en route to airport.

Devon

It was odd, that her sort-of boyfriend of maybe a month, would offer to send her from Thanksgiving with her Boston family to Christmas with her London-based mother. It raised eyebrows. It raised questions, not so much about Devon or her judgement but about Rafael and his expectations. What did such a gift mean? Her mother worried a bit; her Fianna family warned her a bit about Silver Fangs. Devon shrugged, mostly; her gut was telling her he was fine. Not always safe, but fine. They'd fought right before she left; he'd run out into the snow asking her to please just assure him that she wasn't going away forever.

Perhaps a bit much, given how long they had(n't) known each other for. But Devon trusted her gut. And when she told her Fianna kin that, and when she told her mother that, all parties stopped questioning her. All parties, magical and mundane, knew Devon well enough. She doesn't always make very good decisions, or very responsible ones. Look at the way she floats and mooches her way through life. But look at her scarless skin, her unbroken bones, her razor-sharp mind, her general satisfaction with her lot in life. Look at the way she still sometimes knows how things are going to work out for people, uncannily.

She slips her hand into his hand as they separate a bit to walk out. When they get into the car, regardless of who is driving, Devon busies herself transferring stuff from her normal bag into the new magical one he just gave her. She does so slowly and methodically, taking one thing out and holding it in her hand for a moment before placing it carefully in the other bag. Sometimes she gives one thing a kiss, or murmurs something to it, before hiding it away in the satchel. Her phone goes in there. Little baggies of herbs. A little TSA-ready kit of clear bag and clear bottles, each of them holding something other than lotions or shampoos. Hairbrush and elastics. Lipstick, mascara, a mirror. She puts in a half-used packet of makeup wipes. She finds a seven-month-old bus ticket and crumples it instead of transferring it. She moves keys and pepper spray and finds a bracelet with a: "I've been looking for that everywhere!"

...except her bag, apparently.

Rafael

...so yeah, he drives. Because she's moving stuff from bag to bag, which actually sort of warms him: he's glad she's using it. Immediately. Must mean she really likes it, which by some strange law of transference means she likes him too. He knows it doesn't really work that way.

While she transfers item after item into her new bag, he thumbs the garage door opener. He has his own car: got another one after they sold the first one in South America. Donated it, more or less, considering how little they got for it. He drives another one now, a nice car but nothing flashy, just some solid conveyance that gets him from place to place. Throws his hand on the back of her seat as he backs out, lights from the garage washing over the side of his face and dimming.

While they drive to the airport, he glances over at her. "What's the stuff you're kissing and whispering to?" he wants to know.

Devon

Not hard to intuit why he's driving: holidays, letting staff off. And a desire to not seem like a spoiled rich boy to her mum, perhaps. To give himself something to do other than fret about meeting her mum. To show, in one more way, that he can provide for and take care of Devon. Or something.

"None of your business," she says archly. She takes out something rectangular wrapped in a black silk scarf tied with a little knot on top, moving it from one bag to the other. "Shouldn't meddle with witches, Rafa."

Rafael

He breathes a laugh. "Yeah. Should've told me that before you fucked me." He steals another sidelong glance. Curious. Doesn't ask again, but she can tell he's dying to find out.

Devon

She snorts a little at that. "Who fucked who," she mutters back, and turns her old bag over, shaking it onto the floorboards. Some dust. A few stray dark hairs. Some sand. A dead leaf. Some bits of receipt. A very stale, hard piece of gum still in its wrapper.

Devon doesn't clean it up. She just starts taking little buttons and things off her bag and moving them onto the new one, too. She glances at him once or twice, because he's pretty, and on one of those occasions, she catches him glancing her way, too. Curiously.

"What?" A beat, and then, before he replies: "It's just... stuff. Potions and things. Cards. Just telling them what's happening. And that it's all right."

If he hears a defensive note in her voice, he is not mistaken.

Rafael

She dumps detritus onto his floorboards. He quietly pities the car wash crew that has to clean that up. They glance at each other; sooner or later their eyes meet.

"Just curious," he says. Reaches over, a touch awkward; lays his forearm across her shoulders. "Get it now."

Devon

He's so awkward. She wriggles out from under his arm, but takes his hand and places it on her leg. It's actually sort of under her bag. He can feel the warmth of the spirit in the leather, almost. She shrugs.

"Still have never read for you," she mentions.

Rafael

"What?" Now his hand is on her leg, and she can feel the little twitch of surprise, tips of the fingers flicking in. "Thought you did. That one time. Moon and Devil and such."

Devon

"That doesn't count," she says.

Rafael

"No?" He glances at her, smirks. "Cost me forty bucks. Feel ripped off."

Devon

Devon looks over at him. "Not my fault. You weren't being honest."

Rafael

"What?" He's thoroughly taken aback now. "How?"

Devon

"You wanted to ask me how I feel about you. What I think. Then you picked a fight with me about it."

Devon shrugs. "Not really what it's supposed to be for."

Rafael

Wolf grunts; he didn't remember the second part of that. "Guess I wasn't sure how you felt about me then," he mutters.

"What's it supposed to be for?"

Devon

"Took you a while to be sure."

She doesn't say it judgementally; doesn't mean to, at least. She just says it, because it's how she saw him. Sees the last year between them. A long time for him to trust her. She doesn't say it meanly, though, because she knows: took her a long time to trust him, too.

