Morning and girl wakes before the wolf. Slips socks on her feet, a camisole over her head. Pulls shorts on her ass and pads down the hall to shower. Brush her teeth. Comb her hair. Maybe put on some makeup, or maybe she goes barefaced since it's no one but family.
Wolf's still asleep when she comes back, crashed out on that big bed of hers. Surprising, maybe, given what an animal he is; how wary and alert. Must feel safe here. Must feel content, and comfortable, and -- welcomed. Maybe that's the word for it. Rare thing in his life.
He wakes when she's puttering about the room, though, or perhaps when she climbs back into bed. Opens a green-glinting sliver of an eye, peers at her for a moment. Rolls on his back with a great, heavy grunt. Scratches idly at his chest. Pulls a pillow half over his face to cover his eyes. The light, it burns.
"Time is it?" he mutters, wool-mouthed.
DevonMorning.
The twins are up before anyone, but they creep down the hall and knock on the door and wake up Brian and Sheila first. Sheila drags them into bed and snuggles them horribly while Brian grunts and is climbed on. There are giggles and occasionally Eleanor shrieks happily as she is tickled, then shushed.
Hope and Stevie wake some time after that, hearing their children. Stevie gets up first to go relieve Brian and Shiela, Be A Dad, because the first hour or so after Hope wakes have been the time when her stomach is the most wobbly; there are crackers by the bedside and water to help her settle before she has to get up, and go Be A Mom.
Later on, Devon wakes up. Mid-morning, or late. She stirred earlier, as the house woke up, but then curled closer to Rafael and went back to sleep. She gets up when she does not out of obligation, not out of embarrassment, but because she hears the pipes quieted down after everyone else has brushed their teeth and so on. She gets up when she does because she can smell coffee downstairs, and bacon.
So she gets up and she puts on her robe and she goes to the bathroom. Takes a quick shower, maybe a quarter of the length of the ones at his place. The water isn't cold, but it won't last long. She puts her stuff in her hair and combs it through, lets it air-dry. She puts on some eye makeup: shadow, liner. She comes back and he's still deeply unconscious, nevermind the den full of activity beneath him, nevermind the empty bed beside him, the pillow that has replaced the woman he was holding.
Devon is getting dressed in front of the windows when he opens his eyes. Sun streams through, makes it hard to see anything but a silhouette. She's got her underwear on, which is black and covered in screenprinted white stars. She's put on knee-high silver socks. She's got a bra on, which is also black, but lacks stars. She's digging around in her suitcase when she feels him awaken, feels him move, feels the air shift as the beast regains consciousness and fixes its attention on her.
She pauses. Looks over at him, damp curls sliding over her bare, freckled shoulder. He rolls over. Grunts. Scratches. Devon rolls her eyes, giving a tiny shake of her head at the ceiling, and pulls on a dark, dark red tank top. Tugs it down to her hips. When she glances at him again, he has a pillow over his face. He can hear her scoff at him, though.
"Breakfast time," as though this is all that matters. Sun up. Den and tribe awake. Food.
Next time he looks at her, she's wearing a charcoal-gray wool skirt that ends just above her knees. It's straight-edged, no flare, no cute little a-line. She is searching through her suitcase for that big holey sweater of hers. She also has a headband in her hand, a skinny little one, black with glitter, with a little plastic bow to one side. She hasn't put it on yet. Finds her sweater and pulls it on over her head, letting it shake down over her body, showing most of that red tank top underneath.
RafaelHe doesn't pull the pillow over his face after all.
She's getting dressed in front of the window, silhouetted, a shadow, a sylph. He watches her through barely-open eyes. Her shape swims, distorts; she seems half a creature of myth. She is. So is he. She has lingerie on. She pulls a shirt on, tugs it down. She finds a skirt and pulls it up. She looks for her holey sweater and he looks at her, rolling onto his side to see her better, half sprawled over the pillow that took her place when she left his bed.
Her bed. Pronouns get confused. He's the mooch now.
"Hey," he says, muffled, as she's pulling that sweater on. All those holes. Red flashes through black. "Think you're beautiful. You know that?"
DevonDevon is probably aware that he's watching her. She's introverted, solitary, but she's not oblivious by any stretch. She's more tuned in than most. She's more tuned into him than anybody. So she knows, and she doesn't really care. Lots of people look at her. She looks at lots of people. And Rafael, of everyone, looks at her the most. Stares at her sometimes, when she's out of reach, like it's a stand-in for the physical contact she knows he craves. Almost all the time.
Hey, he mumbles, and she glances over, sweeping her hair out from under that sweater. He does something he rarely does, which is: tell her, plainly, what he thinks. How he feels. That he likes her. A lot. He's been doing that more often. Tells her she makes him happy. Has figured out: she doesn't always know, if he doesn't say it. She can't feel what he feels just by virtue of him feeling it, or holding her in his arms, or pressing his teeth into her shoulder.
Her eyes soften on him. The corner of her mouth quirks, touched but awkward. "Yeah," she says, but the word slides around as she says it, loose and almost shy.
She comes over. Decides against the headband after all, dropping it back in her suitcase before she takes those two softly padded steps back to her bed. Climbs up onto it, over him, pinning him under the comforter. Kneels on the bed, straddling his hips, her skirt hiked up a few more inches over her thighs.
"Think you're beautiful, too," she says, head cocked, looking down at him.
RafaelHe rolls onto his back as she climbs onto the bed. She straddles him; he looks up at her, sleepy, warm, tousled.
He gets this crooked smile; shy in its own right. "Yeah?" he says. Her skirt's ridden up. He helps it: pushes it up her thighs a little further, thumbs stroking across that soft, revealed skin. "Like dark-haired pricks, do you?"
DevonHe decides to be a jerk about it, but she caught that edge of shyness in his smile, that hesitant pleasure at what she said, at believing it.
Makes her smile a little more, as he's touching the truly, intimately soft skin of her thighs. Leans over him a bit, hands coming to smooth up his chest where the blankets and sheets have slipped down his body. Doesn't nod. Doesn't shake her head.
"Handsome," she says. Or calls him. Hard to tell. Her fingers have come near enough that one hand lifts, touch stroking down his jawline. "Hot."
Leans over him further then, slowly, til she gives a kiss to his mouth: slow, soft, lingering. "Beautiful," she repeats, murmuring. Her hands are sliding down his body as her lips brush his; she touches his hands. Draws them up her skirt, over her hips, pressing his palms to her thighs to hold her.
"Sexy," Devon whispers, her eyes half-closed, her mouth close to his.
