They figure the screen out. Plug in headphones. Devon nudges and shoves and makes him move around so she can eat her popcorn and her dinner more comfortably, drink the rest of her mojito and then another for good measure. And then a third for dessert, of course, all during the movie, which is Amelie. Devon brooks no argument about this. They are. Watching. Amelie.
Tipsy and watching a romantic movie, Devon cuddles with Rafael under a blanket and carefully, subtly strokes his cock through his jeans underneath that blanket. She pets him, lazy and drunk and delighted by how hard he is, how good he feels, how much she likes his smell, how turned on he gets for her,
until he makes her stop.
After the movie, she naps. Maybe she does this on his lap. Maybe he goes back to his own seat; maybe they fold her seat down and she snoozes horizontally. Either way, she has to be woken up when it's time to sit up and buckle in and land. Maybe Rafael stops the attendants from going near her, and wakes her himself. She stretches upon waking, yawning, ruffling her hair -- which is down now from the bun it was in earlier.
All told, the drive to the airport and then security and then waiting for boarding and then boarding and then taking off and then flying and then landing and then disembarking and all of it... it takes almost all day. It's already dark outside, though not yet pitch black. Devon retrieves her backpack and Rafael pulls down her roll-along suitcase, and they leave, squishing through the aisles with his arm around her. They tromp off the plane and into the airport, and Rafael guides them through the crowd while Devon stares down at her phone, texting her aunt or her uncle.
"Did we get a car or do you want to take a taxi to their place?" she asks, glancing up at him.
RafaelWolf doesn't leave. Of course he doesn't: he naps there with her, the two of them putting the seat down flat, crammed in together. Paid for two first class tickets to Boston and this is how they choose to travel: sardines in a can.
The attendants make him go back to his seat when they start descending. And truth is he doesn't complain about it. Just put it off as long as possible, is all. They descend in their own seats, but with the privacy doors open they can see each other. He gives her a little smile as they dip beneath the clouds.
It's dark in Boston, and cold. They deplane and follow signs out to the curb; wolf doesn't have much experience flying but he can read and he's generally an intelligent animal. BAGGAGE CLAIM/GROUND TRANSPORTATION is also fairly straightforward.
"Uber," he says. "Hear Boston drivers are nuts."
DevonTruth be told, Devon would be fine with Rafael across the aisle. She would have been fine syncing up their movies on their separate screens and throwing nuts at each other the whole flight. She lived with him and stayed in the room down the hall. She loves him and she lives seven minutes away. She gives him muffins when he comes to sit at Hooked on Colfax; otherwise she pretty much ignores him until her shift is over. Devon can read people, and Devon doesn't hate people or want to be alone quite as profoundly as her boyfriend, but Devon is an introvert. Devon likes her space. Devon doesn't really have lots of friends. Devon kicks Rafael when he glomps her too tight in bed.
But that's just one side of the truth. The other side is this: she likes to snuggle with him under a blanket. She likes tasting his earlobe, his neck, in parts of the movie that she's seen so many times she could recite them. She doesn't complain or grumble about napping with him in that cramped seat; she's not the one who paid for first class tickets, after all. She feels tender toward him, nearly all the time; she sleeps with her hand on his chest, his arm around her waist. There are few people that Devon can spend much time with and not feel annoyed, and Rafael is one of them.
This is why, as they walk through the airport, she has his arm over her shoulders, and leans against his side while dragging her suitcase and tapping on her phone. She's blind; he leads, and she doesn't trip. She trusts him.
"All right," she says, and texts that to her aunt and uncle before bringing up the app on her phone, which is tied to his bank account because she's a goddamn mooch. "Never paid much attention," she says, of Boston drivers. "Since I don't."
Phone down, car summoned. "Should be right outside in a minute," she adds.
Rafael"Can, though," he remarks. "Saw you driving down in Mexico."
He pauses at the doors. Double doors: two layers with an anteroom, because this is the bitter cold north. And while it's not frigid outside, it's still cold, and there's no reason for them to stand on the curb. So they wait inside. Girl's app tracks their driver: some guy named Luis, drives a Camry.
"Do you want a car?" he asks suddenly.
Devon"Well, I can drive. Not well. Not legally," she adds.
She is not wearing a jacket. She hangs out inside, under his arm, watching the little car move through the little streets whenever she checks her phone's screen.
He asks her if she wants a car. She looks at up at him. The expression on her face just reads as: Weirdo. or What? but she says neither.
Rafael"Could get you a car. And driving lessons." He's not looking at her; is making a show of scanning the traffic, which probably just means he feels self-conscious. "If you want."
Devon"A car," she repeats, kind of flatly, but not in anger. "And lessons. And plates, and insurance every month, and registration every year, and gas, and oil changes, and winter tires, and all that? A parking spot at Naomi's?
Devon realizes she might sound like she's digging at him, and she can't think of why she's being so -- whatever. Her suitcase stands beside her, so she takes her hand off of it and slips it into his hand.
"Why do you want to get me a car?"
RafaelWolf's frowning by the end. "Just thought maybe you'd like to have a car. Told you before. Not like I have much else to do with my money."
DevonHe's frowning and not looking at her, so Devon squeezes his hand,
you know,
a little harder than is perhaps necessary at the moment.
RafaelHe shoots her a glance, somewhere between wary and irritated and questioning.