"Honest questions," she answers, looking at him aside. "Reflection. Sometimes the future."

Rafael

He thinks about that for a while.

"Maybe read for me when we're up in the mountains," he says. "If you want."

Devon

"Sure," she says, folding the top of the satchel closed. She shifts it aside, taking his hand where it rests on her leg. "Something on your mind?"

Rafael

"Not really." Satchel lifts off the back of his hand. Now it's just his hand on her leg, so he turns it over; her hand slips into his palm. "Just want to see what you see."

Devon

She turns in the front seat, twisting around a little in order to look at him without craning her neck.

"That's different," she tells him. "Don't know how to explain it." Leans her temple against the headrest, looking at his profile. She holds his hand as he moves it around, the corner of her mouth quirking a bit because of the contact.

"Things just come into my head, and I know they're true."

Rafael

His brow furrows; he glances at her. "Just meant the cards. Want to see what comes up. What'd you mean?"

Devon

"That's what I mean," she says. Shrugs a little, squirming slightly. "When I read cards. Or sometimes if I... scry. Like in a black mirror. Sometimes I just read like any tarot reader might, and it's mostly psychology. But if I really focus, then sometimes it's...this other thing."

Rafael

He looks at her again, thoughtful. Thinks a while.

"Huh."

Then he reaches over. Takes his hand out of hers, but only so he can wrap his arm around her. This time it isn't awkward. Positioning might be: he's pulling her against him across the center console. But it's thoughtless, firm. He knows, instinctively, that she's uncomfortable talking about this. Her supernatural side. What she's capable of, which is so rare and special that even werewolves know little of it.

Fear it, mostly. Hate it.

"Didn't know sometimes it was the other thing." A pause, then he admits: "I'm curious. But it doesn't bother me."

Devon

Of course it's awkward. She leans into it, though, across the center console, and lets him hug her weirdly while he drives. He knows on instinct, but he's seen her, too: the wariness about sharing her gifts, and how real they are. Even just a few minutes ago, up in his bedroom, when he gave her the bag: her worry was that wolves would see her carrying it, know what it is, and want to punish her for her strangeness.

"I know," she says, though, because that wariness has not extended to him personally for some time. She never would have shown him the most unsettling thing she can do, if she were still scared of him like that. Herbalism and the occasional knowledge-from-beyond is one thing; being able to throw things around the room with her mind is a whole other animal, and the thing that usually gets her chased off. The thing that even the most gullible of mortals cannot explain away, or truly sit well with.

"That's why I can make a hundred bucks an hour doing it," she adds.

Rafael

He huffs another quiet little laugh. Wolf's big and solid, but quiet for the most part. Keeps his thoughts to himself, noise to a minimum.

"You raise your prices? Was sixty last I checked."

Devon

"Dollar a minute is what I charge randomly on the street," she huffs. "Dollar-fifty normally. Some people make more."

Rafael

Let's be honest. It occurs to him to make some horrid little crack about by-the-minute rates on the streets. He doesn't. Knows it wouldn't be funny. Knows it'd hurt her, especially after the way they met.

Just kisses her hair. Lets her go from that awkward embrace, takes her hand again.

"Your mom read cards too?"

Devon

Wouldn't be the first time she'd heard a joke like that. Doesn't care, most of the time. Cares, when it's him. Would, in fact, be hurt by it: more for not being taken seriously than for being considered a whore.

She slips away. Misses the closeness but not the awkward twist of her spine to accomodate it. She leans against the center console as a compromise; nearer to him, but not uncomfortable. Props her chin on her hand.

"I think she has a deck somewhere," Devon says, "and knows plenty. But not really."

Rafael

"Your aunt teach you then?" Think that's what she told him. He gets mixed up sometimes: she has so many relatives. Strange thing to him.

Devon

"Yeah, some. Self-taught. Other witches here and there. 'Bout a million books on it everywhere."

She nudges his arm with her nose, her brow. Nuzzles him, insistent, bumping her head on his body where she can reach him. "Why so curious today?"

Rafael

He grunts again, nudged: like that gentle little thump pushes a sound out of him. "Am I? Guess conversation just led that way.

"Like knowing about you, anyway. Been a year. Still don't know a whole lot."

Devon

She shrugs. "Seems all right. What if we're old and still don't know much? Keep getting to know more things."

Rafael

Wolf gives that little breath of a laugh yet again. "What, you wanna grow old with me? Settle on some porch and watch the grandkids play?"

Devon

This is roughly the same conversation they had in summer over her tarot cards, but it's not argumentative now. No one seems scared of the answers. But she remembers: Rafael wondering if she was forever. Wondering if she knew that he didn't just want to fool around with her and then be on his way. Remembers the anxiety around it, and how it made her wary, made her uncomfortable.

It's been over a year since they met. Got together, or really: fell into each other. Smashed together like colliding particles.

Her eyebrows lift, though. She rests her head on his arm. "Thought you wanted to know that I'm for real," she says, after a moment. "Like meeting my family. And mum." Squeezes him: arm or hand, whatever she touches. "Maybe getting old together," but he can tell this is hard for her to even say aloud a second time, when questioned.

Rafael

He squeezes her hand. Firmly, like he's forgotten how breakable she is. Or maybe like he's realized she's not breakable. She's stronger than she seems.

"Know you're for real," he says, soft.

A moment's quiet later: "Almost there."