RafaelShe just got dressed. He should feel bad. He doesn't, though. He's turned on. Aroused before he's even quite shaken the last cobwebs of sleep from his mind. She gives him compliment after compliment, and he'd be a liar if he said it didn't feel at least a little good. To know his very fucking gorgeous girlfriend thought the same of him. To know...
well. It's the same, isn't it? At the end of the day, it's proof that she likes him. It's proof that he pleases her. And that, in and of itself, is pleasing.
He sits up. Her weight on the covers makes it a little more difficult, but it's not impossible. He sits up and a wave of warmth escapes the covers; sleeping with him is like sleeping with a furnace. He wraps his arms around her and picks her up, more or less; scoops her off the covers so he can push them back. Lets her back down and now there are no annoying sheets between them; nothing but her clothes. That she just put on.
"Wanna?" he murmurs. Truth is he's already reaching under her skirt to get at her panties.
DevonDevon sits up, too, wrapping her arms around him as he lifts his body from the bed. She turns her head and starts kissing his neck; she's only barely aware of what he's doing, pulling those covers back. He's a stinky mess: all that sweat, sex, sleep. She kisses his mouth instead, though, all the same. He lowers her to his body, and she can feel his cock stirring, hardening to her.
He wants to know if she wants to fuck. He's reaching for her panties. And she's turned on; was turned on when she climbed onto the bed, was turned on as she kissed him, pulled his hands under her skirt. He is not remiss for taking these as green lights.
All the same, she laughs, breathily. "No," she says, honestly but not cruelly. "Everyone's awake. There's breakfast." That's not it, though. He hears her say something he might never hear her say otherwise, because no one else matters,
but this is her family: "Don't want to be rude," she murmurs, nuzzling his jaw a little.
Rafael"What?"
Wasn't expecting that. Of course he wasn't: he's already reaching for her panties. That'll teach him to draw foregone conclusions. But she goes on: awake. Breakfast. Rude.
He groans. Drops his brow against her shoulder and just... groans again. And then he kisses her neck, long and firm.
And then he picks her up off his lap. Sets her aside. Props his hands on the bed behind him, looks at his dick, blows a breath out. "Fuck." He looks over at her. "Okay. Shower. You first?"
Swings his legs out of bed. Gets up, picks that towel off the chair, wraps it around his hip. Adjusts it a couple times until the hard-on isn't so obvious.
Devon"Poor, hard cock," she murmurs, cradling his head against her shoulder, stroking his hair. She doesn't squirm on him. She doesn't slither down and stroke his cock. Or kiss it. Just... talks to it, apparently. She's lifted up, and she smirks, and ends up getting off the bed. Doesn't want to be too tempted.
Smooths her skirt down while he's staring at his own dick, sighing. This makes her laugh. Out loud. Shakes her head. "I'm already clean."
Comes over and stands on her toes, kissing his cheek. "Save you bacon," she promises, and squeezes his hand, and heads out of the room to go downstairs.
RafaelHe catches her when she squeezes his hand. Pulls her back. Kisses her mouth, gentler than one would expect.
"Love you," he murmurs. Mutters, really, as though even the privacy of her bedroom were too bright a place for such words.
He lets her go, then. She heads downstairs. He listens: her footsteps, the good-morning chorus that greets her. It makes him smile. He thumps down the hall, closes the bathroom door. Stays in there ten, fifteen minutes, showering and brushing his teeth, shaving.
Jeans, when he's done cleaning up. Quarter-zip sweater, fine-knit, dark. He didn't even know he owned that thing. This is what happens when someone else packs for him. He thinks he looks all right, though. He comes down the stairs, not quite knowing what to expect. It feels alien to him. He can't remember the last time he spent a holiday with something like family.
DevonTips her head back, all that damp curly hair falling down her shoulders. Lifts her head up to let him kiss her, welcome him kissing her. Smiles, as he kisses her. When they part she's looking at him, adoring. It's only worse when he tells her, unbidden, that he loves her. So she closes her eyes to give him privacy and nuzzles him again, soft and tender under his jaw. Doesn't say the words this time. She's trying to learn to speak his language a little, too.
She heads downstairs. The kids yell. They are eating pancakes and have sticky hands, sticky faces. There's coffee, and scrambled eggs, and bacon, and some juice. And when he gets downstairs there's enough left for him: well and truly enough: they know how to feed wolves in this house. In fact, if he glances outside, he might see Will, sitting on a low stone bench in homid, wrapping up bacon and eggs in pancakes to eat them like tacos.
There's no chorus of yelling children to greet him. There's Sheila, saying OH HI, HONEY and telling him there's plenty more. She is on her second cup of coffee; Brian is sitting at the corner of the table, leaning back, reading something on his Kindle. Hope and Stevie look up, say good morning, but they're trying to get the twins to decide if they're done eating or not. Because they can't leave the table unless their hands and faces are cleaned, but they can't clean their hands and faces unless they're sure they don't want more pancakes or juice. It is a lengthy discussion, and occasionally the twins talk to each other, deliberating, speaking in gibberish.
Devon is eating eggs and bacon, no pancakes, drinking coffee, no juice. She has a seat open next to her around the crammed table.
No one is winking at them or nudging each other. No one coyly asks how they slept or anything like that. They are adults. They are a couple. He's a wolf and she's kin. They fuck, and who fucking cares?
Brian belches a little and Sheila laughs, thwaps him with her hand on the arm. He smirks, pretending to sway to the side from the force of her abuse.
RafaelNo one yells to greet him. No one rushes to serve him. Everyone goes about their morning business, as though this were any other day; as though wolf were one of them. It's a strange feeling. It's nice.
He piles his plate high with eggs and bacon. One pancake. Lots of syrup. There's an open seat by girl, but wolf goes there only a little while. Stands next to her chair and wraps an arm around her, kisses the top of her head.
"Gonna go outside," he says. Which is what he does, though it's cold. Sits by Will, grunting some form of hello. Eats with his fellow wolf, conversation minimal. Just a companionable silence.
DevonDevon actually looks a little surprised -- and perhaps even a little disappointed -- when he comes by, but doesn't sit with her. She looks up at him. He kisses her brow more than the top of her head, as a result. He's gonna go outside. Where it's frigid, though perhaps not to him. Clearly Will is fine with it. She just nods, and sips her coffee, and Rafael goes outside. Away from the kin, though that's not it. Away from the kids, though he doesn't dislike them. Away from Devon, though obviously most of the time he is happy to glomp her up and keep her close.