Devon"Don't be mad," she says quietly, shaking her head once, gently. Her phone chimes; their ride is outside. Devon nods at the door, putting her phone away and taking her suitcase with that hand so she doesn't have to let go of Rafael's.
RafaelAlmost in spite of himself, he smiles. It's a furrowed, lopsided thing, but it's real. "Wish that worked on you as well as it does on me," he comments.
They step outside. Their Uber's just pulling up, the little U placard visible through the glass. Wolf raises his hand to indicate it's him, it's them. The driver pops the trunk and they load their luggage in. Then they climb in the back together, wolf crowding girl across the seat the way he does.
She gives the address. He doesn't know it. He sits back and becomes quiet, watching the city as it passes, keeping conversation to a minimum because he doesn't socialize well and he certainly doesn't want to have a private conversation with his girlfriend while a stranger sits two feet away.
DevonDevon just shrugs. "More stubborn than you," she explains.
And as they walk outside, she tells him a few other things she's better at than he is: "Can drink more than you, better cook than you are, have a job..."
Gives another shrug as they put their suitcases in the trunk, smirks over at him. "What can't I do?"
--
They clamber in, and even just a few moments out in the cold has left her shivering, curling up beside him in the backseat to soak up his warmth. Address is already in the driver's GPS; Devon confirms it just to be sure. She snuggles, and she doesn't talk anymore either. This is normal.
It takes a while to get to her aunt and uncle's. They live down in the south-eastern part of Dorchester, where the Owens (and the Sharpes, and all the other versions of Devon's clan) have lived for generations. During that long while, Devon doesn't fall asleep again. She manages the texting, checking with Rafael to see if he's hungry and then explaining there will be food either way.
Neighborhoods stream by. The Uber driver, after the first couple of attempts at conversation, drives in relative silence, his music turned low. Devon smiles a little out the window. She points to things, here and there. Lights that are some iconic place or other. They drive closer and closer to the Neponset River, through neighborhoods with rather classic looking homes: bay windows here, sunrooms there, porches, chimneys. And then the car slides to a stop in front of a three-story house. Or two story plus an attic. Probably has a basement too. Hard to tell in the dark. There are hedges and fences in this part of town; it's nice. The house they stop at is visibly old, and worn in places.
The house's siding is weathered grey wood, with a lighter-grey roof and a dark red door. The front yard is small and somewhat overgrown, but there appears to be some kind of method to the placement of bushes and trees. Even the front walk from the gate to the porch is partly concealed; it doesn't march straight up to the door but winds this way and that around the foliage. Looks like there's a back yard too, with taller fences and even more overgrown. There are lights on inside, and as they get out of the car they can hear noise as well; voices, talking, some laughter. Music.
They get out of the car, get their luggage; money leaves Rafael's accounts. Devon gives the driver a good rating. She shivers and heads automatically to the front gate, which stands open. Her suitcase's wheels thump and bump along the pathway to the door.
RafaelA little more slowly, he follows her. He has a suitcase of his own. He carries her backpack, though, because it seems unkind to make her carry more than him. Truth is he hadn't really, seriously thought about meeting her family until about five minutes ago. Mostly before that, he'd viewed this sojourn as simply accompanying her. Being with her. Following her across the country, because why not.
What else is he going to use his money for.
Now they're at the front door, though, and he realizes he has no idea what to expect. A couple pics on a cellphone tells him nothing. He has no idea how to behave, what to do. He can't remember the last time he was a guest in someone else's house.
He's tense, standing at the door. Grips the suitcase hard. Grips the strap of the backpack hard. Jaw is a hard line; everything about him is hard. He waits for her to ring the doorbell.
DevonThis is where Devon grew up. Mostly. Count up the nights of her life and this place would have seen more of her dreams than most. She heads toward the gate, and the path, with an instant familiarity that almost makes her forget entirely about Rafael. And how he's meeting her family. And how Rafael doesn't like meeting new people. She dodges some kind of sculpture thing beneath a bush that juts out onto the path and glances back to warn him not to stub his toe, and that's when she remembers all these things. Pauses at the foot of the stairs up to the porch.
Smiles up at him for a moment. She's shivering, because it's cold and her sweater isn't really enough and she didn't want to dig her coat out of her bag, but the moon is on her face and the wind is in her hair and her smile is almost a grin.
"They're huggers," she warns him, though. "So if you don't want to hug, you'd better put your hand out before they get a chance. All right?"
And perhaps it's all right. But either way, they can't stay outside forever. She hefts up her suitcase, clomps in those boots of hers up to the slightly creaky porch, and does not ring the doorbell, or knock. She just grabs the door handle and shoulders her way in. Immediately there's an outcry: a woman all but shrieking, who Rafael may recognize as Sheila, hopping up from where she was sitting and bounding over, throwing her arms around Devon and hauling her the rest of the way into the house.
"They're here!" she hollers to whoever else is in the house, laughing out loud. "Doll, you want a beer?" and after a second it becomes obvious she's not calling Devon 'Doll'; she is talking to Rafael.
RafaelShe's shivering. But the moon is on her face. The wind is in her hair. She's smiling, and her eyes are so blue, and he decides it's worth it after all. All the people he's about to meet. All the talking and -- god -- the hugging.
"That'd be weird," he says of shaking hands, begrudgingly, because it means he's going to get hugged.
