packing for boston.

Devon

On Halloween, out in the woods, under the stars, it was Rafael who suggested that they visit her mother. Or have her mother visit them. There was no question between them of what he meant: that he would pay for it with his mother's money, which is now his money. That was understood, somehow; another sign that his awkwardness with his wealth is diminishing. These things -- these changes to one's perspective, ideals, even identity -- happen quickly but silently, like a current still moving under a frozen surface. They put the suggestion aside at that point, in order to revisit later when they were in more of a planning mood, not so much a sacred Samhain about-to-fuck mood.

But it did come up later. Not very soon, because neither of them are planners. Devon puts things in her phone's calendar like her work schedule, but otherwise she just goes with the flow. God only knows if Rafael even knows how to use his calendar or if his people manage it. But they do eventually get around to it, probably when he calls her about something the last week of November and she reminds him that she's going to Boston. Right.

Her godparents -- father's relatives, though her animosity for that dead werewolf doesn't seem to extend to the people who raised her alongside her mum and taught her witchcraft and told her what she was -- have the means and the will to bring her home, once a year, just like they have the means to keep her on their Family Plan, which may be the only reason Devon has a rather decent phone. This is how they keep her from floating away. They knew her father, as Devon never did. They keep it to themselves, but they know she got more from him than her appearance: the dark hair, fair skin, freckles. Those magical blue eyes. The shiftlessness, the restlessness, the unapologetic way she lives her messy, wild little life. So: they pay for her phone. They pay for her tickets between Boston and wherever she happens to be. They give her a home, one she's grateful to come back to, one where she can be both kinswoman and witch without obfuscation or explanation.

Really, the only other place where Devon has that is with Rafael. But he doesn't know that. Nor does Devon, in a way. She knows it in her bones, in her stomach: felt, sensed, but unnamed.

--

He's with her while she's packing up for Boston. Sitting in her room at Naomi's place somewhere, either in the chair at the desk (which is half altar, half workbench, and wholly a mess) or on the floor in between piles of her stuff or on the bed, pushed to the edge because her clothes are scattered all around her suitcase. She is not folding or rolling anything, she's just picking stuff up and deciding if she wants to take it or not. No planned outfits, no counting panties. Last time she went to Boston she came back with almost all the clothes and stuff she'd left there when she came to Denver, but there are still drawers and closet-rods in Massachusetts in her other home, her other room. She doesn't worry. She doesn't plan. Things work out for her. She is never afraid to ask for what she wants. Or just take it.

Little mooch.

"Mum took the week of Christmas off, and the week after for the New Year," she's telling him, tossing a holey black sweater in her suitcase next to a pair of leggings that look like there's blue lightning all over them. Devon looks over at Rafael, wherever he's sprawled or standing or leaning or whatnot. "Told her you'd pay for everything, and she got a bit embarrassed about letting you fly her here. Said we could visit her in London instead, so she got fussy about not having much space. Told her we'd hotel it, but she almost swooned. Plus, don't want to go all the way there and stay in a bloody hotel and not with my mum."

Devon balls up a large grey t-shirt that looks suspiciously like the sort Rafael always wears, and throws it into the suitcase as well. "So what would you like?"

Rafael

He's sprawled. On her futon-bed, couple pillows under his head. He's dicking around on his phone, and yes he does know how to use his calendar, he just chooses not to. He knows how to use Netflix, though, and he's watching some stupid show about stupid people being stupid. He doesn't know. He just tapped it at random because he thought the lead actress was kinda hot, whatever.

And he can give off such a bad boy, bad boyfriend air. Lounges about chronically grumpy. Looks all rough-edged in his jeans and t-shirt (grey) and biceps and shoulders; barely seems to pay any attention while she's talking about her mum and Christmas and New Year and what does he think? He grunts: taps pause on his stupid show and looks over.

"Is that my shirt?"

Devon

In response, Devon throws a couple of rolled-up socks at him. They have purple eyes all over them. They unravel in mid-air, but successfully flump against his face before falling.

"Not even listening..." she says, mock-seething, going back to her 'packing'.

