerful than magic. It's enough to create a fucking human being. It's enough to end a human being, too.

Fucking roses and valentine's cards. She could smash his stupid face for that.

--

"You idiot," is how she answers him. When he says he'd die for her. When he says that she's his. When he says he would do anything.

Idiot.

But she's crying. "I can't read your fucking mind, Rafa."

wolfman

Wolf gets called an idiot. He scowls. But he takes it; doesn't argue, doesn't growl at her. Just strokes his rough palms over her smooth forearms. Something of a conciliatory gesture, that.

"Yeah," he says. "I know."

And she's still crying. And he's looking at her, mouth twisting, brow furrowed. Reaches up with his hands and tries to wipe her face, inexpertly. Ends up smearing tears on her cheeks. Rubs his palms over her shoulders, her upper arms. Pulls her back down.

"I know," he says again, quieter. "But now you know how I feel. Yeah?"

witch

Devon's crying still. She's so upset, still. Even when she calls him an idiot. She doesn't see him scowling. Feels him holding her. Strangely: feels him acting like this is a normal conversation, and not the end of everything. Kill for her. Die for her. Anything to keep her, if she wants to be his.

She won't let him wipe her face. Hides it on his chest, which is broad and heavy and warm. Smears tears on his pectorals. He still has her half-covered with a damn towel. Fluffy towel, at least. He tries: she knows, right? She knows now, yes? And he never has to say it again -- or say it at all, truth be told.

"But you won't say it," she says, hearing the pitiful tenor of her own words and hating it, like she's hated this feeling and hated herself for days on end now. "You have any idea what it took for me to tell you that?" Devon swallows, closing her mouth to try and find moisture enough to make her throat work. She starts to draw away, not wanting to cry on his body anymore, wanting to sit up, away from this odd little warm nest and things she wants to forget she said here. "And it's just... fucking empty to you."

Her head shakes, animalistic, shuddering. She starts to sit up, push herself up, move off of him. "If you want someone who just knows, and always knows, and never wonders -- that's not me. I don't think that's anyone."

wolfman

Sits up with her. Draws his knees up, loops his arms over. Still frowning at her, even as she gets up, moves up, moves away.

"It wasn't empty to me," he says. Still quiet. Still strangely steady, watching her, even while she's falling apart. "And I don't want 'someone.' I want you.

"But," slower, this. Wary, "don't want to have to say everything every time. No good at that, I told you. Don't want to have to spell everything out for you. There's gotta be a middle ground here. Where I say a little more and you ... listen more. Not to what I'm saying but to what I'm doing. The things I do. Devon, you must know I don't treat anyone else the way I treat you. You gotta see that."

witch

"Oh my god," she mutters, furious. Devon rises. Too fast. Her head spins and she holds onto the edge of the counter to compensate. She's more a sylph like this in the dark than any other time. "'Middle ground', Rafael? Told you I loved you," she says, like repeating it pulls out an organ, a bone, some precious part of her, every time.

"And you hugged me."

Devon, unable to do anything else with the memory of how that landed with her, hits the lightswitch. Sudden, blinding, glaring light illuminates the corners of a room meant for detail: shaving, makeup, every nook and cranny and secret unapologetically well-lit. She does not look well in this light. Her hair is a mess -- lank from oil, mussed from tangling about on the floor. Her eyes are puffy and red, her cheeks splotchy. And she does not care. She's wincing, shuttering her eyes against the light, hunching her shoulders as she covers her face with both hands for a moment.

"I keep..." she pants a breath out, her hands falling away from her face as her pupils begin to constrict again, "tearing myself open, with you. For you. Telling you things..." she exhales heavily, remembering that night at the Amazon River itself, and how scared she was then, and how hopeful.

"You're just telling me to get better at guessing what it means when you hug me, or fuck me, or watch a movie with me. I'm not asking you to say the right thing every time, Rafa." Tears welling up again, staring at him. She sniffs. "Wanted you to say it once. Begged you, because... stuff isn't as obvious as you think it is. Not to me. And not only did you not say a goddamn thing, you're telling me I'm the one who needs to try harder?"

She shakes her head, her shoulders and her spine and her body tightened up against the chill she feels. "I know I'm special to you. I get it." Swallows, against some new choking emotion. "But if it's that's hard for you to say to me, and you just really don't want to say it... that means something, too."

Devon exhales. She sniffs again, rubs her face with her palms. "See? I am listening to what you're doing."

wolfman

And somehow

they're fighting again.