He goes out and Will looks up at him. Walks over and Will easily shifts to the side, moves his coffee mug. Rafael sits. They balance their plates with one hand, eat with the other. Sit, silently, eating breakfast. No birds sing, not this far into the cold part of the year. The wind rustles the branches. Ribbons tied in trees flutter; a chime sounds softly and musically. A mobile hanging from an eave twists in the wind, its crystal hangings throwing light and color everywhere. A rabbit zips from under one bush to another; both wolves pause their meals briefly, eyes fierce and sudden on the little frightened creature, watching it, noticing it the way canines notice such things.
Next time Rafael glances at a window to the house, he can see Devon standing at a window in the dining room, the twins to either side of her. They aren't really watching him and Will; they're blowing on the glass to fog it up, drawing quickly in the moisture. Stars and swirls, hearts, squiggles and dots.
RafaelHe watches her, though. Eats his breakfast and watches her draw, scribble, squiggle. He's smiling without realizing it. Finishes his breakfast before he knows it; looks down at his empty plate.
Stands up. Will knows he's going in, so he doesn't bother to say it. Does pause to say this much though:
"I'll ask them to come out for a bit during dinner. If you can't make it inside."
A puff of cold follows him into the house. The twins are drawing on the window still but perhaps girl's gotten bored, or at least lightheaded from blowing on the glass. Wolf drops his dishes off in the kitchen -- rinses it off, or maybe puts them in the dishwasher. Comes to stand close to the girl, reaching past her. Finds a pre-drawn heart on the glass. Draws an R on one side of it. D on the other.
It's a ridiculous, childish, foolish thing to do, and he knows it. Huffs a laugh when he's finished, rubbing the moist tip of his finger against his shirt.
DevonPictures fade in moments off the window. That is the point of it. Occasionally Devon catches him watching her; she smirks at him. Beside him, Will eats his own piled-high plate of animal protein and the occasional carb, content with the slightly offset solitude. When Rafael gets up, Will has already finished; he's sitting with an empty plate on his lap, watching the wind moving some branches. Watching god knows what; he is a Theurge, after all.
Eyes flick, then jaw follows, head turning to Rafael as he speaks. Attends. He says nothing to what Rafael offers. He makes a low noise, sort of a grunt: acknowledgement that Rafael has spoken, assent, gratitude, a bit of all of it.
Indoors, things are busy but more settled, as they often are after people have eaten. In this house it appears that people rinse off their own dishes and put them in the dishwasher, but Stevie and Hope are washing things like the skillets and griddle, which are all cast iron. Devon has already wiped off the dining table. Brian and Sheila are upstairs getting out of their pajama pants and sweatshirts and showering, getting into real clothes, all that. The twins are still drawing, now with dry-erase markers that Sheila dug out for them, covering the window-glass in colorful decoration. Devon did not get bored, but did see Rafael coming inside, so she's turning toward him when he comes over. He sees a heart. Perhaps he breathes on the glass to fog it himself, draw their initials.
"Oh, god," Devon says, sounding roughly embarrassed. She laughs, shaking her head at him, one arm resting across her midsection. "Weirdo."
RafaelHe smirks at her, but somehow between his sidelong glance and the shake of her head, it turns into a grin. He turns away to hide it. "Just being a good boyfriend," he mutters, hooks an arm around her neck, kisses her hair roughly.
DevonDevon is looking to the side and up at him now, arm still folded across her body. She smirks, lips together. Thomas is still drawing; Eleanor is staring up at the two of them, mostly unnoticed. Devon wrinkles her nose as he loops his arm over her shoulder, grumble-kisses her hair, which is so thick that it's still rather damp from her shower.
"Come on," she says, and slips out of his grasp, lowering her hand to her side to bump against his, take it if he wants. "Let's peel potatoes."
RafaelHe does take her hand. Sort of. Hooks two fingers around two of hers, as though this way no one will notice him being a good boyfriend.
Snorts a laugh, "You guys really are Irish."
Devon"It's Thanksgiving," Devon says, their fingers linked very cutely as they walk away from the twins and back into the kitchen. Hope and Stevie have taken up a corner of the dining room to chop... something or other. Devon looks at him like he's still a weirdo. "You have to have mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving. Legally."
Rafael"Right. And stuffing. And cranberry sauce." He finds the pile of potatoes; looks for a peeler. "Pumpkin pie too. Right?"
DevonSomething about how he says it. Right. Then lists off other things. At first she's just nodding; opening up a drawer and taking out a peeler and a paring knife. Hands him the peeler. She drags the trash can out for the peels as he's adding pumpkin pie to the list. Or rather: asking her if that's right. Pumpkin pie goes with Thanksgiving, right?
Devon looks over at him, potato in one hand, that tiny little knife in the other. She thinks about what he's told her: dad, then dad gone. Homes. An uncle he wouldn't talk to. Then the running, the Change, and as soon as he found a 'family' again it... wasn't anything. Her brow starts to furrow, but she doesn't want him to jerk away, close in on himself. She looks down at the potato and starts to peel it.
"We have apple and pumpkin pie," she says, to confirm. Doesn't list off the menu. Asks, a moment later: "Did you and your dad have Thanksgiving, when you were little?"
RafaelDidn't even mean to sound like some sort of orphan who's never had Thanksgiving. He knows Thanksgiving. It's in the pop consciousness; movies and TV. Can't live a year in America without figuring it out. He says it; he forgets it. Is peeling a potato when she speaks again.
Glances over at her. Frowns at his potato. He's not terribly good at peeling, but he's not awful either. Does it with a sort of glum determination. Probably ate a lot of potatoes before he got rich: cheap, filling, goes well with meat.
"Don't really remember. Probably not. No real point with two people when we saw each other all the time." He thinks a little. "Think once we got a turkey breast and mashed potatoes. Can of cranberry sauce, the jelly kind.
"How 'bout you? No Thanksgiving in England, is there?"
DevonDevon is... practiced. This is where the Irish part comes out: the big family, the big meals. The familiarity with the kitchen, even if she's only a fair cook. She wields that paring knife with ease and comfort, quickly shedding the skin of the potatoes. Technically this would go faster if they boiled them first, but the plan is to just chop them and put them in water and turn the heat up later, when the turkey goes into the oven. Getting it out of the way now, that's all. Making sure her family sees that Rafael helps; he's no rich spoiled boy. He's already made a good impression, but still. She wants them to see he's good. He's worthy.
But his dad never made Thanksgiving for them. No point. Her heart twists into a sailor's knot in her chest, tugs tight in on itself. She feels like she's going to begin howling. She doesn't make a thing of it; she looks down, blinking a few times, while she peels. Puts one potato aside, grabs another. Rafael is still on the first.