Rafael

Flump. Socks. Wolf reaches up and pulls one off his head; methodically balls them up together and tosses them back at her. Maybe into the suitcase.

"Was listening," he disagrees. "Just saw my shirt going into your bag. Distracted. Let's have your mom over. She can stay in the guest room if she wants. Or I can get her a hotel if she wants her own space."

Devon

Devon steadfastly refuses to answer any question about what clothes of his she has gradually acquired (stolen). She does not point out that it could be any grey shirt, since everything he wears looks identical. Nor does she tell him it's no wonder he thinks she dresses 'absurd', since everything he wears looks identical. She does not even call him boring. She just catches the socks and drops them, unrolled again, into the suitcase.

The barest shadow of a smile flicks over those thin lips of hers before vanishing again.

"That's not very Christmas, hotels," says the girl who won't even live with her boyfriend. She is quiet a minute, picking up other items and either tossing them off the bed or into the suitcase, without any apparent rationale for either decision. "Was thinking, maybe... the other house. She lives in London, yeah? Should show her the mountains."

A tiny, fractional smirk at the corner of her mouth, trying to conceal actual delight, actual something-else. "Really knock her socks off."

Rafael

Wolf smirks. "You showing me off to your mom?"

Devon

A sly raise of her eyebrow, her own smirk much better hidden now.

"You don't wanna show off for my mum?"

Rafael

"Nah." He's still smirking. "Could be convinced to show off for you though. We can bring your mom to the mountains. Get her gifts. What's she like?"

Devon

Devon tips her head. There's a wrinkle to her brow. Not a deep one. Just a little one.

"Why don't you want to show off for my mum?"

Rafael

Wolf senses a change; she's serious. He raises his head. Stuffs a pillow under it, rolled-up, so he can see her easier.

"Don't really like showing off for anyone," he says. "Try not to show off for you, even. Doesn't mean I don't like you. Just don't want to be selling something I'm not."

Devon

A little serious.

Her head's still tipped. She's listening, that wrinkle still in place the whole time he talks. She thinks about it.

Then shakes her head. "But that's bullshit. You do show off for me. Try to impress me. Like it when I like what you show me."

Devon continues packing, reaching for another t-shirt (her own, this time) and stuffing it in. Suitcase is getting a bit full now. "Not selling anything you aren't. Should want to impress my mum, though."

Rafael

"Try not to," he repeats. Sounds just a touch cross now: like he's been found out. Which he has.

She keeps packing. He sits up, swinging his legs off the side of the futon. "How come?" he wants to know.

Devon

Her lips purse. Not in mockery. It is an attempt not to smile, but it would have been a warm smile. Still: she doesn't smile.

She doesn't want him to think she's laughing at him. He's already cranky.

"Because you want her to like you," Devon says, like it's obvious, and picks up some magenta panties to stick them into the suitcase with the rest.

Rafael

"Doesn't she like me already? You do."

It is painfully clear: wolf has never had a girlfriend before. Let alone one with a caring, involved mother.

Devon

Devon looks up and over at him. She stops packing for a minute and climbs over the suitcase. She's just wearing a loose blue tank top, the straps and edges of her purple bra visible, especially when she's crawling and clambering over to him. She's also wearing some rather baggy jeans, a bit distressed. Climbs right up onto him and over him, straddling him.

"Babe," she says. "She doesn't even know you."

Leans over him and plants a small but meaningful kiss on his lower lip before sitting back up. She's concerned, but not deeply: "I making you nervous?"

Rafael

She climbs over him and he flops back, knees bent over the edge and feet planted. Hands grip her ass. He closes his eyes for that little kiss.

"No," he says. "Just never really thought about impressing my girlfriend's mom."

Devon

Devon smiles at him, warmly, her hair falling down a bit from the half-pony it's in, loose and tousled. "She'll like you. Long as you're nice."

Rafael

"I'm always nice," he says, which is a blatant fucking lie. He squeezes her butt. Then he sighs, wrapping his arms around her waist, one wrist gripped in opposite palm.

"You packing my shirt 'cause you gonna miss me?"