She goes up the porch. He follows, and he's setting the suitcase down to take a breath but she's barging right in, so he picks up the suitcase again and follows. A woman shrieks. He startles, almost flinches: it's so loud and unexpected. Girl gets pulled in. Wolf follows, because what else is he going to do?
"Uh." Doll. That's a new one. "Sure." Beat. "I'm Rafael."
Devon"Suit yourself," is the last thing Devon says to him before she pushes open the door and her aunt-godmother-person comes barreling at her. Sheila waves them in, grinning, her face more freckled skin than fair skin. They and their bags all get inside and the door closed, and for the moment they stand in a little antechamber to the rest of the house. He can see the foyer and the stairs to one side, and past that a peek at a kitchen, but people are coming from the other way, through the dining and living room. Her uncle-godfather, Brian, wearing suspenders and bringing a couple of beers with him. Sheila lets go of Devon so Brian can hug her, and comes right at Rafael.
She is much shorter than he is, maybe even a couple of inches shorter than Devon, putting her arms around him and patting his back. "I'm Sheila, this is Brian, we've got Hope here with Stevie and their younger two, and of course Will is lurking about somewhere. My, you're a tall one!" she exclaims, having not yet taken a breath.
It is then Brian's turn to hug Rafael, handing him the second of the two beers he brought, the other being cracked open by Devon. His hug is a sharp, firm squeeze, would be bone-cracking to anyone other than an Ahroun, with a heavy thump on Rafael's back to boot. "Rafael, huh? You don't worry while you're here, all kin and kind. Let your hair down if you want."
Devon has not gotten a single word in, but she also isn't trying. Sheila is talking again: "Have you two eaten? There's ham. I think we ate all the potatoes, but there's rolls and greens still."
Two small children, a boy and a girl who both have red-gold hair, are peering out from the arch between the foyer and the living room. They look to be about four or five, maybe. They are staring, green-eyed, at Rafael. The girl is surreptitiously sucking her thumb.
RafaelWolf grunts as he's rather forcibly pulled into a hug. He doesn't really return it. Well; after a second he awkwardly puts an arm around Sheila, doesn't really squeeze. A bevy of names go by; he immediately forgets them. A second hug and a hearty thump on the back, then a beer in his hand. He looks at it. It's probably a Guinness.
He knocks it back. Drinks thirstily, but also because then he doesn't have to say anything. There's food. There's kids. The kids stare; they have brightly colored eyes, but not blue. Wolf tries to figure out who has the blue eyes, but it seems rude to stare until he finds them.
"Who are those?" he asks, pointing the butt of the bottle at the kids.
DevonHe is forcibly pulled into two hugs. The beer is cold. Sheila has those blue eyes, but they're pale, watery almost. Nothing like Devon's. Devon shrugs at Sheila, says "Ate on the plane, but... I could tuck in." You know, if necessary. She could help. She's drinking more slowly.
Sheila looks excited. "I'll heat up the rolls!" and off she goes, shooing the kids out of her way as she heads to the kitchen. Brian claps Rafael on the back again, picking up Devon's suitcase and reaching for Rafael's as well.
"Just take these up to your room," he says, more to Devon than Rafael. "Then we can give you," this to Rafael, "the grand tour, after you've had a bite. Sound good?"
Kids. Seen! They scramble and run, the girl's thumb fixed firmly in her mouth, her brother grabbing her hand as they tear off to the dining room. Devon smirks. "Hope's twins. Thomas and Eleanor. They're --" she raises her voice, mocking: "BIG BABIES."
Immediately, in sync, the voices shout back: "WE ARE NOT BABIES."
Followed by the boy running back and standing in the arch, feet apart, hand pointing bravely at Devon. "YOU'RE the baby!" and then he runs away again, back to his sister, who looks wide-eyed and pruny-thumbed before he grabs her hand and leads her to the kitchen.
Devon's grin is rather wicked.
Rafael"Kind of hungry," wolf adds, sort of quietly.
Brian reaches for the suitcases. Ungraciously, wolf's first instinct is to hold. It only lasts a split-second, though. Then he relinquishes them, a little sheepishly: because he tried to hold on. And because a man twice his age was carrying his stuff up.
"Can get it ourselves," he says, but not very adamantly. Moments later he's distracted by running kids, shouting kids, j'accuse-ing kids.
Wolf snorts, the first flicker of amusement since stepping into this very populated house. "You hear that?" he says to Devon. "You're the baby."
DevonRafael says they can get their luggage themselves, and Brian gives him a Look that says you're cute and nice try and don't you dare all at once. Eyes twinkle, smile is cheerful and confident, before he starts hauling suitcases up. Devon and Rafael packed light; he may be a far cry older than his god-daughter and her werewolf boyfriend, but he's a strong man, a healthy man. He seems to be enjoying himself. That's because he is.
Devon nods at the coat-rack so that Rafael will remember to take off his jacket, act like he's staying here, since he will be. She sips her beer and starts to clomp towards the dining room and kitchen, slipping her hand over to his in case he wants to hold it.
She gives a small belch. "I'll throw him in an oven later," she says, loud enough that a moment later they hear a tiny girl GASP. "I'm joking, Nora!" Devon calls out, and a small voice returns:
"I know that!"