"No, but I was a baby when we came to live here. We always had Thanksgiving. Mum kept it up when we went back to London. I think mostly for me." She shrugs. "There are lots of expats there; stores still have turkeys and things around this time, for the Americans." She looks over at him again. "It was just us two, sometimes some friends of hers from work, but it was still nice."
She puts another potato down, grabs a third. Watches her work so she doesn't slice off a finger. "Makes me sad," she confesses, more quietly, "that you didn't have it."
RafaelHe finishes the first as she's reaching for the third. He slants a glance at her hands; how was she doing it so fast? Quick precise little strokes. He frowns at his potato: big dumb strokes taking off more flesh than was necessary. He adjusts. Used to just bake a lot of potatoes. Easier than peeling.
"Don't be," he says. "Didn't miss out. Was still with my dad. Had Thanksgiving with the foster homes later. Wasn't all that." He pauses, rinses the potato, then goes back to peeling. "Besides, having a proper Thanksgiving now."
DevonFlick flick flick flick flick; that's how she's doing it. A light hand; she's not trying to flay the potato alive or rip its heart out. She's just taking its clothes off. Light, easy, an agile wrist.
"Just such a big part of how I grew up," she says, thoughtfully, trying to work through the ow that keeps coming up. "So... hurts to think of."
RafaelWolf laughs under his breath, low but not mean. "You're a softie, Devon Paredes. Got a sharp tongue sometimes but a soft heart. I'm on to you now."
He cores an eye out of the potato, then tosses the second one in the heap. "Don't feel bad for me," he adds, quieter. "Just be happy for me being here now. I am."
Devon[empathy! spec. does not apply.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 5 )
Rafael[Not a lot of hidden layers right now! Rafael genuinely doesn't feel bad for himself. Thanksgiving/holidays never meant too much to him, so he doesn't mind having "missed out" for most of his life. That said, he really is happy/glad to be part of her family's Thanksgiving right now. He's maybe surprising himself a little with how much he's enjoying being here.]
Rafael[Answering Qs: 1) He just wants her to include him in whatever her 'typical' Thanksgiving is. 2) He's surprised to be enjoying himself because he is Rafa, who generally likes to brood alone and growl at things.]
DevonShe looks over at him, wrinkles her nose at him in vague annoyance at calling her a softie. She doesn't decide to list off all the ways that he is actually just a puppy who wants to be a good boy and make her happy and roll over and have his belly rubbed and snuggle her at night. Why?
Probably because he is right. She doesn't want to embarrass him. Or make him close up, shut down -- it's strange enough seeing him so content around so many people, even happy to be around them. She can't think of a time he's willingly, willfully sought the company of other werewolves, even.
Watching him peel potatoes, hearing how he asks her not to feel bad, Devon is a little wary: that she's offending him by being sad. That he reads it as unwanted pity. She watches him, her own knifework slowing, looking at the corners of his mouth and his eyes, the set of his shoulders under that sweater, with the sleeves rolled up a bit on his forearms, which always turns her on for some stupid reason. His stupid fucking body.
Devon shakes it off, distracted. Peels potatoes. "I am," she says. "But I'll just be sad until I'm not anymore."
She glances up at him. "Also, you don't quite have Paredes down yet," she teases. The way she says it: just the slightest trill to the r, a softness in the way the tongue taps the d out against the roof of the mouth before falling again.
RafaelShe can read him like a book. Maybe she's just that perceptive. Maybe she just knows him well enough now. It's been a year. And he doesn't really try to hide much. It's all there if she looks: shoulders relaxed, hands busy. Not a lot of tension in the jaw, the grip. Meant what he said. He likes being here. Doesn't even quite get it himself, but he likes being amongst her kin. Her folk. Her family.
Shoots her a glance. Smirks, going back to his potato. "You mean it's not Pay-reh-dees?"
DevonDevon all but cringes. "Jesus," she says, looking a little mortified. "We'll work on that before you meet mum."
RafaelWolf just laughs. And keeps peeling potatoes.
Soon enough there's a small pile. Enough to make a very, very large bowl of mashed potatoes. And meanwhile someone's been simmering the candied yams, and someone's been stuffing the turkey and making sure it gets in the oven on time, and someone's washing green beans because there's got to be some green on the table. The wolf washes his hands when he's done. Wipes them on a towel hanging from the oven door.
"More people coming later, or this it?"
DevonShe just shrugs. "Maybe," is all she says, of more people or just the ones already gathered. "People show up sometimes."
She washes her hands, too, and then takes his, leading him out of the kitchen. They're starting to get in the way of Sheila and Brian and Stevie. Hope is in the family room, watching the tail-end of the parade with the twins. Devon doesn't led Rafael that way, though. She heads towards the front door, the closet, their coats.
"Going on a walk!" she shouts through the house, and Sheila calls something back about okay honey!
RafaelThey're going for a walk. Now everyone in the house knows, including wolf. He laughs under his breath. Takes her hand the way he did before, fingers linked; then tightens it to a real grip, palm to palm.
They have to grab their coats. It's chilly outside; no snow yet, but winter's bite is in the air. Wolf zips his jacket all the way up, almost to the chin. Pulls gloves on, then reaches for girl's hand again.
"You gonna show me your school, all that?"
DevonDevon puts on a coat this time; not one from her suitcase upstairs. She literally just grabs some big boxy Carhartt from the closet up front and is promptly swallowed by it. There are handmade knitted mittens in the pockets, also too big for her, but she wears them anyway. And she pulls on a wide plaid scarf, too, over her head and around her neck so that her hair is covered. She looks absurd; she does not care. She never cares, unless Rafael makes fun of her. Or unless Rafael is staring at her, wanting her.
She takes his hand again. His fine leather gloves; her soft hand-knit mittens that glomp around her hands instead of staying close to them.
They step outside, onto the porch, closing the door behind them. The house stays warm at their backs; the air is crisp and cold, wind coming off the river. Devon's breath steams. She looks up at him. "You want to?" she asks, seeming quite apathetic about the idea.
Rafael"Nah. Not unless you liked it."
He looks windward. It is almost instinct. No; it is instinct. Look to the wind, scent the air. Learn, at a breath, what is around him, near him. What may be threat, what may be food.
He turns back to her. Her breath steams and he has a sudden memory of her walking away from him, angry, her skin painted like cracked porcelain. Got another bullshit apology chambered? He dropped his coat around her shoulders. Later on it slid to the floor because he was pulling her to the floor, mounting her, fucking her roughly and desperately as if he'd waited a lifetime. Longer.