Devon

Oh, her eyebrows pop up at that lie. Surely he knows better. She's scooted up on his lap a bit with the way he glomps her, hugs her closer, putting her right over his crotch. She smirks at him. And then more, at his question.

"Missed you like crazy last year," she tells him. "Barely even knew you then. What do you think, I like you less now?"

Rafael

Wolf scoffs, "Just trying to get you to admit you stole my shirt. Better not bring it back all cut up with sleeves torn off."

Devon

"And what if I do?"

Rafael

"I'll ... think you look hot. And fuck you." And he smirks.

Devon

She pulls back from him immediately. She makes a face: teeth gritted, lips pulled back, a horrified eeesh grimace. "Better not, then," she says warily, eyes twinkling.

Rafael

"Yeah. See. Better not."

Cups his big hand behind her head, then. Pulls her down on him, cheek to his chest. Inhales. Exhales. Catches no scent, but he seems to get some comfort from that anyway.

"How long you gone for?"

Devon

Devon resists a little. Resists his hand when he pulls, til he moves his hand away. She's feeling contrary, then. Because as soon as he lowers his hand, she curls up on his chest, laying her head on his shoulder, her hair spilling right where he can sniff at it. And smell nothing but the white-tea-jasmine-something she puts in there after she showers.

"Leave tomorrow. Come back late Saturday. Have a job now."

Rafael

"So responsible," he murmurs, wry. And wraps his arms around her when she curls up on his chest.

"Your Boston people know about me?"

Devon

"'Course," she says, cradled there and seemingly content to stay, folded up on her knees and against his chest, a ball of witch. "They knew about you last Thanksgiving, too. How else was I going to explain skipping my return trip to go to London?"

Rafael

"Good," he says, quiet, which may not make a lot of sense until he asks: "That wolf that was staring at you, he know too?"

Devon

Devon blinks at Rafael a moment, then wrinkles her brow. "What?"

Rafael

Wolf shifts, tucks a hand under his head. Furrows his brow back at her.

"Pics you sent last year. There was a wolf. Was staring at you. Not ... wantingly. Well, maybe. But mostly just looked angry and like he didn't trust or like you."

Devon

Devon has lifted her head. When he mentioned the wolf staring at her. Lifted her head up, using her hands on the futon-bed to push herself up so she could look at him and look confused. Now she sits up again, trying to figure out what he's talking about.

A wolf. Staring at her. Not... that way. She watches Rafael stumble over what he means: wanting. Maybe? But not really. Angry. Distrustful. That's when the flecks of light in Devon's eyes seem to shift together, fall into place like the inner workings of a lock when the key is turned. Click.

"Jimmy," she says, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "How could you tell he was like you from a photo?"

Rafael

Makes him vaguely uncomfortable too that she knows the guy. Knows his name. Means he's not just some random stranger. Means he's close enough that she's met him, sees him around.

He shrugs. Doesn't get up just yet, so he's just flat on his back, moving his shoulders against the futon. "Don't know. Can just tell. You know him?"

Devon

She goes on sitting on him. Sits up, doesn't move away otherwise. Isn't trying to hide anything. Doesn't mean to, at least.

Her shoulders give a tight little shrug. Her head gives a tight little shake. "Not really. Met him that day. Someone's cousin or friend of a cousin or packmate or some orphan passing through."

Fianna. Of course.

"Sort of... fixed on me, right when he got there. Thought he was just creeping, but he took one of my actual cousins aside to talk before we ate, all intense. Didn't know it was about me right then. Just drank and tried to ignore him."

She shifts on top of him. For once, she's not trying to get him hard. She's just uncomfortable. Very, very uncomfortable. Anxious, like he's only rarely seen her. Talking about her dad, about her fear of abandonment, about loving him and not being loved back. Or not talking about it, sometimes: just feeling it. But this one is new. A different shade of the same color.

"Did it again during dessert. Really got... whatever."

That whatever is so taut, he can almost feel it, a year past, the hairs on the back of her neck rising as she sits, full-stomached and wine-drowsy, slowly realizing that the two wolves in the room are talking about her. That one of them is baring his teeth at the other. Because of her. That --

"Think he wanted to... do something to me. Not hurt me, I think, but... test me? Or something? And Benji wouldn't let him. Then they went outside. Don't know what they did, but Benji came back in and Jimmy didn't. And that was bad, too, I think."