Devon takes her time getting through the house with Rafael. "They're... cousins, or something, to me. But so is Hope, more or less. Stevie's this nerd from Cambridge. He's not Fianna, I think he's a Glass Walker. Will is Fianna, he's a wolf but he's not one of the shitty ones. He doesn't like being inside, so he's probably in the garden." She rolls her eyes. "Probably going to sleep out there."
Squeezes his hand, drinks her beer. The home is... cozy. Rugs muffle their footfalls against wood floors. Windows look out at the street and over the back garden. The dining room table has a few mis-matched chairs added, and extra leaves in so they have to squeeze past it to get around to the kitchen. Table has the remains of dinner on it, including the platter of ham, the butter dish, the empty casserole with charred bits of potato and cheese at the edges, a bowl of rather wilted greens that no one got into very much because Sheila is better at meat and potatoes than salads or spinach. Empty beer bottles and wine bottles and two kid's plates with cartoon characters on them and ketchup, because they want ketchup on everything.
Sheila's toaster oven dings, and reheated rolls come popping into a basket. The kitchen is actually quite tidy, especially compared to the dining table. There's a miniature greenhouse in the windowsill above the sink where herbs are growing. And all around the house, he'll start noticing little... traces. Like how over the front door, if he thinks about it, there was an iron horseshoe. How hanging from certain bushes and trees out front were ribbons, or even light-catchers and chimes. How on a table shoved into the corner there's several votive candles and a picture of the Virgin Mary and a few pieces of shed antler and a bowl with all sorts of tiny things in it: some mostly-burnt sage, a few coins, a friendship bracelet. How above one of the doors into the kitchen is hung a very old-fashioned broom. How through the windows he can feel another wolf out there in the darkness, watching him. How if he really concentrates, he can sense something like that strange prickling notion that takes over his skin whenever he feels Devon working her own magic. It's all around him.
And then there is a basket of hot rolls in front of him.
The boy and girl keep running away from whatever room Rafael and Devon enter. Maybe they're scared. Maybe it's a game. Maybe they're just shy. Who knows. Kids are weird; Devon seems unconcerned.
RafaelWhat is wild and savage in him won't let him sit down immediately. He explores a little first: looks into the kitchen, looks out the window. Strains his eyes to catch sight of the other wolf out there, whose presence he can feel as surely as his own is felt. He looks at the little decorations, too; broom and candles and twigs and branches and all at once it clicks on him: they're all wards. Talismans. Magic.
He decides it is safe enough in here. So long as he is a polite guest, of course. He comes to the table, and there are hot rolls, so he takes one and breaks it open and puts some ham in. The casserole is all but gone, which is a pity, because the bits of charred potato he picks off the edges are delicious. The ham is delicious too, though perhaps only in that inoffensive and middle-of-the-road way ham is. The wolf eats hungrily, as though he hadn't had a rather nice meal on the plane.
Perhaps halfway through their late dinner the kids come back, curious. Peer around corners at the stranger. Wolf watches them too, curious in turn. He likes them. It is a gut feeling, visceral and unfettered. He has no idea how to interact with them, so he carves off a piece of meat and holds it out to the small ones, as though they were animals that might be plied with food.
--
After they eat, they are given a tour. He is, anyway. He follows along, saying little but looking around, looking at everything. Perhaps they meet Hope. Stevie. Wolf nods at them both; perhaps he gets away with not getting hugged again. He is shown the den, the living room, the stairs, the room he shares with the girl. He is shown where the bathrooms are, and where their luggage was left. Standing in the hall, he looks around again to get his bearings.
"It's a nice house," he says, minimalistic -- but sincere. Glances at girl; adds, "Must've been nice for Devon, growing up here."
DevonOutside, the other wolf shrinks away, taking his stare off of Rafael. They sense each other; they can introduce themselves later, properly. For now, no one threatens anyone; no one bares teeth, growls, feels fear.
Devon takes the basket of rolls after Rafael grabs a couple. She smooches Sheila on the cheek and they shove some plates out of the way to make room for their own snacks. She just wants some bread, fights him for bits of charred potato, eats scraps of ham off his plate. She drinks her beer and Brian comes back down, also smooching Sheila. The four of them sit around munching a bit, or drinking beers, and Brian and Sheila do most of the talking, which seems to please them as much as it lets Rafael and Devon off the hook.
The kids keep peering into the living room. Rafael tries to offer them food and gets weird looks for his trouble -- from the boy, at least. Eleanor, Nora, though. She ends up creeping over to him and taking the bite of ham he hands her with her own fingers, but there's a strange sort of wisdom to the gesture. She eats it, but it seems almost ritualized; he realizes she recognized the offer for what it was. She didn't want to be mean by running away. So she eats it, and licks her fingers, and then sucks her thumb again before scurrying out of the room and back to her brother.
Who comes in three minutes later and stands awkwardly near Rafael until Rafael offers him some ham, too. Which he grabs, shoves in his mouth, mumbles thankyou for, and then bolts. God forbid his sister do something that he doesn't also do.
Devon thinks all this is hysterical.
