pre-christmas.

Devon

There'ss a drunken night wandering Boston and the Harvard Yard, sneaking into Devon's godparents' house just a few hours shy of dawn. Creaky steps and muffled laughter; a creaky bed and muffled moans.

Other than the big meal with a totally different group of cousins and friends than last year, Devon spends more time out of the house with Rafael this year, showing him the schools she went to the various times she lived here. She tells him brief snippets of stories, which are sometimes all she can do without getting too caught up in past angst: a friend from elementary who moved away, a teacher who told her that it was okay if math was hard for her, that her imagination was more important, but that she would be able to do more with her imagination if she worked harder at the hard thing, a brief stint doing props for school plays before she moved with her mum to London. That leads to a conversation where he learns that Devon can do things like whittle and sew, and she tells him she'll show him some of the things she makes other than potions when they get home.

Home.

When we get home

is exactly how she says it. Their home. Her cluttered and messy room that smells of a thousand things that are not her but represent her effect on the world. His clean, stark room, which he doesn't know that she thinks of as 'serene' and 'calm' rather than empty or dull. His comfy armchair, their stack of frozen pizzas in the freezer, the barstools that are -- without anyone labeling anything or saying it aloud -- His and Hers. Home, which is not just his anymore, not even in Devon's mind.

--

They've been back now for a couple of weeks, and Rafael's people have decorated the outside of his house with white lights, a silver-leafed wreath on the door, greenery wound along a fence. Real greenery, of course: his house smells richly of evergreen when people walk by. It's uncertain if Devon asked them to decorate or if Rafael did or if it's just something they took upon themselves to do, but the exterior of the house is somewhat minimalistic, classy, understated.

The interior is decorated, too, but more haphazardly: Devon has strung up multicolored lights in her own room, and wound silver and red ribbon around the railing of the stairs. She took leftover evergreen bits from outside and has made little ornaments from them and ribbon and ornaments she got at Goodwill, and those are hung by windows and sitting on counters and dangling off doorhandles. She also got a very fat, slightly melted candle shaped like a snowman at Goodwill, and it is displayed with pride of place on the middle of the dining table. The snowman has a very goofy smile, even though part of his top hat is now a little well of dusty wax.

Regarding the party at the mountain house: planning has been going on for some months now, since late summer. The venue obviously would not need to be booked, but caterers and bartenders did. Linens had to be rented, decor had to be designed and approved and ordered, and given the changes Rafael is making from the traditional parties his clan hosted during his mother's reign, they can't simply wave a hand and say let's just re-do '01 with some edits'

This year Devon's mum is staying in London, and Devon and Rafael are staying in Denver (if one doesn't count the party). It's not a point of depression for Devon: she's seen her mother more since meeting Rafael than in the two years before. They're going to Skype on Christmas.

--

When Rafael comes home tonight, from whatever he was doing -- a hunt, a patrol, something with his pack, maybe just shopping -- Devon is sitting on 'her' barstool, cutting a huge orange into thin slices. There's a stock pot before her, cinnamon sticks, cloves, and the like, and a jug of apple cider.

She's in pretty regular around-home clothes for her, which means socks that go up over her knees and a little pair of shorts (these ones have tiny rainbows all over them) and a tank top. However, since it is chilly, she is also wearing one of Rafael's hoodies. Not a 'stolen' one, just one she got out of his closet because he isn't currently using it. Her hair is in two long black braids.

There's also a bottle of Leopold Brother's apple whiskey, which -- unlike the cider -- is already opened, poured, and being enjoyed.

He comes in, though, and she brightens. Her back straightens. She turns on her stool a little, hands smelling of citrus, perhaps preparing herself to be scooped up and loved on.

Rafael

Whole house smells like her latest brew, which is perhaps less exotic than most her brews. Smells like the holidays. Smells like warmth and the harvest, and spices to warm one's blood after being in the cold.

Which he has. Been in the cold, that is. Shopping. With his pack. Because apparently you're supposed to shop for Christmas presents for your loved ones, but he had no experience with it and so they did what good packmates do: taught him. Brought him along. Took him to a string of malls and shops and boutiques and big-boxes while he glowered confusedly at the displays and begrudgingly picked out a scarf for the housekeeper, a watch for the valet, a pen for the accountant, and so on and so forth.

Some things for his packmates, too. Some things for his girlfriend. And so he's bumping awkwardly through the door, laden with tastefully store-wrapped presents, immediately sniffing at the air.

"Making cider or something?" He drops the presents on the dining table -- the long, elegant one that they virtually never use. Rolls his shoulders after like it was such an effort for him, musclebound Ahroun that he is, to carry an armful of presents up the driveway. Grabs a little box out of the pile and comes over to where she's straightening up, eyes bright, smelling of citrus and cinnamon.

He puts the box on the bar in front of her. Leans down, kisses her.

Devon

The soon-to-be-mulled cider certainly smells better than some of her brews, which are -- unfortunately -- usually the most potent ones. Like her hangover cure. That one is pure magic, and it looks and smells and tastes like a green crawling death.

Still better than a hangover that lasts all day, but for emergencies only.

--

He was shopping. He told her he was going and there wasn't really even a suggestion that she go, or an indication that she would like to. Devon doesn't like doing things with other people, generally. Devon is slightly tense hanging around werewolves. Even nice ones. So he went shopping for gifts and comes back bearing bags of them, some of which are from his alpha because 'oh you must let me, that color looks so good on you' and 'you can't tell me you don't have a monogrammed robe and think I'm going to let that nonsense go on' and so forth.

He starts putting things down, and Devon smiles at him, waiting for him at the barstool, opening her legs and her arms to him, wrapping both around him when he leans toward her. She does glance briefly at the present, but only just. He's kissing her, and she kisses him back, sighing warmly as her arms tighten around his neck.

"Just started," she says. Hasn't even toasted the spices yet. Hasn't warmed the cider. "Did you have fun?"

Rafael

"No," he grumbles. It's an automatism. After a beat -- after a second kiss, briefer but somehow more lingering -- he reconsiders.

"Yeah. A little." He straightens. Picks up the wrapped box and moves it closer to her. "Got you something."

Devon

She smiles when he grumbles that No. Even if he weren't Rafael -- who prefers to be alone most of the time, who has so few friends he doesn't recognize them, who was sort of innocently and hesitantly bemused to hear that Devon's family likes him visiting -- she wouldn't expect him to say he had fun shopping for Christmas presents.

But she smiles a bit more when he admits he did. A little. Because that's Rafael, too. There's more warmth and generosity in him than he even he quite knows what to do with. He's no Ghandi, no Mother Theresa, but he's not soulless. He may be a monster, but his heart is a curious blend of man and wolf. And both tend to be capable of deep love.

He loves her. She knows that. He's loved her for like two years now, she thinks, probably loved her even before he could name it in himself, or bear to say it aloud. Love's such a tender, secret thing.

He nudges her present closer. He wants her to notice it. She smiles and picks it up, looks it over, examines the wrapping or ribbon, if any.