There are tears in her eyes. Big, fat, welling ones, suddenly springing up, and she is silent a moment so she doesn't shed them, because she's wary of the fact that they came on so fast. Sniffs, seriously and firmly, like she's going to win and not cry. So far, she doesn't.

"Everyone was sort of tense for a while, because that's... not really what you do, yeah? Even if a guest is misbehaving, it has to be really bad before you throw them out." Sin. Sin above sins, to the Fianna.

Devon reaches up, swiping under her right eye quickly, catching an almost-tear before it quite rolls anywhere. Looks at the window and blinks a lot, shrugs, looks back at Rafael with an exhale like see she's fine look at her not-crying.

"Auntie said it wasn't my fault, but. You know. Ones like him are why I had to leave, anyway." She doesn't add: sort of.

Rafael

"Hey," soft. "C'mere."

And he holds his arm out. Waits for her to come back, come down, rest on him again the way she was. He folds an arm around her: this not-Fianna, this bastard-Fang, this wolf who, for whatever rhyme or reason, never once objected to her lack of scent. Is aware of it, though. She knows he is. She's felt him seeking her out, instinctive and reflexive, sniffing where she has only a void.

"There been others? Wolves that get suspicious?"

Devon

She doesn't want to, at first. Resists, because if she lets herself curl up in his arms she's going to burst into tears. Devon shakes her head, determined to get a hold of herself first. Blinking, sniffing, swiping at her cheek. She's stubborn as fuck sometimes, and now is one of those times. She just has to breathe for a little while. But Rafael waits, or Rafael speaks anyway.

Eventually she does end up against him. Slides off to the middle of the bed, lying on her side next to him. Lays her head on his chest, encircled by his arm. It's a while before he asks the next question. He's so much gentler than he was a year ago, she thinks. He's not just storming off, too mad or whatever to talk to her.

Devon just nods. "Since I was little."

Rafael

He's quiet a while, looking at the blank ceiling, thinking.

"Probably because you don't smell like anything," he says eventually, and quietly. "Not your fault. Not even a bad thing. Maybe has something to do with your spirit; same reason you've got magic. Just a part of you. But it's rare, and some wolves probably don't like it. Think it's ... unnatural, or result of some deal with the devil. Lotta wolves are fucking medieval in their mindset.

"Your cousin Benji a wolf too?"

Devon

"Yeah," she says, emptily, when he says it's probably because she doesn't smell like anything. "I know."

She wears oils. In her hair, on her body. She lotions. She covers up. Hides a little. Not a lot. Any wolf who pays attention to her for more than a second will notice. But they won't necessarily seek her out, angry at the void.

Rafael goes on, talks about her spirit, magic, and Devon pulls away. Not instantly, angrily, pushing him away -- she just distances. Retreats a little, and then turns over. He's saying it's rare, and some wolves don't --

"I know, Rafa," she says, her words quiet but cutting through. "I don't --"

Honestly doesn't know what she intends to put there. "I know," she finishes with, blandly. Lays with her head on his bicep like a pillow, her back against his side. Is dead quiet. He asks her about Benji.

She nods. "I guess. Don't really know him, either. He's just family. In town from wherever."

Family is one thing: they're everywhere, sprawling, and it hardly matters who is connected by blood to whom and how unless you want to fuck someone. It's not the same as her actually family -- her mum, her godparents who aren't really her aunt and uncle but just as good as or better. Family is a big, sprawling thing to her.

Another pause of silence.

"I got caught," she says quietly. "Doing the other stuff. Not the hedge witchcraft," by which she means the herbalism, perhaps even the divination she's capable of. "The... telekinesis."

Of course she knows the fucking word for it. She just never says it.

"Caused some drama."

Potentially life-threatening drama.

"So I moved."

Ran away.

Rafael

There's a distancing. But she doesn't peel away entirely. Run off. Run away, out the door, down the street.

She stays, more or less. Back to his side. And after a moment he turns. Rolls on his side, chest to her back. Wraps an arm around her waist, secure and warm. She tells him harrowing things. Hairraising things. He listens.