He wraps a hand behind her head, leans in, kisses her. It is sudden and comes out of nowhere, and he doesn't bother to explain. It'd take too long. He finds her hand again and takes it.
"Just show me something you like."
Devon"Didn't," she says, with the faintest roll of her eyes, but not at him. Looks away, as he's looking windward. She's leading him off the porch, mittened hand holding his gloved one. She can feel the heat in his body radiating even through the lining, the leather, suffusing it with his warmth. They start walking, at least towards the gate, when it seems that quite suddenly he stops, and pulls her closer, and wraps his hand around the back of her head for no reason, kissing her deeply.
Then he stops. Draws back. Retakes her hand. And Devon stands there staring at him, eyebrows up, scarf askew.
RafaelLook on her face makes him laugh. Makes him self-conscious too, casting a glance up and down the street. Their hands stretch between them. Then he comes back.
"Was just a kiss, Devon. Come on."
DevonWeird reaction, that. She thinks so, anyway. Withdraws her hand with an almost elegant drift, despite her big mittens and uncle's jacket. She takes a couple of steps past him, sweeping onward. "Pardon me for my face, then," she says, arch and spitting, walking away.
Rafael"What?" He sounds baffled. Follows, of course, doggedly, shoving his hands in his pockets now that she's pulled away.
DevonHer voice lowers in a way that would be comical if she weren't a bit irritated with him. Mimics him, all round and dopey and masculine: "Was just a kiss, Devon. Hurr hurr."
RafaelHe shoots her a glance, scowling. "That's not how I talk."
DevonShe looks over at him from under her odd little plaid headscarf. "Well, all I did was look at you funny when you kissed me. Out of nowhere. Don't know why you got all off kilter about it."
RafaelWolf turns his scowl another way now, uncomfortable, shrugging his big shoulders up.
"Weird for me to get all lovey-dovey," he says at last. "Feels even weirder when you notice and point it out."
DevonDevon's brow wrinkles now, where it had not before. She stares at him. Her mouth is open. When he finally looks back at her, she says: "First of all, don't see how that was 'lovey-dovey'. Second, how was I not to notice you kissing me out of nowhere? Third, all I did was look at you, and you acted like I was stupid for it."
Rafael"Let's just stop talking about it, all right?" He's exasperated; starts walking. "Just don't want to make a big deal out of it. And don't want to fight with you. On Thanksgiving."
Devon"Oh, fuck off," Devon snaps, turning on her heel and heading back to the gate.
RafaelWolf turns -- sees her turning, marching back to the gate. He mutters a curse. Sounds like fuck. Then he turns and keeps walking.
DevonDevon heel-turns back to her family's house, or at least that direction, and Rafael mutters and is on his way. So it is.
And some time goes by. And eventually, Rafael turns back towards that street, that house. That front door.
RafaelHe's gone quite a while. Walks, by himself, through the neighborhood. Doesn't know where he's going, but that's not new to him. Plenty of times he's walked places, alone, not knowing where he was going. Usually he manages to find trouble, and on the other side of trouble, some measure of peace.
Today he doesn't find trouble. Just finds houses, some empty because their occupants are elsewhere celebrating the holiday; some full because a family has gathered there. Driveways with cars and kids' bikes, maybe a basketball hoop. Front door open with sounds and smells spilling through.
He finds his way to a school. Elementary, small, with a plain asphalt-paved playground. Big circles and squares on the ground; kids play games there. Did he ever play games? Must have. Seems a long time ago. Dodgeball, kickball, four-square, two-square. He was a sullen kid, got in a lot of fights. Remembers being put in timeout a lot for kicking, punching. Biting.
On the way back wolf cuts through the elementary schoolyard. Buildings seem so small, doors kid-sized, desks tiny and low to the ground. Handprint-turkeys on construction paper. ABCs around the walls. Said he didn't care to see her school, but wolf ends up wondering if girl went here anyway. Probably not; wasn't she in England? He's not sure. Doesn't know the chronology of her life that well, though she's told him. It's hard for him to imagine her as a child. He thinks she might've been sullen too, or at least quiet. Big blue eyes. Freckles. She probably didn't bite, though.
He finds his way back, eventually. Up one street and across, down another. There's the house, there's the front door. He wonders if the reception will be chillier now that he's fought with the girl. Her clan would circle the wagons around her, surely.
DevonDoor is unlocked, as it was last night. And interior is warm. The smell of turkey has not quite filled the house -- there is still ample time before the big midafternoon meal -- but he can scent it immediately, the slowly cooking meat. He can smell bread. Smells Fianna. Will came in at some point recently, but isn't inside now. Another sniff: Will isn't even in the yard out back; maybe he's patrolling. Maybe he's in the spirit world.
Football is on in the family room near the back, behind the stairs, past the kitchen. Sheila is knitting something; Brian and Stevie are watching sports with Hope. The kids are, actually, running around the back garden in their coats, playing some game that makes sense to only them, with four-year-old roles and rules. There is much spinning and plenty of faux martial arts moves and half of it appears to be a headstand competition that both of them keep losing.
Devon is not in the back garden, at least not that he can see. Or in the family room. Sheila looks up when he comes in.
"Oh hi, honey!" she says, grinning the way that she does, it appears, constantly. "You two have a good walk?"
Rafael"Um," he mutters, this low, rounded grunt of a ... well, it's not really a word. Noise. That suffices for an answer -- he hopes it does, anyway. "Just a sec."
He backs out of there. Lets the door shut. Goes around back where the kids are playing some inexplicable game.
DevonIn a family where no one is really as sullen or quiet as Devon except some far-off cousin who hates being confined so much that he can't even come outdoors, Rafael does seem a little... odd, at times. But there's little judgement here. Sheila blinks, then shrugs it off as he leaves, going back to her knitting and football (Bears vs. Packers). Brian glances up but doesn't linger. Stevie, who is incredibly calm and quiet and supportive and seems rather gentle, nearly throws his beer at the wall when the Bears score again, yelling COME ON in exasperation.
It appears he is a Packers fan.
--
Back door swings open and shut from Rafael's hand. The twins instantly stop what they're doing. Thomas is flopped on the cold, hard ground, but sits up so fast his hat slouches over his forehead. Eleanor is standing there, palms together in mid-clap, and stares at him with those big bright eyes of hers.
RafaelA small child's gaze can be disconcerting. It is an animal thing, quick and darting and very direct. Wolf stares back at them. A beat.
"Seen Devon?"