--
Hope and Stevie come in later, having gone out to the market for a couple last-minute things that of course took an hour and a half to get because it's almost Thanksgiving. Hope is tall and willowy but square-jawed and blonde and has the green eyes she gave her children. Stevie is actually a couple of inches shorter than her, with reddish-brown hair and eyes similar to Sheila's. He wears round glasses and flannel and looks a lot like a hipster with his beard and a few tattoos on his forearms, but it turns out he's a researcher of some kind; whatever Hope does isn't clear, and maybe she just stays at home with kids. She apparently has had a grand total of four of those so far. And then she pats her belly, which is still flat, because she's working on number five.
Stevie shakes hands. Hope hugs, but briefly: mostly she wants to sit by Devon and talk about Denver and work and what Stevie's up to. Devon seems content to just listen to Hope talk. Eventually Stevie and Hope excuse themselves though: they have to wrestle their kids into pajamas and get them to brush their teeth no, really, and then tucked into bed. The hours have wiled away towards bedtime for children who are too young to stay up past eight.
There is a tour, too: a jaunt down the kitchen stairs to check out the cellar, which is full of liquor and wine and has a big freezer of meat and a second fridge for beer and plenty of things like onions and potatoes and storage. Up the stairs to one set of bedrooms and a bathroom -- the master room where Sheila and Brian sleep, and the bedroom-slash-craft-room where the kids are going to sleep on an airbed tonight. Up another set of stairs to two more bedrooms and another bathroom: this is where Devon and her mum used to live. Devon's mum's room is a guest bedroom now. Devon's room is... Devon's room. It always has been.
We'll get to her bedroom later.
For now, the hallway. The four of them, and what Rafael says.
"We don't mind it," Brian says, of their nice house. He's jovial. That hasn't wavered. He sounds proud. But Sheila grins when Rafael mentions Devon growing up here.
"I wish she was still here," and he can suddenly hear and see the wistfulness in that smile. Sheila turns it on Devon, who just looks at the floor in her own version of ACK. EMOTIONS. DISCOMFORT. So Sheila inhales, and turns back to Rafael, smiling still. "But then she might not have met you! So it turns out."
Devon is holding his hand. She says nothing, but squeezes it.
"Rafael, there -- " Brian says, by way of getting his attention. "Did you want to go say hello to Will? Thought he'd come in, but..." Brian almost says more than is his business. He stops. "He's a good boy."
RafaelWolf has no idea why the boy comes over and stands next to him. Thinks maybe the kid just likes him, which is a nice thought, but probably not accurate. Yet, anyway. No; kid seems to be waiting for something. So wolf watches him. Notices how he keeps looking at the ham, and wolf's knife, and back to the ham. Oh.
He gets it. He carves another chunk of ham off; gives it to the boy. Who promptly eats it and runs away. Wolf looks across the table at Sheila, Brian. Has this sort of blank look on his face,
which girl probably also finds hysterical.
--
He meets Stevie. He meets Hope. He knows Hope is pregnant before she tells him and it's strange, it's uncanny, he doesn't always have a sense for it but when he does it unnerves him. While Hope talks with his girlfriend he keeps eating. Makes himself several small sandwiches of ham-on-dinner-rolls and eats them all, washes them down with beer.
Eventually a tour. Eventually girl's aunt and uncle telling him they miss her, which he understands immediately and primordially. "She's pretty great," he says, which is the same: simple but sincere; a touch awkward.
And then his interest sparks. His wariness too. "Yeah," he says. "Probably should. There a back door?"
Devon"Oh, my god," Devon says, when everyone's talking about how she's so missable and wonderful. She immediately grabs her bedroom door and retreats into it, which makes Brian and Sheila stifle laughter against each other. Devon leaves the door open a crack, just a crack, to listen while Rafael says he's going to head down.
"Out the kitchen," Brian tells him. Normally he'd go with Rafael. Introduce to more of this weird, sprawling family where everyone is basically 'a cousin'. But he knows not to get involved here. Wolves talk to wolves; he doesn't need to get in the middle of that. So they go downstairs (Devon even comes out of her room again). And the three of them start clearing the table and doing the dishes while Rafael goes out back.
--
The kitchen door opens onto a small round deck with a few stairs leading down into the garden. High fences, cedarwood. Thick trees, bushes. There's an herb garden outlined and separated into sections in the shape of a pentacle, the lines made of white stones. There's more of the things to see here: ribbons dangle crystals and bits of metal in the shape of moons or stars or whatnot. He hears chimes. He sees a little shed in the back. And when he comes down the stairs, immediately a dark-furred wolf comes loping gently out from the shadows to greet him. A few steps in, the wolf shapeshifts in that flowing, easy way that indicates one's birth form: and then there's a young man standing in front of him, with hair almost as dark as Devon's, with eyes that are the same emerald green in both forms. He's wearing plain clothes, similar to what Rafael usually does. Slight beard. Bare feet. Just shy of Rafael's height. Visibly strong, though not quite the same sort of sheer physically intimidating size to his shoulders or his biceps.
RafaelWhen the one wolf sees the other, he immediately stops walking. Pauses at the bottom of the steps until his counterpart has come to a stop himself. Comes up out of that furred form. They face each other: two wolves with dark hair, green eyes -- though not at all the same shade. In this light, his eyes merely look dark.
And he stands there, a certain subtle tension in his bones though his posture conveys relaxation. Or at least: lack of threat. He tucks his hands into his pockets, and this is deliberate. Looks at this other wolf, Will. Looks past him at the shed, the yard, the stones, their arrangement. Comes back to Will again.