Wolf stares at girl in the sudden, harsh light. She doesn't look well. Looks tired, unwashed, poorly fed maybe, wrecked. Wolf looks -- angry, in truth. Backed into a corner, frustrated. Scrubs his face with his hands; claws his hands back through his hair.

Drops them. Stares at the girl again.

"Even if I said it now," he says, "wouldn't mean anything anymore to you."

witch

Her breath just... knocks out of her. And she makes some gesture with her arm, as though to say there you go when she can't say anything at all.

"Half right," she says. "Would mean that admitting you love me is such bullshit, you'd have to be forced into it." Devon steps over towels. Picks up her underwear, those torn black jeans, black bra, white shirt. Gathers it up in a bundle and holds it against her chest. Looks at him before she moves again, though. "For what it's worth, I don't want you to kill for me, or die for me, or keep me. Fucking stupid as it sounds, all I really wanted was for you to love me."

Sentence can't get out of her mouth without more fucking tears welling up, blinding her. She blinks, too worn through to even be as annoyed by her own crying as before. She exhales, roundly, getting to the bathroom door. And because she thinks she has to, or should, or because it's fair:

"Look, you don't need to chase me, or come after me, just because I'm walking out. I just want to shower, and go to bed, and tomorrow I'll work on getting out of here. All right?"

wolfman

Wolf's just -- astounded. Sits on the floor on a pile of towels, staring.

"You fucking joking?" She's not, though. She's clearly not joking, and she's walking out the bathroom door. Then her bedroom door, then the front door by tomorrow. "Honestly believe I feel nothing for you because -- what, because I won't say three stupid little words? You really that blind?"

witch

"No," Devon says, firmly. "Thought you didn't love me, til now. Why do you think I've --" but she doesn't finish that. He knows what she means. stopped fucking eating. slept for days on end. cried myself to sleep every night. She thinks he knows. Look at her. Look at how she's been.

She shrugs. "Now I think you love me, but wish you didn't. Or don't want to be held to it. I think you think it's stupid to say, which means you think I'm stupid for saying it. I think you'd rather yell at me or insult me or argue with me to keep me here than say 'three stupid little words'. I think you want me to fill in the blanks of all the stuff you won't say, because you've got issues.

"I've got issues. Didn't want to say what I did. But I did anyway. Needed to know that you knew, word and deed both, how I felt. Needed to know, word and deed both, how you felt."

Her shoulders lift, and fall. "I'm not blind. I just see that you aren't willing, for whatever reason, to do the same. You're right," she says, with an air of finality. "It wouldn't mean much right now. Because you missed it."

wolfman

There's a moment in there where a circuit almost closes. Somewhere between now I think you love me and I think you want me to fill in the blanks, a connection crackles to life. Sound and the fury almost fades away. Meaning almost becomes clear. He almost gets her.

Then girl says, you've got issues. And wolf's face closes up like a book. Eyebrows come down. Jaw turns hard. Now he's just glaring at her, nostrils flared. Visibly angry. Doesn't process anything else. Doesn't move forward.

Connection sputters and dies. Nothing left but static.

When she's done, a couple seconds go by. Then wolf squeezes a hand shut. Pops his knuckles, loud in the silence. "Guess that's that, then." There's an ugly streak of mockery there. Covers the wound beneath. "Missed my opportunity. Took your test and failed. Didn't say what I was supposed to, so guess we're done now."

witch

Hard thing is: she's trying to tell him she gets it. He has issues. She has issues. Difference is, she was willing to push past hers. Doesn't see him pushing that hard past his own.

That's not how it hits him. Makes him angry, and makes her shrink. She tells him he missed it, and he pops his knuckles, and Devon flinches. Physically, emotionally, she shrinks back from that intimation of anger, of violence, so thoroughly codified by media as a gesture of threat.

He mocks her, which right now is no more than she expects. Snarks about a 'test', which she chalks up to a boy's way of blaming his shit on a girl no matter what he has to do to get there. Sure. This was all a big test. That's all.

Devon waits for him to be finished talking, but that's all. She finishes walking away. It helps to know, at least, that she doesn't have anything in his bathroom or his bedroom. No personal effects or clothes or accessories except what she already has bundled in her arms. Pretty much everything she owns is down the hall. She's got that much going for her: doesn't have to think of a time to go through and get her toothbrush or clear out her drawer. She can just go.

She just goes.