DevonMakes sense that he wouldn't ask Sheila or Brian. What sort of a boyfriend misplaces his girlfriend, their goddaughter. Makes sense that he'd go to that forceful little boy and that clear-sighted little girl and ask them instead. Eleanor's brow is screwing up as he stares at her. She thinks he's going to bite her. A dog growled at her once from behind a fence and made her scream and cry and pee herself a little and if there hadn't been a fence and a chain it would have bited her, she just knows it. But he's a boy, not a dog. But he gives her the exact same feeling.
She does not want to pee herself. Thomas always says she's a baby and he has to protect her when she wets her pants, and that is NOT. TRUE.
He asks about Devon. And merely the recognition of the name makes Eleanor take a deep breath, remember that Devon hugs him, he's their friend. He gave her ham and it was very silly but she knows he was trying to make friends. He's a big dog, but that doesn't mean he's a bitey kind. Not to her, because he gave her ham and he's Devon's friend and Devon knows how to draw.
Eleanor shakes her head. "Breakfast," she says.
Thomas has clambered to his feet beside his sister. His nose is a little screwed up from thought. "You went on a walk."
Eleanor's eyes fly wide open. "Did she get lost?" she says, hushed and concerned.
RafaelWolf's brow furrows up. "No." He thinks a few moments. Can't lie to a kid, that's horrible. "Not really. Maybe. She just walked off somewhere. Don't tell everyone, okay?"
He lets go of the gate, lets it swing shut again. Maybe the fence isn't very high. Maybe the kids can see him as he turns, walks back to the street. Stands there with his feet apart, hands out of his pockets: alert, searching. Can't sniff the air, that wouldn't do any good. Can't yell her name unless he wants everyone to know what's up.
He starts walking again. Goes the other way, reasoning he would've seen her if she was still somewhere the way he came.
Devon[wits + primal urge!]
RafaelDice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 2, 3, 8) ( success x 1 )
DevonTruth is, most adults think nothing of lying to children. Constantly. Effortlessly. With high moral defenses for doing so. They protect them. Lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie. Everything is a great big sparkling lie, and no one ever feels bad for it, or can tell the difference anymore between the harmless ones and the ones that make children afraid to trust anyone ever again.
Rafael does not lie. No, Devon did not get lost. But maybe. She walked off.
Eleanor and Thomas give him a funny look. They know it's bad when adults say don't tell everyone, that means theyr'e doing something they shouldn't. They look at each other, and back at Rafael, and they make no promises.
--
Rafael leaves, heading around the side of the house, between the walls and the parking cover. They lose sight of him. He goes out front, still in coat and gloves. Wants to sniff for her, but it'll do no good. Can't yell, because -- well. He has his reasons. He doesn't want everyone to know.
He goes the direction she was walking, the way he didn't walk. And as he walks, he thinks of her. Feels her around him, or inside of him, or against him. What he knows of her: imagines her sullen as a child, those big eyes, the way she watches people. But the way she didn't seem to like school, the way she doesn't like to talk about her dad. Solitary sort, at heart. Easily wounded.
As he walks, finds himself drifting away from the houses, the lights, the warmth, the noise, even the street with its thin traffic this time of day, this holiday. Finds himself across the street, down the block, around the same graveyard that he and Will were hunting at last night.
RafaelWithout a scent, without sound or sight, all he has to follow is instinct. A gut feeling. He wanders until he finds the graveyard. Then something in him tugs, ever so faintly. He remembers the glade child. The strange, crooked, strong, living trees. Yeah. That feels right.
Hops the fence to get in. Treads amongst the gravestones; tries not to walk on anybody. Just bodies, just rot and dirt at this point, but still. Show respect.
RafaelDice: 5 d10 TN6 (4, 5, 7, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )
DevonHops the low stone wall, the old 'fence' of this area. It's an old graveyard. Whatever church used to look over it is long gone, making it that much easier for ill things to creep around. Strange, how the Wyrm can be attracted to the warped faith of so many, and repelled even more strongly by that faith in a pure form.
But it is also a large graveyard. It makes sense that Devon would be here, right? Right. He tries to settle into that certainty, or at least that hope. He's far enough now that he could call out, but it flickers into his mind: a shout, and then a sudden recoiling, a retreat. Devon plays so rough sometimes, puts on all these jagged edges, but she's so goddamn sensitive sometimes. It sits in the back of his mind: if he shouted for her now, she'd shy away. Wherever she is. She might not even know why.
So he walks. Finds himself walking carefully, and steadily if not really 'lightly'. Instinct is all that guides him now. Towards the trees along another wall, closer to the water, where the graves thin out because some of the ground simply isn't suited for burying. Thick copses of evergreen trees cling to the walls, a trifle misshapen and warped from wind, from the wall. One of the trees has all but grown together with the stones, the trunk fused with rock more or less. And the branches hang down, several feet up but their tips brushing the ground.
He sees it as someone like him would see it: a shelter. A hiding place. Dark inside, but with enough light to see by when the sun is up. Fragrant needles everywhere. And just as instantly, thinks of Devon as a girl, or a teenager. Of course the little witch would go exploring a graveyard by herself. Of course the girl who he sometimes finds crushing dried lavender between her rolling palms into a boiling pot of god-knows-what on his stove would find comfort under a tree.
RafaelCarefully he approaches the tree. Finds himself doing it stealthily, like he was hunting. Keep downwind. Place his feet just so. By the time he ducks to peer into the darkness, he's near enough that she can't run from him. He'd catch her.
Doesn't go to catch her though. Doesn't seize her, savage her, whatever it is wolves do to prey. Just looks into the darkness, silently but expectantly, to see if she's there.
Devon[perception + alertness]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 5, 6, 7, 10) ( success x 3 )
Rafael[dex+stealth!]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 4, 7, 7, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 5 ) Re-rolls: 2
DevonNot a chance in hell is she going to hear him coming, once instinct takes him over, has him lowering his center of gravity, walking over dried leaves and drier needles with utter silence. Her sense of smell is nothing compared to his, even if he can't track her that way. He comes near the wall, careful to avoid the slant of light in the direction that would cast his shadow over her. And lowering far, far down, crouching as if to crawl, he peers past the boughs over the 'entrance' to her little shelter and sees Devon there, wrapped in her godfather's coat, legs folded up into the enormous thing, so her feet stick out and her head sticks out and she's still got her head covered by the scarf. Her head is tipped back against the stone, her eyes closed. Like she's napping. Or something. After a second or two, though, she feels him. Eyes flutter open, anxiety rising rapidly and instinctively. Turns her head and her breath shoots in. But then relaxes; it's only Rafael.
RafaelWaits til she looks at him.