"I'm Rafael," he says. "The name I earned is Bleak Dawn. I'm an Ahroun of Falcon. And Devon's boyfriend."
DevonWill stands there like someone who is used to being a wolf more than a man. He smells a bit like he is more wolf than man. He doesn't blink a lot.
"Will Owens, Calls the River," he says. "Sheila's cousin," because she is the one he has the most direct blood link to, and one of the two offering Rafael shelter tonight. "Theurge for Stag. Devon's..."
he pauses, flicks his eyes up for a moment like he's trying to think, then just shrugs and shakes his head a bit. "Cousin, I guess. Benji wanted to meet you. Hunting with his pack though. Asked me to come in his stead, be here to greet you."
Will shifts on his feet, glances down, seems to realize they're bare and swears under his breath at himself. Then looks back up at Rafael. "Sorry I didn't come inside. Not meant to insult you. I --"
He glances at the house, then back to Rafael. Shrugs heavily, like something is tensing up his spine just by looking at the house. "Don't like walls." At all. Even saying the word seems unbearable to him.
"She's with you 'cause she wants to be, right? No one messing with her that you're protecting her from, something like that?" He says this bluntly, then winces. "Apologies. I don't mean offense. I just -- Benji worries for her. Wanted me to make sure. I'll be asking her too, later. Have to."
RafaelWill's weird.
That's what girl might say. Maybe not, since he's her cousin. But that's the word she might use: weird. It's the word that floats to wolf's mind, unbidden, like a little bit of girl's managed to mix into his blood. He doesn't mean it cruelly. It doesn't mean he dislikes Will.
Likes him, actually. Which is odd: now he likes three people he just met. It's an unusual experience for him. He trusts it, though: it makes sense. He likes that Will's strange and awkward. Likes that he's honest, upfront. Lays it out there.
"Okay," he says, when Will reveals why he never came in. And it's the same thing again: simple sincerity. Okay. He gets it. And a little later: "Yeah, I get it.
"She's with me because she wants to. Offered to protect her first time I met her. Long story. She just blew me off and left." And he shrugs. "So far no one's messed with her in Denver. Far as I know. Different here though, wasn't it?"
DevonRafael tells Will most of the truth about how he and Devon met. But it is the truth. And it also sounds like Devon: blew him off and left. Will huffs a little laugh. But he goes on listening: no one is messing with her in Denver, not that Rafael knows. But it was different here.
Will chews a little on the inside of his lip, then gives a sharp nod. "Most know that the women in this family -- the Owens, the Sharpes -- are touched, sometimes. Have the Sight. Some are even Gaia-blessed. But Devon is different, even from them. And some wolves are shitheads."
He shrugs. "Benji's making sure it's safe for her to come back here, if she wants." A beat of a pause. "Doesn't seem like she wants to, though. That right?"
Rafael"What. To live?" Catches him by surprise a little. "Never heard her talk about it. So guess not. She visited last year too though. I think she likes visiting for the holidays."
Bit of a pause.
"She's got a job out in Denver. Apartment too. With a roommate." Another short pause. He lays his truths out in blocks, one building on the last. Trying to say something, and trying to say it right. Trying not to be a prick about it. "And me. I'm there too. And my territory's there. Don't know if she wants to stay there forever. Don't know if I want to stay there forever. But I think she's not moving back to Boston. For now."
DevonWill just listens. Will is Devon's cousin. Devon knows that Will is a weirdo who doesn't like to be inside. Knows he's a wolf, and family, and not one of the shitty wolves who might hurt her soon as look at her. He knows that his family is full of witches. He knows that Devon is a different sort of witch, and he doesn't seem bothered by this. It is simple: she's family.
You don't fuck with a Fiann's family.
--
So he just nods. Devon visits. Devon has a job and apartment and roommate and also this boyfriend, who feels like strength and smells like money and who, instinctively, Will respects for no easily identifiable reason other than ancestral memory. He gets it. Nods about it.
"We'll make sure it's safe to visit, then. Even if you're not with her."
Silence. Awkward silence again. He looks past the fence, at the slowly waning but still heavy moon. Looks back to Rafael, nodding at the distance. "Graveyard that way is good for hunting sometimes. Edge of the river, too. Wanna?"
RafaelThere's a subtlety there: even if you're not with her. In a handful of words Will makes it clear he knows what this is about. Not just being with girl. Not just meeting her family. Watching over her, too. That's a part of why wolf followed her across the country.
And it's just as simple as that. Noticed, acknowledged, moved past. Wolf nods a little; they fall into silence.
Then he quirks a smile. Thinks a beat. "Yeah. Gonna go tell Devon. Meet you out front?"
DevonWill gives a little nod. "Other side. Only hunting this side are wannabe baby goth hipsters."
With that, he slips back into the shadows of the garden. Plenty of reflective surfaces back here: he catches one in his hand where it spins from a tree and a moment later shimmers out of sight, his edges a colorful aura before he's gone.
--
Inside, dishes are just about loaded up in the dishwasher. Dinner table is cleaned up. Leftovers are stored in the fridge. Devon is flopped on the family room couch while Sheila and Brian eat some ice cream and watch television; she's not watching the show but playing a game on her phone. Glances over at him and smiles when he comes back inside.
"So," she says, with mock grace and a half grin, "whose is bigger?"