And in the end, offers only this, simple: "You want me to go to Boston with you, I'll go with you."

Devon

This is okay. Devon deals fine with this. Rafael holding her. Not explaining anything to her that she knows. She's known for a long time. There's weird: the green witchcraft or a touch of the Sight, passed through generations of her father's side of the family. Then there's weird: having no discernible scent, being able to move things with your mind. To some, it smacks of the Wyrm. They sniff her. They want to test her. Surround her with torches and howl at the moon to prove that she's clean. Terrorize her.

She knows.

It sucks.

--

Rafael holds her, though, unwary of her. Which she also knows. It doesn't suck. She even showed him, once, on purpose and everything: he may still not understand just how much that meant she trusted him not to hurt her. Not to hate her.

Then he offers to go with her. And she's very still.

Turns her head to look at him, her brow wrinkled. She hadn't even considered it.

"Do you want to? I'm not... scared to go on my own. Or anything like that." She frowns, her lips turned down at the corners and everything. "Don't want you to go just to scare off assholes."

Rafael

Their eyes meet over her shoulder. He's frowning, because of course he is, eyebrows dark and drawn together, eyes shadowed. He leans into her, too close for eye contact; nuzzles the back of her shoulder. It's somehow meditative and grumpy at once.

"Want to keep you safe," he says, roughly, the way he always confesses things that he suspects would otherwise be soft and vulnerable. "Could meet your people too. They know I'm alive, might as well know who I am."

Devon

He's frowning because he is a grump. Not a prick.

They're close, though, and he leans over when she makes eye contact, nuzzling her. If he were a wolf right now he'd lay his muzzle over her head, firm and deliberate and protective. Might lick her. As it is, he just holds her, leans into her, cuts off eye contact for this other sort of connection.

Devon's eyes close as he rubs his face on her. It feels like love. Because it is.

She doesn't say anything at first. She doesn't want her Big Strong Boyfriend to follow her around. She doesn't want him to be her bodyguard. She doesn't want to get into this strange situation where he doesn't leave her because he has to protect her, and not because he still loves her. She lays there with her boyfriend wrapped around her, nuzzling her, telling her he wants to meet her people.

Devon breathes out.

"Okay," she says, soft. "But you have to be nice. At least to my godparents."

Rafael

"I'm always nice," he mutters again. It's no more true this time than the last. He kisses her, though, his lips against her back, interrupted here by her tank top, there by her bra strap.

And then he sits up. "Gonna go home and pack," he says. "And buy tickets. Come by when you're done? We'll leave together in the morning."

Devon

Such bullshit. He is not always nice. He is rarely nice. He is usually just grumpy. He's aloof. His attitude is defensive but it's off-putting; his breeding doesn't inspire confidence that he's just unsure of himself, uncertain of how to behave. Devon knows that Silver Fangs are crazy; she wonders if the fact that Rafael doesn't like anyone but her is just... his version of the crazy. She's never met a wolf who didn't want to be around other wolves. And kin. A lot.

But he's not 'nice'. He has to work at even being sociable; she's seen it. Many, many times.

Her eyes stay closed as he kisses her shoulder. She feels better. She realizes that she feels better because he's her boyfriend and he's being a good boyfriend right now, hugging her when she's having to remember weird shit and offering to be there for

She also realizes that it didn't really occur to her until now to invite him. To ask him what he'd be doing for Thanksgiving. If he would be alone.

Devon lifts her hand and covers his hand. They stack: his body, her body, their hearts, his hand, her hand. All kinds of love. All kinds of protection. She holds onto him when he starts to get up, resisting his absence.

"Stay for a little," she says quietly. "Make that guy do it." His servant. The new one. The not-shitty one. See if that guy can pull enough strings to get Rafael a ticket to Boston on the same flight Devon was on. Upgrade Devon, last-minute, to the same class as her boyfriend. Make it all work. That's what he's paid for, after all.

"Stay," she repeats, holding onto him. Holding onto him, so he'll hold onto her.

--

He does stay.

Because soemetimes -- not always -- he is nice.