Wait til she recognizes him. Then he holds up a hand, open palm toward her. See? He's harmless. No; he's not harmless. But he wouldn't harm her.
Just Rafael.
Just Rafa.
And when she's calmed a little, he moves in. Breadth of those shoulders barely fit. He has to crouch, dip, duck, bend. Eventually wedges himself in under the boughs, into that little shelter formed of tree and stone and wet, ancient earth. Something primitive and primordial about the earth of a graveyard. A deep, chthonic reminder of how short a life is; how long the span of the earth.
He is close to her now. Shifts so he can sit beside her, folding himself up to fit.
DevonIt's a moment, only. That first flash of prey recognizing a predator. The first blush of fight or flight; the shot of adrenaline that wakes her up, sudden and ruthless. She recognizes him, though. They are not mere animals. She is not prey. He is not really her hunter. He wriggles his way in, because she nods at him. Comes to sit beside her, the two of them squeezed in.
Devon doesn't say anything at first. She leans against his side, though, her head tipped onto his bicep.
RafaelHe was hoping she would. Didn't want to ask for it. Too proud, or maybe just too scared she'd say no. But he was hoping she'd lean on him, just like this.
After a moment his arm moves under her temple. He lifts it over her shoulders, wraps it around her. Now her head rests on his shoulder; side of his chest. And he keeps her there, arm warm and firm and heavy.
"You like this place," he says after a while, quiet. Question, though it doesn't really sound like one.
DevonNow she'll really get warmed up. Devon snuggles into the heat, soaks it out of him like she's entitled to his body heat, his warmth, his closeness.
He says she likes this place. She doesn't answer that. She does say, some time later: "We have the stupidest fights sometimes."
RafaelHis laugh is felt more than heard: a heave of flesh and bone; a huff of air. Then he quiets. Turns, kisses her where he can reach her.
"Yeah."
Little bit of time goes by. He adds, "Asked the kids if they'd seen you. Then told them not to tell. They thought you got lost. Whole house probably knows by now. Took me a while to find you."
DevonTop of her head. Covered by a plaid scarf that smells a bit like Brian. They aren't talking much. He doesn't talk about fighting. He does talk about the whole house knowing, like it's shameful. Devon is quiet a moment, then shrugs. "They aren't that nosy," she says, but she's talking about the whole family.
Her hand slips down between them, wraps around his, mitten to glove. "Why'd you kiss me like that? All sudden."
RafaelHe's quiet a while. Didn't want to talk about it or make a fuss over it on the street, but it's different here. Quieter. Still takes him a while to dredge the words up.
"Wanted to. Remembered that first night." Shrugs, his shoulder moving under her cheek. "Just wanted to."
Devon"Oh."
That's all she says. No real comment. He just remembered that first night. Doesn't ask what made him think of it; thoughts just happen sometimes.
"Wasn't trying to embarrass you," she says, a little obstinate about it still.
Rafael"I know," he says, quieter. "Wasn't trying to be a prick either."
DevonDevon falls silent for a bit. Wants to ask him to trust her more. Not be so embarrassed with her. Knows, though: it's only been about a year. Not quite thirteen months yet. She holds his hand and doesn't say it. Not really fair to ask someone to be wholly, completely at ease with you when it's not been that long. Or when you aren't, yourself. And you know it.
"You're not a prick, Rafa," she says.
RafaelHe wants to make a joke of it. From 80% to 30% to 0% prick. Nice progress. Something like that. But truth is she says it and it warms him, inside to out. He can't say anything for a moment. Just squeezes her against his side, wordless.
And after a while: "You wanna head back?"
DevonShe says it and it's not a joke. It's quiet. Soft. Sometimes he acts like a prick, and she acts like a neurotic, but that isn't what they are, and she means it, and she doesn't want him to joke about it. Would hurt if he did. Feel like dismissal, a severance of this soft, tender connection between them now.
He sits in his warmth instead, holding her, and she sits with him. And later, asks if she wants to head back. She shakes her head. "Want to stay here with you a bit."
Rafael"All right."
He doesn't mind that. Likes and wants that, actually. Likes her family, wants to be a part of them -- there, that's the truth of it, bubbling unsummoned to his mind -- but even so there's a comfort in the silence that's just the two of them. He shifts, moves, stretches his leg out in a new direction. Leans back against a convenient bough or root. Gets comfortable.
"We'll stay here a bit," he echoes; closes his eyes.
DevonHe echoes her. And she smirks a little to herself, tucked against him as she is. He stretches; she leans a little more, closing her eyes. Rests there in silence with him. They can hear the wind. They can hear the river. They can hear cars, distantly, every so often. But mostly it's quiet. Birds and animals have gone south or underground for now. The dead are no longer here, only their castoffs. It's dark, and soft, and quiet.
"Didn't have a lot of friends at school," she tells him. "Got bullied. Not as bad as in England, but enough to make me dislike just about everyone."
Falls quiet again. Speaks up after a few seconds: "Liked coming here. Especially in summer. Hid a blanket here for a while, and this bottle of whiskey in a lockbox. Came out here to read or whatever." Hesitates before telling him this bit: "Touched myself sometimes. Felt good being outside, doing that."
RafaelHe grunts when she talks about getting bullied. She can feel the tension snaking through him. He shifts; plants a foot against some root or gnarl sticking out of the ground.
"Anyone bully you now, I'll put their face through a wall."
Stupid thing to say and he knows it. No one bullies her now. Once some wyrm-ridden skinks tried. He put their faces through some walls. Stupid thing to say; true, though.
Quiet, then, listening. She reads here. She touched herself here. He opens his eyes, looks around the enclosed little space. Hidden, a little den. That's how he thinks of it. He closes his eyes again, listens to the sounds, the quiet. Water and wind and mankind in the distance.
"No boyfriend to do that for you?"
DevonStupid thing to say, but Devon doesn't roll her eyes at him. She knows that's part of why he's here, this weekend; wants to make sure no Jimmys happen. Wants to keep her safe. That's part of it, at least. Knows that on some level he's wishing he was there, wishing he could've --
It's just like her being sad that he didn't have Thanksgiving. Sad that he didn't grow up with a mum, sad that he doesn't have aunts or uncles or godparents and cousins to be with. She hurts for the boy he was, wants to give him what he didn't have. It's the same for him. She gets it.
And he gets this place, though he doesn't say it again: one of your dens. But she mentions touching herself, all alone in the quiet, clutching at grass and hiding from sight in the shade, and he asks about that. A boyfriend touching her. Devon's not sure what he means by asking that. If he's thinking about that afternoon this summer, under a tree in his yard, which is still in her all-time top five sexual experiences. Possibly top three. And just thinking about it turns her on a little, but she's not sure that's on his mind, if he's actually asking something unrelated.