"Devon!" Sheila says, but more with laughter than scolding.
RafaelWolf's eyes flick toward Sheila. Might expect shock. Might just not know what to expect. But Sheila laughs, uproariously, and wolf smirks and rolls his shoulders.
"We just sniffed butts." He wraps an arm around girl's waist, draws her in, kisses her temple. "Like him. Gonna go hunting with him. Back in a couple hours, okay?"
DevonThat makes all three of the kin in the room laugh. Sheila gets it so bad she cries a little, fanning her face as she giggles. Devon all but barks her laughter, forceful and sharp as her will is. Rafael has to come over to the couch to get any contact with her, since she didn't hop up to go snuggle him. Has to lean over to her. Which she lets him do. Lowers her phone and looks like she's gonna pull him down on top of her on the couch for a cuddle. Doesn't.
There's a flicker of something in her eyes that might be disappointment, when he says he's going to leave. But it's paired with something else: the part of her that worried for him when he went so long in South America without changing, without shifting, without hunting. The part of her that wishes he'd... let himself be more of a wolf, around her. Not like she doesn't understand. Kinda.
Devon nods. "Will's good," she says, and that's that. "I'll wait up."
Which is half a warning: better not stay out too late, or she won't get a wink. And with Thanksgiving tomorrow!
RafaelHe huffs a laugh, so quietly only she really hears. Leaning over her like that, he eclipses her entirely for a while, big, built for war. Nips her gently on the ear, then kisses her as he draws back.
"Back soon," he says, straightening: to her and her aunt. He has the manners not to simply wink out of sight -- he goes all the way to the foyer, finds his reflection in the glass, and squeezes across.
--
Meets Will on the sidewalk. Comes out of the house -- warded, aglow, warm and safe even in the Umbra -- in his t-shirt and jeans. Shivers, and then simply shakes himself like a dog, head to toe, changing as he goes. White-furred and four-pawed, he lopes over to girl's blood-kin; greets him with a sliding bump, shoulder to shoulder.
Devon"Bitey," she grumbles at him, nipping at her ear. Doesn't stop her from kissing him. Briefly, but warmly. Her aunt and uncle eat their ice cream and watch their show, like they're in a different room.
"He's a nice boy," Sheila whispers to Devon, who groans like a teenager. This is the last he hears about them before the spirit world fills his ears like cotton, and then silk, and then the initial silence of the other side of the house.
The reflection is intense. Surprising, perhaps, though just as likely not -- he could sense how long this home has been in the hands of a single bloodline, a single tribe. It's an old house, the way so many things in this city are a little older than the rest of the country. It's been added onto, repaired, but it was always large, always built for multiple generations. He can feel the blood of the Fianna in the very walls, which are very solid for the penumbra. Strong.
Then there's the rest of it. The number of witches who have lived here -- the ones who have even been born here. Through a weak spot in the floor he can see part of the basement, and see that there are sigils carved into wooden beams or hidden under floorboards; they pulse with an energy that feels like Gaia's own. He hears the air spirits drawn to the chimes in the garden, whispering all their secrets, all the truths they've picked up by riding the wind. The little altar in the corner of the dining room has the flicker of candle-light, always, though no fires are currently lit.
Over his head, on upper floors, he can hear a groaning like a woman giving birth and it sounds like joy and it sounds like hope and it sounds like the crying out of the earth itself, all at once. In this reality, all the hearths are lit, and fire elementals are dancing up and down the chimneys, racing each other; every time they dive down into the fireplace itself, they send sparks everywhere, shrieking in their madcap way.
Going outside, he finds that where there are hedges and fences in the real world, there is a thin trickle of running water all around the house. It's faint, because there is no real water flowing, and as he comes nearer, he finds that it is hardly water at all. It is a herd of slightly confused water spirits and some kind of spiritual essence flowing around the home, tethered there by generations of magic and renewal of that magic, by sigils and stones and the voices of many Fianna Theurges over the decades. Of course they'd be guarded by running water in spirit, if not in physical reality: some things, some very bad things, are said to be unable to cross such a boundary.
Will is waiting for him on the road, in lupus again. His tail is thumping against the ground, but he rises to his feet when Rafael comes out. Barks a greeting, happily, as the Silver Fang is shedding his shape, shaking into another form. His breeding is even more evident now, his eyes gleaming and noble, his shoulders heavy with strength, his claws and fangs glistening sharply under the moonlight. Will almost bows, but stops himself. He is bumped; he grunts and leans into the contact, then barks quietly and starts heading south-east, where that large cemetary is.
--
Will is a good scout. He talks to a glade child near the edges of the cemetary, whose tree boughs hang over a family mausoleum. She hasn't seen anything dark, though merely mentioning it makes her limbs shiver. Will leans against her trunk, sharing some warmth with her, until she tells him about some of the graves near the water. Tells him some of the worms and burrowing creatures have been clearing the area. There's a bad thing buried out there, been there a long time, only sleeping and not truly dead. It's no trouble, it just gives her an ache in her roots sometimes. Could they perhaps, please... ?
It's just that she's so afraid that it might be awoken. Will assures her that the white wolf with him is a strong one; they'll take care of it. He makes promises; he says he will return after with a gift for her, in gratitude for her help. She shivers again, and sighs; the wind caresses her and tells her that the wolf speaks truth. The air spirits always know. She rests; the wolves leave.