"Not Christmas yet," she tells him.

Rafael

It's a smallish box; a cube perhaps four inches to a side. It's wrapped in silver wrapping paper, which is imprinted with silver snowflakes. The ribbon is silver too. There is no way, none in heaven or hell, that any of that was his handiwork.

"Not your Christmas present," he retorts, doing his best to affect nonchalance. "Just a thing."

Devon

She laughs a little bit. "All right," she concedes, and tugs one edge of the ribbon, letting the curls shrink in on themselves, unwind from their careful ripples and curves. She sets that ribbon aside, then the edge of her thumbnail gently pierces the paper. She unwraps it with surprising care. Apparently she's not the sort to tear everything apart in a frenzy to get at the gift. Nor is she the sort who unfolds the paper and doesn't rip so much as a corner. She's oddly fastidious about it, savoring, like she's building up her own anticipation. There's something furtive about it too, like a small animal methodically but eagerly trying to crack a nut.

So the paper -- ripped but not shredded -- is peeled off, leaving her with a box to look at, examining that, too, before she looks for a hinge, or loosens the lid.

Rafael

Faint smile on his mouth as he watches her get the present open. She's so fucking endearing. He's so fucking endeared. While she peels the paper off, he pulls one of the ribbons over. Plays with it thoughtlessly, pulling it straight and letting it recoil between his hands.

The box is rather plain: matte white, no hinges or levers or clasps or -- anything, really. Just a lid and a bottom. Which isn't to say cheap or tacky, because it's not: it's nice. But nothing fancy, nothing spectacular. Surely he could afford customized, bespoke gifts. This is not one. This is something from a decent store in a nice mall.

While she opens it, he watches her. Not the box or her hands, but her. Her face. He already knows what's in there, after all: not jewelry but a simple satchel of chamois dyed charcoal-grey. The slide-clasp on the drawstring is in the shape of a crescent moon. Her initials are tooled into the soft leather.

There's something inside -- a simple copper clip, about large enough to hold a deck of cards.

"Figured you could use something to carry your cards around," he says.

Devon

So at first she thinks the leather bag is the gift because it is pretty and it would be good, itself, for holding a deck of cards. She's smiling to see it, her initials and the moon and everything, and then she picks it up and realizes there is something heavy inside. Devon looks briefly bemused, then tugs the string, wiggles a finger into the bag, and then tips it out into her palm.

She looks at it not quite knowing what it is, and then he says: cards. And she realizes that the bag and the clip are the gift, and it's so pretty.

Devon beams up at him.

"Thank you, babe," she murmurs, very soft, wrapping her legs around him where she sits, holding the clip and bag in her hands. "They're so pretty."

Rafael

There's that grin of his, rare, quick. "You like it?" he asks, inanely, because of course she does. He knows she does. Only asks because -- well. Maybe because he's so unused to giftgiving. The whole process of it.

Almost thoughtlessly his hands drop to her thighs, cup the outside of her legs. "Just saw it and thought of you."

Devon

"Of course I do, dummy," she says, laughing at him. He's touching her, keeping their bodies close. She thinks his jacket is cold, his jeans are cold, but he's inside now and she's warming him up. Truth is, he's warming her up. The chill on his clothes is no more than a passing breeze trying to cling to something more solid than itself.

Perhaps the polite thing to do now is to at least make a pretense of apologizing for not having anything for him. Maybe she should start thinking about what to get him for Christmas, if they're going to start exchanging gifts now. But Devon doesn't do either of those things. He gave her something because he saw it and thought of her. She would do the same if she saw something and thought he might like it, or if it pleased her. They don't have to be gift-givers. Not as a routine. Not as a seasonal obligation. She knows that, without having to discuss it with him.

He saw it and thought of her. He is happy she likes it. He is happy that she thinks it's pretty.

She just smiles at him. "You want to learn how to mull cider?" she asks.

Rafael

Somehow this makes him smile again. "Sound like some medieval alewife," he says, "teaching me how to mull cider and brew ale. Maybe ferment some mead in the summer."

Devon

Her nose wrinkles. "I do not," she argues, wiggling a bit until he steps aside and she can slide off the barstool. She tucks the clip back into its bag, and then tucks the bag back into its box, and then puts the lid on the box, and then picks it and the wrapping paper and the ribbon up to move them to the table where they won't get messy.

"Don't know how to brew ale or ferment mead, anyway," she explaines. "Just potions and tinctures and salves, my pretty," she adds, making her voice a bit more shrill, with a cackling edge, wiggling her fingers at him.

Devon reaches for him. Takes his hand. "Come on. We'll get drunk on whiskey cider and watch the Muppet Christmas Carol."

thanksgiving.

Devon

Last year was good. They fought that one time, sort of, but mostly it was just... good. Showing him her spot under that tree in the graveyard. Glancing out the window to see him talking with that distant cousin who doesn't like being inside, even when it's freezing. Being around the kids. Sheila and Brian getting to meet him, since they more or less raised her alongside her mum. Getting to share those traditions with him. Having him in the bedroom she spent so many years in, sharing that squeaky bed.

So this year she floated it sometime after Halloween, but not hesitantly; she wasn't surprised when he said he'd go.

Now it's Wednesday evening, and it's dark outside and cold but not raining or snowing -- Denver barely feels like autumn these days, even with a smattering of wet snow here and there this week. Franklin has their luggage out of the trunk before Devon has even finished getting out of the car, and she tells him to have a happy Thanksgiving when she takes her suitcase from him and lifts the handle, stepping up onto the curb with Rafael so they can go inside.

She's dressed tonight in some of those knock-off shearling boots (slippers) she favors from Target or the like, with leggings patterned like a dark and stormy sky and an overlarge black button-down shirt that might actually be a dress or might just be a giant shirt that she had tailored closer to her body. There are earrings dangling from her lobes that look like primitive depictions of thunderbirds, made out of wire. Her hair is straight, pulled back in a high ponytail, and when she heads into the airport with Rafael, she is holding her suitcase with one hand and his hand with the other.

Rafael

Girl's clothes are like a daily posing of the question, are leggings pants? Also, by corollary: is that a shirt or a dress? Wolf doesn't put much effort into figuring it out, though. Why bother. It's a nice view.

Packed light like he always does. Big backpack slung over his shoulder and that's it. Her hand in his and that's it. She's dragging a suitcase, which he keeps thinking about pulling for her, but it's got a handle and it's on wheels so he leaves it be. Anyway, they check it soon enough -- first class bag drop, in and out in a couple minutes.

Through the security gates, then. Wolf grumpily standing feet-apart-hands-up for one of those goddamn invasive peep-show scans. Stomping into his boots on the other side, collecting his backpack and his girlfriend and slinging the one over his shoulder, taking the other by the hand again.

"Got some time to kill before the flight," he mentions. "Burger?"