Says, with a trace of hesitance: "You want me to tell you about other boys?" And there's a pause, a certainty: "I don't want to hear about other girls."
RafaelWolf thinks a while. It's a valid question. Creature like him: he got upset thinking someone else took her dress off, and they weren't even sleeping together then.
"Don't know," he says finally. "Maybe not. Just want to know about you, is all."
DevonShe wanted him to know that if he ever gets a wild hare in his head to tell her about other girls he's fucked, she doesn't want to goddamn hear about it. One month into sleeping with him and she warned him not to fuck other girls while she was gone. Never asked, when they broke up, when she moved out, if he slept around in that time. She doesn't want to know. Doesn't need to know.
But she gets what he means, when he says he wants to know about her. She nuzzles him where her head rests, hair scuffing against the plaid scarf over her head. "There were boys," she tells him, "before we left. Fooled around with some. Didn't have sex til I was sixteen though, and we were in England then." She closes her eyes, held by him. "Never brought any boys here, though."
RafaelHe's quiet a while. Smells the earth, smells the trees. Smells her uncle, which is disconcerting when he can't smell her, so he tugs that scarf out of the way a little.
"Good," he murmurs, though he has no right to. Not like he knew her then. Not like he has any claim over this little hollow. Still: good. "Just you and me."
DevonThere's a reason she told him. Not the same reason that she told him, a year ago: no one took my dress off. That was because she could tell that was what bothered him: someone else. Someone else with her. Someone else taking her dress off, touching her, when he couldn't. Wouldn't. When he thought she didn't like him and she was trying to get him to just pick her up and fuck her already.
The reason she tells him that she never brought any other boys here is similar, but different. She wants him to know he's special, if he doesn't already know that. Remember it. But more than that: she wants him to know how special this place, and places like it, are to her. The solitude. Not just a room of her own but a place removed, hidden. Even wolves cannot track her by scent. He only found her here because --
"How did you find me?" she asks, finally, suddenly curious.
Rafael"Hm?" Sometimes he's so primitive. Doesn't worry much about cause and effect, hows, whys. She asks him how he found her and he comes up with nothing. Blanks for a moment.
Then: "Just did. Walked around 'til I saw the graveyard. Thought you might be there, so I came in. Then I saw the tree." Shrugs. "Just knew you'd be here."
RafaelHis is a coarse, rough language. There isn't much subtlety to it. Intent and emotion are often writ large, or otherwise buried so deep it takes effort to discern. A snarl is hard to mistake; a stare, a silence, a certain heaviness in the way he leans into her is much harder to unpack.
There it is, though. She leans into him; she inhales him. He understands this. He tucks her against his side, under his arm, under his chin. Makes this low sound. And they stay there a while. Neither of them comment further on his finding her -- not by sight, nor sound, nor scent, but by simple virtue of knowing her. Understanding her. Neither of them discuss when to go back.
--
Eventually, though, they stir. Perhaps wolf dozed off a little, or girl. Sitting up, head bent so he doesn't go crashing into the overhanging boughs, he yawns. Reaches over and dusts leaves off girl's back.
Light's already failing outside. Late autumn in the northeast, and the days are short. Slant of the sun makes daylight even shorter; watery and pale. They climb out of the hollow like animals from a burrow. He holds his hand out to her, then folds her under his arm.
Rafael[DLP >:]
DevonWarmth opens slowly in her heart, then unfurls, then blossoms in full, erupting like a rose gasping for sunlight. Devon can feel it. She can almost see it in the darkness of her own mind, how red and lush and open that love is. She leans into him more deeply, almost fiercely close. Turns her face to him, inhales his scent deeply, and says nothing.
She is learning to speak his language.
RafaelHis is a coarse, rough language. There isn't much subtlety to it. Intent and emotion are often writ large, or otherwise buried so deep it takes effort to discern. A snarl is hard to mistake; a stare, a silence, a certain heaviness in the way he leans into her is much harder to unpack.
There it is, though. She leans into him; she inhales him. He understands this. He tucks her against his side, under his arm, under his chin. Makes this low sound. And they stay there a while. Neither of them comment further on his finding her -- not by sight, nor sound, nor scent, but by simple virtue of knowing her. Understanding her. Neither of them discuss when to go back.
--
Eventually, though, they stir. Perhaps wolf dozed off a little, or girl. Sitting up, head bent so he doesn't go crashing into the overhanging boughs, he yawns. Reaches over and dusts leaves off girl's back.
Light's already failing outside. Late autumn in the northeast, and the days are short. Slant of the sun makes daylight even shorter; watery and pale. They climb out of the hollow like animals from a burrow. He holds his hand out to her, then folds her under his arm.
DevonLate in the morning when they left the house. Some time past noon, past one, when he found her. And already they can see the sky growing a darker shade of light, not quite sunset but not quite afternoon anymore. Days so short, sun so seemingly cold. But even so: having him here makes it a little warmer. Shelter from the wind, a blanket of needles and so on across the ground to insulate them a bit. Devon doesn't say anything about walking the block or so back to her family's house. She just stays here with him, listening to the silence, listening to him breathe.
But eventually, even his warmth isn't enough. She aches a little from keeping her legs tucked into her godfather's coat. And she shivers. Rafael notices, keenly, looking at her. He suggests going back and she nods; they unfold themselves and her legs are asleep and she winces as blood flows back into her joints, crawling out from behind the boughs. Rafael is brushing at her coat. She laughs at him when she realizes he's grooming her: she plucks some evergreen needles that have gone brown off of his jeans.
Pats his bum, and then holds his hand. Her legs are bare from knee to skirt-hem, and the scarf she's wearing has falling down from her thick, dark hair. He folds her near, and they walk up the street. Across it. Back to the porch, and in through the door. Now the house smells like turkey, and like pies, and like potatoes and yams and green beans and cranberries and stuffing and buttery rolls. Football game is still going on; kids are inside now, but napping upstairs, and so is their mother Hope. Strange how he can sense it inside the den, just like he found Devon in the graveyard: he feels it in his bones, senses it on the air: cubs are sleeping here. their dam carries another. the other wolf has returned to the garden.
Devon sheds layers reluctantly after the door is closed. She's still shivering. Hangs up the Carhartt, stuffs mittens into the pockets, tosses the scarf over a hook behind the closet door. And then as soon as Rafael has his jacket off, she glomps him, sticking her hands between his arms and his sides, burying her face in his chest.
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