--
They have to cross back over. They have to dig, quick and silent, watchful of anyone who might see them. The grave is unmarked. It is also several decades old. And the creature inside the coffin, which is chained with iron, has a wooden stake in its chest. Truth be told, it would be rather easy to dispatch the thing, since it's asleep,
if it weren't for the four other unmarked graves surrounding it, which suddenly have less elegant undead things clawing their way out of the ground, their own enchantments and geasa activated at the breaking of the iron chains around the coffin. In the end, there are five stinking corpses to dispose of. The digging takes a while, the fighting is over in a few exhausting minutes, but the disposal takes the majority of the hunt. As usual. In the end, Will and Rafael both smell like grave-dirt and rotted flesh and maybe some fire for good measure.
Will is the one who, after the area has been cleansed by rite, takes a baby-food jar out of his bag and fills it with some of that deep, dark soil from the grave. Shrugs at Rafael: "Witches." This is his only explanation for why he's taking it, storing it away in his pack. He stays in homid when they return to the penumbra, and to the glade child. He reaches into his mouth and removes a small, glimmering spark of magic from under his tongue. It glows blue and alive as a will o' wisp as he releases it to fly from his fingertips to the glade child's aura, melding with it. She sighs, relieved of the pressure of the evil at the farthest edge of her strange little forest. Her boughs dip and brush unnaturally green leaves across the heads and faces and shoulders of both wolves, rustling over them with appreciation.
RafaelThere are still many amongst the Fianna who remember the glory of the Fangs, and their ancient oaths of fealty. The wolf doesn't know this well -- he doesn't know the history, the letter and law of those oaths. But he's seen a little of it: so many of the ones who owed allegiance to his mother were of Stag.
He thinks he sees a little of it now. Will's happy bark, and the instinctive lowering of his head. He is glad Will does not bow. It would be too strange, too foreign. He is not a wolf accustomed to ritual. Or to the company of other wolves, really.
--
On the way over, the wolf has little to say. He does ask about the water spirits though: your work? chuffed as he steps past their endless, slightly confused flow. And before they are out of sight of the house he turns back and looks, as though to reassure himself that it is still there. Still whole and hale and safe.
They meet a glade child. The wolf does not know what to call it, but he has met such spirits before. He is unable to speak to them, unable to comprehend their strange tongue, which sounds like wind in leaves, creaking of boughs. Will understands, though, and Will tells him what he needs to know. He is content to listen, and to follow, and -- this occurs to him only fleetingly -- to trust.
--
In battle he is implacable, violent, vicious. But perhaps not so singleminded and vindictive as he once was. There is something else in the back of his thoughts now, every time his great paws thrash something to dust; every time his teeth close:
he thinks of the warm, bright little house with its fire spirits and its water. He thinks of girl's kinsmen living there, close by. There is a satisfaction in the hunt that derives from more than the simple pleasure of destruction. There is a certain righteousness that he is not accustomed to.
--
Later, leaving the glade child, the wolf does as Will did earlier: leans against her trunk for a moment, awkwardly. It is very much the same as the boy-child imitating his sister. The wolf does not understand the ritual behind it, the meaning. He does it because he saw Will do it, and because he wants to be proper, correct, polite.
Walking back, their pace is slower. His rage burns lower, a warmth in the pit of the belly. At the edge of the yard he pauses, sits. Sniffs his hunting-companion gently around the ruff, the ear. Will has a scent. Sheila has a scent. All of girl's blood-kin have scents, and there is a similarity, a distilled thread that runs amongst them all. Wolf imagines girl would smell like that, too, if she smelled of anything.
A moment later, he returns to his human shape. Dusts his palms off, then looks at Will.
"Guess you're not coming in?"
DevonWill shakes his head, outside. He crosses the water, the gate, but he doesn't even approach the porch steps. "I'll try. Tomorrow. For the meal." A beat. "For a while, maybe." And perhaps Rafael, whose energy for crowds, for interaction is limited at best, understands the need to try and store up that energy sometimes. He gives Rafael a nod. He's in lupus again, a half-moment later, but he pauses before he goes anywhere.
Barks. It means nothing, at least in a human language. The sense is there, though, of more ritualized speeches, of words that might mean gratitude or acceptance or Ilikeyou or I'lltellBenjiaboutthis. And then he lopes off around the side of the house, slinking into the back garden where he can be safely out-of-doors and sleep in some tucked-away corner, warmed by winter fur and the nearness of kin.
Inside, the spiritual sounds of the house beckon, even though the house itself has gone a bit dimmer, quieter, softer with the sleep of those inside.
RafaelIt does not surprise him that Will does not come in. He gets it. He doesn't feel boxed in by the walls, but too many people, too many noises, and sometimes he just wants to get away, be alone and bristly and savage. That's the word for it: savage. Sometimes he feels like a barbarian unwittingly chained to civilization. Civility. Crowds.
There is an exception. He never seems to tire of being in girl's company. Thought of it warms him now, sets his heart beating faster. Will barks; the meaning in complex, and so efficiently communicated. Wolf gives him this strange little gesture back, a hand closed into a fist and thumped gently against his chest, twice. Something of a wave; something of a salute.
They go their separate ways. In the foyer, the wolf crosses over again: squeezes back into the reality of the world.
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