Devon

It is also a small suitcase, especially given how many layers and odd things Devon tends to wear. She could stow it, and usually would, but Rafael flies first class. Rafael, already checked in via the airline's app, drops it off with her, leaving her with just a big tote bag slung over one shoulder.

They are scanned, and Devon submits just as Rafael does, even though these days it feels even more unsettling than it used to. She wonders what people will get used to, be subjected to, learn to submit to, in coming years.

Back in their shoes. Back with their bags.

"Yeah," she says, nodding one direction. She's familiar with DIA more than he is, actually, flying in and out a few times a year since she got to this state... and since Rafael started bankrolling her visits to family. "Root Down," she adds, in case he doesn't read her mind. The small version of the downtown restaurant here in the airport. They haven't been to the real one, but she's told him about the lamb sliders.

Rafael

Wolf thinks Root Down is a bizarre name. Mulls that over a big, trying to make sense of it, before abandoning it like a stick too chewed to be of interest. He lets her lead the way. He shadows her, imposing beast of a man, though his dress code's a cut less daring than hers. Just jeans. Just a t-shirt. Wearing jeans that fit properly now that he has money and people who teach him such things. Wearing t-shirt that's finely made, overpriced, cuts close to his body, too.

Still the same palette, though. Blues. Greys. Browns. Today it's a brown shirt.

On the escalator he stands behind her. Lets hurried travelers rushing to make their flights brush past. Restaurants in airports always have a weird hybrid feel; the layout of a sidewalk cafe, almost, designed to entice passers-by. Seating is open. Soon enough someone comes by the drop off menus. Wolf picks it up and looks for lamb sliders. Maybe something alcoholic.

Devon

Root Down is a slight step above the Caribou Coffee and the like throughout the terminal. There is an actual hostess. There are single-flyer tables that overlook the airfield where part of the mini-booth is cut out for a suitcase to fit into. There's a bar with stools where one can people-watch the interior of the terminal. It's dim inside this pocket restaurant, moody, but still: you don't forget you're in an airport. Not quite.

Devon doesn't look at her menu: she reminds herself the name of the drink she wants, already knows she wants the sliders, and after they order (their waitress asks what time their flight is), she leans on the table and begins lightly swinging her legs underneath it until one booted toe actually gently begins thumping his leg.

Rafael

Her boot thumps his leg.

Her boot thumps his leg.

Her boot thumps --

-- bottom of his shoe. He's shifted his foot, met hers. Meets her eyes across the table, unsmiling, but maybe there's a faint little glint of humor there.

Devon

Devon just grins at him. Even though he doesn't. Even though he's not smiling. A year ago, maybe more, she wouldn't have been able to tell if he was amused or not. Might have seen that glance as threatening, warning, but not now. She messes with him. He reacts.

She grins.

Shifts, too, and wraps her legs around his shins, bracketing his legs between her ankles. She makes a low, humming noise.

Rafael

Grin makes something in his eyes soften. Loves that grin of hers. Loves her smiles, full of mysteries as they are. Loves her eyes. Loves her.

Glances away, though, like maybe he's going to people-watch the terminal below. Her legs hug his under the table. He rests his foot on the rung of her chair. Reaches under the table -- still not bothering with the eye contact -- and pulls her foot onto his lap. Holds it there, that big paw of his over her ankle.

Devon

Rarely grins, she does, but it is broad and sort of ferocious when she does. Usually looks like she's about to burst out laughing. Sometimes she does. But it doesn't last too long: she ends up smirk, pursing her lips. He pulls her silly booted foot onto his lap.

"Shoes are dirty," she informs him, but doesn't try to move.

Their drinks arrive. Hers is called a Pepper Blossom. She immediately goes for a very long... 'sip'. Let's call it a sip.

Rafael

"Maybe my pants are dirty," he retorts.

He looks at her drink with curiosity. She drinks it. He picks his up -- it's a draft beer, some heavy stout dark as ink. Maybe he's getting ready for Boston. A sip of it leaves a fine foam on his upper lip, which he licks off with the thoughtlessness of an animal.

"We gonna stay in your room again tonight?"

Devon

She wrinkles her nose a little at the suggestion that his pants might be dirty when she knows very well they aren't. Nothing in his closet is ever dirty. There's never any clothes on his floor once the housekeeper has had a chance to slip in. His room is, especially compared to her own, pristine. Modernistic in its minimalism. Her room down the hall has holes in the walls from pushpins and nails and sometimes stuff hung on them and bottles of various types everywhere and everything smells vaguely botanical and she sniffs clothes and checks for stains before wearing them because one can never be sure.

His question makes her huff a little laugh. "You were going to stay in the shed?" she wants to know, teasing him.

Rafael

He smirks. "Sure. Chained to a fence post. Howling at the moon."

Devon

For some reason, this image makes her pang. It's absurd; she knows he's joking. But she pangs anyway, her brow wrinkling, her heart aching a little as she says: "Babe, no. Not chained up."

Rafael

Smirk fades a little. His hand closes a little more firmly over her shin; rubs.

"Just a joke," he says. "Not serious."

Devon

She wriggles a little, uncomfortable not with his hand on her leg or his comfort but perhaps her own silly reaction, her moment of vulnerability, her exposed tenderness.

Neither of them are quite comfortable with that. Especially not out in public like this, in a restaurant, where everyone might look over and see her face and figure out that she cares about something or has feelings.

"Know that," she finally mutters. "Just... don't like that image. You howling is okay though. Just don't want you tied up."

Rafael

Wolf senses her discomfort, maybe. Certainly would understand it better than most. His hand leaves her leg; he picks up his beer instead. Drinks it, looking out over the terminal, until she speaks.

Sets the mug down, listening, when she does. Corner of his mouth quirks a little. Howling is okay.

"Don't really intend to get tied up anyway," he says. "Ever. But especially not on while everyone else eats turkey."

Devon

And it does help. Wouldn't, if they were alone. Would feel like rejection, maybe. Right now it just feels like understanding. She relaxes a little. She smirks back at him when he says he doesn't intend to get tied up.

Ever.

She just quirks a brow at him.

Rafael

Doesn't understand: "What?"

Devon

That quirk turns into another grin. "Nothing. Just... don't worry. I will never, ever, ever tie you up."

Rafael

Wolf grunts. "That sounded like a tease."

Devon

Devon sips her drink. "I would never," she informs him steadily, setting her glass down. "I've never teased you, not even once."

Rafael

Actually seems to consider this seriously, brow beetling. Finally he grumbles, "I don't think that's true."

Devon

This makes her laugh.

Which might be maybe the third or fourth time ever that he's told something like a joke and made her laugh. Well, maybe not only the third or fourth. But he so rarely uses humor, and so it's still a rare thing to see her lit up with a brief fit of giggles.

Waitress swings by with their food. Seems pleased to see Devon all happy, since it means this guy she's with (who seems like he's probably got money and is used to being able to do whatever he wants to anyone) isn't currently making her unhappy. They get their sliders and sweet potato fries and Devon shifts so both her feet go to the floor again.

"Really, though; did you think we might stay somewhere else? Not my room?" she asks him, picking up one of her sliders.

Rafael

Truthfully it wasn't a joke. He doesn't think that's true. It makes her laugh, though, and that's a good thing. Makes him happy too.

Food comes. They both sit up a little. He grabs a couple fries and shoves them in his mouth. Glances across the little table, eyebrows quirking.

"Nah. Just wasn't sure, wanted to confirm. Figured we would. Liked it last time."

Devon

"Think Brian and Sheila might disown me if we went to Boston and didn't stay with them," Devon says, after finishing her first bite of the lamb sliders. "They're glad you're coming back."

She is quiet for a while, as they both start eating. After a few bites, however, she says: "Sort of want to talk with them, and you, while we're there. About telling mum. About... you know. What you are."

Which isn't the full story. It's not really about what Rafael is. It's about what Devon is. What her father was. What Brian and Sheila are, what that Theurge cousin of hers is.

Rafael

They're glad he's coming back.

Wolf's reaction is complex. Hard to classify. Some flicker of gladness; some uncertainty too. Maybe even distrust, except it comes from her, and he does trust her. He thinks about it a bit. Ends up saying something noncommittal, placeholderish: "Yeah?"

Leaves it there. They're talking about Telling Her Mother, anyway, which looms far larger. He's demolished a slider in one bite, practically; is still chewing, but his eyes are clear and sharp. Listening.

Swallows. Washes it down with beer. Wipes his hand on a napkin.

"They know you wanna tell her?"

Devon

Devon maybe can't interpret all the nuance of feeling he has. She thinks nothing of it: she's never been with anyone she would even bother to tell her family about, never been with someone she might bring home, never been with someone more than a few weeks. If you ask Devon, she's never really had a boyfriend. Rafael is special. Rafael is unique. Rafael very, very clearly matters to her if she wanted him to light the hearth fires with the family. Plus, she might say something dumb if she realized he was uncertain: Brian and Sheila like everybody, which would utterly fail to reassure him or make it clear how very different he is. It just doesn't seem odd to her that they would like him, because they are not critical people, or judgemental ones.

"Not yet," she answers, to his question. Shrugs a little. "It's been a rough year. With me... vanishing like that, you know? I just thought I could wait til we could talk to them together. Like... if you think it's okay, they might not worry as much, maybe?"

Rafael

"Yeah," he says. Intonation's different this time.

Adds, "Your mom ... feeling better? About you vanishing?"

Devon

Devon makes a face. It's sort of a wince and grimace at once. "Sort of?"

She shakes her head. "It helped that I went out there. She needed to see me. Actually touch me. We fought some, which was... just awful." He knows that. He knows because she called him from London, crying, and he was trying to comfort her guilt from across an ocean and all he had were words, and he missed her so much himself.

It was a hard time. It was hard for all of them.

Devon takes a breath, and then takes a sip of her drink. "She's not stupid, that's all. And no one has given her a real explanation. Not one that makes sense. So she... knows I'm lying to her now, but she's... like, resigned to it."

That makes her sound miserable. He knows she hates lying to her mum. That's the whole point. Her mum knowing she's lying just makes it worse. Her mum resigning herself to Devon lying to her makes Devon sound like she wants to crawl under a rock.

Which she does want to do. Instead, she finishes her drink.

Rafael

Wolf's eyes fall away from her face. There's a silence, and for once, it's uncomfortable. He pushes fries around his plate.

"Shouldn't have brought it up," he mutters. "We'll tell her soon. Explain. Maybe... make it make some sense to her."

Devon

Devon frowns a little. Not that she's upset: he looks upset. She's dismayed. She's confused. "Babe, it's fine. I mean: it's fine that you brought it up."

A beat. "You didn't even bring it up. I did. And it's okay. We talk about stuff. That's... part of what we are. With each other."

Rafael

Gaze flicks up, catches hers. "I know," he says. "Just don't like seeing you upset, is all."

Another handful of fries in his mouth. Then he picks up a second slider. Pulls it in half, eats one half at a time. They're quiet for a while. The surroundings aren't: overlapping conversations, overhead announcements. Some flight is boarding for Vancouver. Final boarding call. Pretty soon they'll start calling miscreants out by name.

"Don't want you feeling guilty," he adds. "Didn't do anything wrong."

Devon

"I know, babe," she murmurs, and reaches over. It's awkward, but she wants to touch him. Does so, squeezing his hand, before she pulls back because it feels awkward being all comforting or whatever.

She eats, and he eats, and they listen to people and the airport and watch people pushing strollers, dragging suitcases, carrying backpacks, looking at their phones, getting frozen yogurt.

"Well... no," she says, in disagreement. "I am lying to her. And that's not something you do with people you love. She doesn't deserve to be kept in the dark. So... it means a lot to me that you... are being supportive."

Awkwardness. Feelings!

Rafael

At least she touches his clean hand. The one not currently flecked with fries-debris and burger-juice. It turns over under hers; he grips, squeezes, releases.

"Because you thought you had to," he disagrees right back. "Not something you thought you had a choice in. Not trying to pick a fight over this. Just think you shouldn't beat yourself up over something you can barely control."

Devon

She can't argue with that, and isn't going to. "I know," she says, when he says he's not trying to pick a fight. "But I'm not beating myself up. I just feel bad." Her brow wrinkles. "I love my mum, Rafa. She's sort of... my best friend. And I know she loves me no matter what, but I don't want to lose being so close to her just because of all this stuff between us that I can't tell her about.

"But don't worry so much. I'm not beating myself up. I'm not," she assures him, firmly. "It just makes me sad, and I'm just talking about it. I'm all right, though. Yeah?"

Rafael

"Yeah." His brow clears a bit. "All right."

Picks up his last slider. Eats it. Makes his way through his fries, then, picking them up a few at a time, dipping in ketchup -- or sometimes not. There's a shred of lettuce on the side of the plate. After a moment's hesitation he eats that, too.

"Still be nice when she finally knows. Hope she believes it."

Devon

Devon pretends not to notice he eats some arugula. He might never eat a green thing again if she points it out. She eats more slowly than he does, and less in general, because she needs a fraction of the calories that he does. So after she's eaten a couple of her sliders and some of her fries she starts nudging her plate closer to his to share the rest.

"Yeah," she agrees. "I think she will. I think... well. Like I say, she's not stupid. She knows there are... gaps. This will fill things in. Even if it's hard at first."

Rafael

She doesn't have to say a word. The nudge of her plate makes her intentions clear. He reaches over and starts cleaning up her fries as well.

"Can't really show her what I am," he says. "It'll panic her. Can maybe quick-shift from man to wolf. But not much in between."

Devon

"Only... only that if she really can't believe it," Devon says, slowly, thinking it over, hesitating a bit. "If she needs proof. But yeah. Not... the in-between one. The big one."

Rafael

He huffs a laugh. Doesn't want to mock her, but he can't help finding it funny. The big one.

"No one ever taught you the names?"

Devon

Her brow wrinkles a little. Not defensively. Just: "They have names?"

Rafael

"Yeah. Ranks have names too. Caerns. Spirits. Everything." The humor dies. He furrows. "No one ever taught you?"

Devon

Devon closes her eyes for a moment, squinching tight, then opens one eye to peer at him. She still thinks this is sort of funny. Her silly-ish face fades a bit when she sees that he's becoming quite serious.

"I know some," she says, perhaps with the barest trace of defense now -- but not herself. It's for Brian and Sheila. It's for the people who taught her.

"I know how the kin bit goes, and that there's lots of different tribes. Of course I know Fianna most of all. I know the auspices quite well," she adds, looking him in the eye when she says that, because hey: she knows some things, and here, she'll prove it. "Even the bits about waxing or waning under this or that auspice.

"I know a little about spirits. It's a bit like Hinduism, isn't it? Where everything is Brahman, only it's Gaia, yeah?"

Devon pauses a moment. Then she shrugs. "I figured if they were called anything, it was just 'man' and 'wolf' and... the other one would be 'werewolf' or something."

Rafael

He blurts a laugh. Can't help it. Bites it back after one short bark of sound, though. Eats fries. Chews until the urge to laugh leaves.

"It's called homid - glabro - crinos - hispo - lupus," he says. "There's five forms. The middle three freak people out.

"Twelve tribes, too. Bone Gnawers and Glass Walkers. Children of Gaia and Silent Striders. Fenrir. Fianna. Red Talons. Shadow Lords. Silver Fangs. Uktena and Wendigo. Black Furies. Used to be thirteen, but one left -- the Stargazers. Used to be sixteen long ago, but two died out and one became the Black Spirals.

"I don't know much about spirits either. Or Hinduism. But yeah. They're all parts of Gaia. I guess so are we. But everything can have a spirit. Animals. Plants. The air, the water. Metal. This table. They have ranks too. Gafflings are smallest. Then Jagglings. Then Incarna. And the little ones are aspects of the bigger ones. Offshoots, attached, not separate. Every ... thing only has one Incarna, and that Incarna rules all the smaller spirits. When that Incarna dies, whatever it represents dies too, and vice versa. Maybe not at the same time, but sooner or later. I heard the Mammoth Incarna is still alive, but it's dying.

"There are spirits bigger than Incarna too. Celestines. But there isn't a Celestine for everything. I don't know how many there are total, but they're ... huge. There's a Celestine of the sun, and the moon. Maybe every star has a Celestine. I don't know.

"Then comes the Triat: Wyrm, Wyld, Weaver. And then, Gaia."

Couple beats.

"You and I have spirits too, but we're different. We're not attached to anything else; we're just ourselves, reborn into new bodies with every new life."

Devon

He blurts a laugh. Can't help it. Bites it back after one short bark of sound, though. Eats fries. Chews until the urge to laugh leaves.

"It's called homid - glabro - crinos - hispo - lupus," he says. "There's five forms. The middle three freak people out.

"Twelve tribes, too. Bone Gnawers and Glass Walkers. Children of Gaia and Silent Striders. Fenrir. Fianna. Red Talons. Shadow Lords. Silver Fangs. Uktena and Wendigo. Black Furies. Used to be thirteen, but one left -- the Stargazers. Used to be sixteen long ago, but two died out and one became the Black Spirals.

"I don't know much about spirits either. Or Hinduism. But yeah. They're all parts of Gaia. I guess so are we. But everything can have a spirit. Animals. Plants. The air, the water. Metal. This table. They have ranks too. Gafflings are smallest. Then Jagglings. Then Incarna. And the little ones are aspects of the bigger ones. Offshoots, attached, not separate. Every ... thing only has one Incarna, and that Incarna rules all the smaller spirits. When that Incarna dies, whatever it represents dies too, and vice versa. Maybe not at the same time, but sooner or later. I heard the Mammoth Incarna is still alive, but it's dying.

"There are spirits bigger than Incarna too. Celestines. But there isn't a Celestine for everything. I don't know how many there are total, but they're ... huge. There's a Celestine of the sun, and the moon. Maybe every star has a Celestine. I don't know.

"Then comes the Triat: Wyrm, Wyld, Weaver. And then, Gaia."

Couple beats.

"You and I have spirits too, but we're different. We're not attached to anything else; we're just ourselves, reborn into new bodies with every new life."

Rafael

Wolf shrugs a little. Eats a few more fries, then leans back in his chair.

"Guess so. Can't think of a reason why you'd need to know any of that. Still; it's good to know. I think so anyway. Not blaming Brian and Sheila though."

Devon

[WHOOPS]

Devon

[DLP x2]

Devon

For what it's worth, Devon listens while he talks, chewing on sweet potato waffle fries and finishing off her last slider and her drink while Rafael tells her all this. She doesn't absorb all of it, and doubts he expects her to. She does seem momentarily surprised when he says there are five forms, not three. She doesn't even try to remember all the names of the tribes, because some of it sounds familiar but it's like hearing the names of third cousins twice removed when you know you probably won't ever see them again.

'Died out' makes her pang a little, her brow furrowing for a moment. She does recognize the name Black Spirals. Didn't include them in her list of things she knows. She generally tries to forget that she knows about them.

Gives him a look when he tells her about spirits being parts of Gaia, and how everything can have a spirit, and that look is I knooooow, but then he goes back to things she doesn't know at all: the hierarchy of spirits, which would make sense if she had a little more time to study it.

He can see that she's disturbed when he talks about Incarnas dying, and the thing dying with it, and the Mammoth Incarna. That makes her pang, too. Hurts more, in a way, than the idea of a whole tribe going extinct. At least they stay remembered.

Luckily, he goes back to something she knows: the Triat, Gaia. Reincarnation.

And then he stops, and she's watching him. Chewing.

"I know what I really need to, I suppose," she says finally. "Maybe Brian and Sheila just don't know all of it, either."

Rafael

Wolf shrugs a little. Eats a few more fries, then leans back in his chair.

"Guess so. Can't think of a reason why you'd need to know any of that. Still; it's good to know. I think so anyway. Not blaming Brian and Sheila though."

Devon

She's quiet. Sips her drink, which is close to its end. "So what are the other two like?" she says, going back to something, some point to steady herself on. "The shapes."

Rafael

"What?" -- then it clicks. "Oh. Those movies where the werewolf gets all hairy and ugly? That's basically glabro. And hispo is just a really big wolf. Like on Game of Thrones."

He drinks too. Drains the mug, throat moving. Sets it down.

"Not too exciting. Crinos is probably the most impressive. That's why we like it for moots and stuff. Especially Silver Fangs."

Devon

That makes her laugh. Game of Thrones.

He's drinking. She's leaning over the table so when he stops, she's there, and she kisses him. They're in public and she's trying not to let her shirt fall into the sauce for the sliders, so it's a small, brief kiss, but it's still her, and her lips are still soft, and she can still taste the beer on his when she leans back again.

"That's the big one?" But of course it is. She doesn't ask him about Silver Fangs: that much she knows, more or less, because he's mentioned it and because she asked Brian and Sheila about it. What they told her about Silver Fangs didn't much line up with the sort of person Rafael is, though, so she more or less set it aside. But 'we use the really big impressive shape because we want to be big and impressive' makes sense, according to their rundown on the tribe.

"Moots are... well that's like the meeting thing the tree people have in Lord of the Rings," she says, grabbing on to the place where she recognizes the word.

It would not be history class.

Rafael

The kiss surprises him. He's not ready for it to begin. Certainly not ready for it to end. Licks his lips as he's opening his eyes, well after she's sat back in her chair.

Quirks a smile. "Yeah. The big one." He's still amused by this. She can tell. And then all the more amused: "Yeah. Except lots more howling. About the same amount of axe-swinging and yelling."

Devon

They fucked this afternoon. They were packing, because they wouldn't need much for a short trip, and Devon came into his room lazily and made a nuisance of herself. She lazed on his bed and tried to distract him. She started taking things out of his backpack as he stuffed them in until he grabbed her wrist, and that's when she started kissing him. Pulled him down to her. Pulled his shirt off over his head, nevermind the backpack falling off the mattress, nevermind the fact that they'd have to shower all over again.

When he licks his lips she thinks about the way he looked at her in that small moment in between his hand on her arm in that playful grab, her eyes meeting his, just before she leaned up to him and drew him over her.

So she smiles.

And then: moots. Howling! Axe-swinging and yelling and he is probably being dead serious again but she laughs. "That's so weird," is all she has to say of the new picture of 'moots' she has in her head.

Rafael

Doesn't know why she smiles. Doesn't know why that smile of hers sends a hot sizzle straight down his spine, either. Doesn't know -- can't guess -- that the two are related; that she's thinking of fucking him while they were packing to go. That she's thinking of the backpack falling to the ground, his belongings rumpled on the covers, the two of them coupling eagerly and rather noisily in the middle of his bed, in the middle of afternoon.

His eyes flick down to her mouth though. He watches her smile like it's the first time all over again. First time seeing the corners of her mouth turn up. First time reading all the riddles of the turning world there in her smile.

And then she laughs. And calls moots weird. And he isn't dead serious, but he was serious about the events: there is a lot of howling. And axe-swinging. And yelling. But he laughs with her, because it is funny. It is ridiculous.

"Yeah. Kinda is."

Checks the time, then. Doesn't wear a watch so he has to turn, duck his head, look out at the clocks in the terminal. "Should probably board soon," he says. "Almost time."

Devon

It's a bad idea to get thinking about kissing him more right now. Next thing she knows she'll be wanting to sit on his lap and make out with him, hand up his shirt, his fingers unbuttoning her shirt so he can put his hands on her tits. And if she starts thinking about that she's going to want him to fuck her again, and she's not terribly interested in fucking in a terminal or airplane bathroom. It's a decently long flight to Boston, and she'll have to wait so long to have him, so she shouldn't even get herself thinking about it.

So Devon, though his eyes on her mouth and that brief kiss does remind her of how delightful it is having sex with him, tries to focus elsewhere. Like moots and ents and axe-swinging and howling. Rafael confirms that yes, moots are weird, and Devon doesn't elaborate or argue, because he's the one that has actually been to these things.

"Yeah," Devon says, picking up her purse to dig for some gum or something while he flags down the waitress to get their check. "Do you want the window?" Looks over at him, offering him the pack of gum as well. "Maybe feel less restless if you can see the sky?"

Rafael

He's touched. And maybe that's a little ridiculous too, but it's true. Touched that she thinks of it. Touched that she knows him well, cares for him. Not that he didn't already know that. Still.

"I'll be okay," he says, and takes a piece of gum. "You can have the window if you want to look."

Waitress comes over. He pays with a card. They're used to travelers in a hurry here; waitress comes right back with the receipt, the slip to sign. Which he does.

A little later and they're out of the restaurant, riding the escalator down to the gates. And he's shifting the backpack on his shoulders; sliding an arm around her shoulders. No reason. No explanation.

Just wants her close.

Devon

"I can always just lean on you," she says, and that sounds lie a decision: he'll have the window seat, and if she's just dying to look at the night sky, she'll curl up against him and put her hand on his heart and then they'll both be okay.

They chew gum. He pays. They grab his backpack, her tote, and head out the ramp that goes up to the restaurant and into the terminal proper. Down an escalator and into a train, they go out to their terminal and skip the moving sidewalk, choosing to stretch their legs while they can.

And all the while he's got his arm around her, and she's got her arm around his waist, her thumb hooked lazily into one of his belt-loops.

They arrive at their gate just a few minutes before boarding, but people are already lining up.

Rafael

Their line is short. They fly first class. Wolf has a notion that before she met him girl never stepped foot on first class. That's okay; his first time was the flight out to Denver, after his mother had died.

Don't really look the type to fly premium, but that's okay too. People figure maybe he's made it at some startup. Maybe she's a musician, a model. Maybe they're trust fund brats. Maybe they're little-known Kennedys heading home for the holidays.

Woman at the gate scans their tickets. They head down the boarding tunnel. He jams his backpack in the overhead compartment, then helps her with her tote. Drops down into his window seat, pushing up the shade to get a look outside.

Plane's got a no-frills first class, just big seats side by side. Flight attendant wants to take their drink order. Wolf's a tiny bit buzzed from the beer, but he gets a mojito anyway. And kicks back in his seat, waiting to take off.

"Never had much of a thanksgiving before you," he says, offhand. "Kinda nice, doing this every year."

Devon

Wolf's notion is correct. He started flying first class when his mother died; she started flying first class when she met him. They hadn't really said anything official, and it was only a matter of weeks between the first time they fucked and the time when he decided to help her get from Boston to London so she could see her mum. He's paid for all of Devon's travel since then. As he would put it: what else does he have to spend the money on?

Devon keeps her tote with her. Nudges it under the seat in front of her for takeoff. He sits by the window. She buckles in when it's time, turns her phone to airplane mode, all that. He gets a mojito. She gets a margarita.

He leans back; she curls up, idly looking at the Skymall catalog. When he speaks, she looks over at him, smiling softly. "Yeah," she says. It's both I know and agreement: she must have asked once, he must have told her, but she knows his dad didn't do much in the way of Thanksgiving. And then he was a foster kid, a runaway, and even when he was suddenly an heir, he had no family. Thanksgiving is a family holiday. Or at very least one with friends. And he didn't have those, either.

He is missing his pack's Thanksgiving for this: he was invited, of course, to Avery's family home, though he never found out if that was the mansion in the city or the equally enormous house out on her mate's ranch this year. His alpha was touched to hear that he was only declining because he was joining his girlfriend's family, though perhaps by now he wouldn't expect her to be anything but gracious about it. It's probably the first time in his life he's had more than one invitation to a Thanksgiving meal, a family to join at the table.

Devon nudges the armrest between them up and out of the way, cuddling up to his side a bit. She's still smiling that soft smile. "Kinda nice having you."

Rafael

Kinda, they say. Just something they tend to do. A self-protective reflex, maybe. Shield the naked truth of their words a little. Qualify it. Blunt it.

Still. He sees through it. So does she, likely. So he reaches across, hand open for hers. When she slips her fingers between his, he holds her hand.

--

Flight's long and wolf naps through a good portion of it. Wakes to eat and to drink water, maybe a glass of juice. Girl finds a movie to watch and he tags along, watching on her screen instead of his own, falling asleep again halfway through.

They soar across the country. Vast tracts of dark lands below dotted with small clusters of lights. Chicago is a webwork of brilliance. The lakes are pitch-black. The plane is noisy, but it's a steady, low hum that one ceases to notice after a while. Eventually, an hour out of Logan International, their sense of balance shifts as the plane starts to nose down.

Wolf wakes, then. Yawns and squints and rubs his eyes. Sits up, accepts a hot towel from a flight attendant, scrubs his face and his hands. It's well into nighttime on the eastern seaboard, a couple hours before midnight.

Devon

They hold hands. She leans on him, looking out the window, but that's not why she leans on him. She just wants to be close. You'd think they hadn't been together so long. You'd think it had been a long time since the last time they were near each other. But he's just down the hall when she wants him. They see each other nearly every day. Most nights they end up in the same bed. All the same: when they walk through an airport, he puts his arm around her shoulders. When they sit on a plane, she curls up against his side. They hold hands, fingers interlaced, even while he sleeps.

Devon dozes a bit, but doesn't sleep like he does. She wakes him gently when they get some food. He decides to watch a movie with her and falls asleep again, which she finds rather amusing. She finishes his mojito. She falls asleep near the end of the movie, too. Wakes when he does, as the plane dips.

The hot towels thing still strikes her as very posh, but if pressed, she would have to admit she loves it.

When they finish their descent and begin taxing to the gate, Devon mentions: "Told Brian and Sheila not to stay up, that we'd just Uber over or something and let ourselves in."

Rafael

Seems a little surprised -- not because they're not getting picked up but because that was even on the table. Wolf's not used to the trappings of family. Doesn't even occur to him that that's something family does. Picks you up at the airport. Drops you off when it's time to go. Keeps a room for you, maybe, even if you're almost never there. Keeps you in their hearts.

"You still have a key for their house?" That surprises him too.

Devon

"Of course," Devon says. The plane is sliding to a stop, the seatbelt sign going off. "Never thought to give it back, and they never asked me to." She shrugs.

Rafael

Laughs. "How many house keys do you have now?"

Devon

This makes her pause. She's unbuckling her belt as she thinks, retrieving her bag from under the seat in front of hers. "Just two," she decides. "I gave Naomi's hers back." She smiles at him, getting to her feet, stretching a little. "I live with you now, dummy."

Rafael

She rises before him. Passengers getting up all around, overhead compartments popping open, people dragging their bags down. He's in no hurry, though. They just have two bags. They have to wait for luggage claim anyway.

So he watches her. Watches her get up, watches her pull her bag out and set it on her emptied seat. Watches her stretch, his eyes flickering down her body. That's when he undoes his belt. Gets up. Puts his hands on her waist, wraps his arms around her body.

Kisses her, for no better reason than to kiss her. "Yeah," he agrees. "You do."

Devon

Even in first class, the space between the rows is narrow enough that when he rises, they're pressed together by default. She does not mind this. She smiles when he rises to her, touches her, pulls her that much closer.

She sighs softly when he kisses her, draping her arms around his neck. "Love you," she murmurs, when he's done kissing her. Sometimes seems the only thing to say. Sometimes it's just there, thrumming in her veins, part of the air in her lungs, and the words seem to form themselves without her input or influence.

And then, her voice quieter: "Remember the bed's really squeaky," just so he doesn't forget.

Rafael

A laugh huffs out of him. "Haven't forgotten," he assures her. "Usually don't forget fucking you.

"Come on." He ushers her into the aisle, his own physicality holding back the tide of passengers rushing to deplane. Reaches up overhead and pulls his backpack down, slings it over one shoulder. "Let's get a snack on the way over. Hungry again."

Devon

Someone passing by overhears 'fucking you' and gives them a half-startled, half-disapproving look that Devon, at least, either doesn't notice or simply ignores. She lets him nudge her into the aisle, laughing a bit, shouldering her bag while he gets his own.

"We can go to Charlie's Kitchen and get nachos," she suggests. "I'm hungry again, too."

Rafael

"Charlie's Kitchen?" he repeats. Air in the boarding tunnel is moister, colder. He stops to pull a hoodie out of that big backpack, pulls it on one arm at a time. "Your favorite dive or something?"

Devon

"I don't play favorites with dive bars, babe," Devon informs him, tucking herself closer to him while he gets his hoodie. She does not have hers with her, because she is wearing a long-sleeved shirt under that button-down anyway. Planes are cold. So is Boston.

"We could probably stay out however long we want, unless you're tired," she adds.

Rafael

"Slept on the plane," he says automatically, as if she weren't right there to witness it. "Let's stay out a bit. Haven't really seen your city."

Devon

Devon smirks at him, stepping into him in their spot on the side of the ramp. She bites her lip, wrapping her hands in the edges of his hoodie. "Yeah," she says. Last year they stayed with her family, didn't go out except on that one walk, remained indoors and cozy most of the time. It seems to please her that he wants to go out, though.

"We can go to Charlie's, and then Insomnia, and then go troll around the Hahvahd Yahd." Despite not normally having a trace of a Boston accent, Devon does fake it rather well, even if she stays tongue-in-cheek about it. She thinks it sounds fucking stupid.

Leans up to him, kissing him. "Let's go down to claim and get a car," she says, sliding away, taking his hand, leading him out of the tunnel.

Rafael

Jesus fucking christ, the couple that was audibly talking about fucking is now getting cute in the boarding tunnel. Her hands are all up in his clothes and he's kissing her. They earn their share of disapproving glances, though neither of them give a shit. Well. Maybe wolf does. Maybe he does, once or twice, flash dangerous glances past his girlfriend. But mostly they're wrapped up in each other. Couldn't care less about others.

Her bag is one of the first ones out at baggage claim. More perks of first class. They get a car from Hertz, and it's not cheap because it's Thanksgiving but what else is he going to spend his money on. Turns out to be a small SUV, because that's all that's left. It's red. It has heated seats.

Their luggage -- what there is of it -- goes in the back. Neither of them are really equipped to drive with the Massholes, since she doesn't ever seem to drive and he doesn't know the roads, he ends up behind the wheel. She mans the GPS. Roads are emptier late at night, at least, and they make it over to Cambridge after only a half-dozen honk fights.

Park. Get out. Pay. Put stub in window. Drops his arm around her shoulder again as she's stepping up on the curb, heading into Charlie's.

Devon

Devon seems to gain in energy as they leave the airport. The pleasure she feels that Rafael wants to go out with her is obvious: she is bored and antsy while they wait at the Hertz counter and then somewhat curious when they get the SUV. She keeps fiddling with the controls, including heating up his seat when he's turned it down. She grins at him every time he notices and turns it down again. She fiddles with the radio. She tells him what Insomnia is: all night cookies and ice cream. Well, almost all-night. Til three or four, at least. She says they should drink, because the food at Charlie's is best for sopping up alcohol. She occasionally remembers that she's supposed to be navigating.

Rolls down the window once to give a very aggressive finger to someone honking at them. This seems to please her, too.

When they get out, she stays close to him again, because it's quite cold here, even just the few steps to the door.

Rafael

Cambridge has gentrified over the last few decades, but Charlie's seems to be aggressively immune. It's tiny, cramped, brickfronted with tiny windows. A dozen glowing signs with no unifying design, color scheme or font shout at passerbies, half of them clamoring to inform them that Charlie's is the double cheeseburger king. Wolf's face is illuminated by reds and blues as he looks at the signs. Mutters sardonically, "Think the double cheeseburgers are any good here?"

He pulls the door open. Wave of noise rolls out. Harvard kids and MIT kids and townies mingling over greasy burgers and fries. Beer and whiskey aplenty flowing from taps and bottles. Interior is cramped and dark. Barstools are padded and bright red.

Girl probably heads for the bar. Wolf follows, unzipping his hoodie as he goes.

Devon

She just grins at him. "If you want something fancy, posh boy, we can go to some ampersand restaurant." She's teasing him. She teases him because it's safe to do so, now; doesn't think it will sting him. Could be wrong.

They slip in, and it's not even eleven yet, and some of these people either aren't going home for Thanksgiving or home is in town. Devon goes to the bar to secure them a couple of stools, flagging down the guy behind the bar as Rafael is approaching. She wants beer, and a double cheeseburger, and french fries, and an order of nachos to share. She leaves it to him to order for himself.

Rafael

Wolf snorts at the moniker. "Posh boy my ass," he says. Parks said ass on the stool. Gets what she does: double cheeseburger. Fries. Beer. And the nachos they're going to share.

"Tell me more about Boston," he says while they wait. "Tell me about growing up here."

Devon

She glances sidelong at him. No reason for it, but something about him snorting at 'posh boy' reminds her of the first time she saw him. The suit cut to his frame. The classic, elegant car with its staring-straight-ahead driver. No flash, just obvious wealth. And yet nothing about him fit with it. He was not smooth. He was not seductive. He was raw, and aggressive, and walked and spoke with a sort of hunger that could not even quite be conveyed in what he was asking her for. It didn't even read as want, really, that night; more like a need, an instinct.

Very different from that night some time later when she saw him again in the fine clothes, at some charity thing he was supposedly hosting. That night she thought she sensed something more like desire, attraction, a slight heaviness to his attention. But it was so riddled with frustration and a spikiness that she now knows was his guardedness, his wariness of being made a fool, that she couldn't quite get a bead on him or what he wanted. If anything.

Devon idly wonders what it would've been like if he'd asked her then, instead. Not to pay, not threatening to murder someone on her behalf if she'd let him fuck her. But if he'd just told her something like you look good. If he'd suggested she go somewhere with him, really asked her to.

She probably wouldn't have.

She leans over after their beers come, kissing his cheek softly. He has no idea why, or what her thoughts are right then, but he gets that kiss, and all the warmth of it, all the tenderness. It's a soft thing, a lot gentler than their kisses on the airplane or in the tunnel to the gate.

He asks her about Boston. She shrugs. "Well... we came over here when I was still a baby. I was still quite young when my dad took off. Brian and Sheila helped mum with me. She was working and going to school, yeah?"

Devon takes a drink of her beer, licking her lips. "I think it's part of why I keep to myself. That's how we sort of have to be. It's the kin thing, partly -- you don't have neighbors come to the same barbecue as great hulking beasts, unless you want a problem. And because even when I was in school, kids were a bit mean to me. Some of their parents weren't together either, but it was a good district and all. Not poor kids, so most of them had two houses, not... one parent who vanished into thin air. Mostly they just spread rumors that he was in jail and I was lying.

"Then they'd see my mum, at a parent's night if she could get out of work or classes to come, and they'd start saying I was adopted, that she wasn't really my mum, that she didn't speak English, when she spoke better English than any of them."

She shrugs a bit. "Things were just... better if I was out on my own, or at home. So that's mostly what I did."

Rafael

They have inner lives of their own. She doesn't always know what makes him get up, get close, paw at her, wrap her up in his arms. He doesn't always know -- he rarely knows -- what makes her lean over. Kiss his cheek. Give him that small, tender affection while they're sitting at the bar with beers, with nachos, with fries and burgers on the way.

He leans into it though. Mouth quirks a little to receive it. Makes a low sound, lost in the noise.

Learning each other's life stories feels a little like archaeology sometimes. They go over the same terrain, uncover a little more every time. He knew she didn't particularly have a great childhood. Something about bullying. He knows more how, the how and the why, and it makes him pang. Makes him reach over, put his arm over her shoulders, pull her against his side.

"And then you went to London. And then came back?"

Devon

"Well," she starts, then pauses. "So I was born in England, where my parents met. It was my dad who got my mum to move here, close to his family -- that's Brian and Sheila, sort of, they're cousins or aunt and uncle of his or something. Then he took off, and they kept taking care of us, because... well. They knew what he was like, and because they loved mum, and then there was me, and they knew what I'd be, because of my dad.

"Mum and I moved back to the UK when I was a bit older, in high school. That was where her work really was, and she wanted to go back. Didn't help that a couple of years earlier we'd finally heard what happened to my dad. Sort of... took out any hope she might've had left that he'd show up again. I think she would've gone eventually anyway. It was home and all. But it was really... it was even worse there, with the things people said about mum and me."

Devon shakes her head. "I was only in one or two fights ever in Boston, but it was every week back in England. Didn't tell mum most of it, though. She'd just move back here, throw out everything she'd gone to school for..." she shakes her head. Drinks more beer. "But soon as I finished school, I came back to Brian and Sheila's."

Rafael

"Until that one fucker scared you away." He fits the piece he already has to the puzzle. "The Fianna who didn't like the way you smelled."

Their food arrives. Wolf straightens his back, lets the waitress plunk the oversized plate full of burger and fries down in front of him. Then he hunkers over it again, all shoulders and scowl, which is very nearly a default expression for him. Resting beast face, maybe.

"How'd you pick Denver, anyway? Pulled it out a hat?"

Devon

Rafael fills in some bits. That fucker. That guy who scared her away. It's a simplified version, to be sure: she might say she didn't want the risk, might argue she didn't want Brian and Sheila ending up outcast because of her. