christmas party with devon's mom.

Rafael

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

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

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

Rafael

Quiet a while. Thinks a while.

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

Devon

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

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

Picks up her plate. "With these."

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

Rafael

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

Devon

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

Rafael

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

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

hits the pillow. Falls asleep.

Devon

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

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

There are worse ways to start a morning.

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

--

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

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

Devon

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

Rafael

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

Devon

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

Rafael

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

Rafael

I like fighting.

I like hunting.

I like killing things that deserve to die.

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

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

Katia smiles at her. "You."

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Rafael

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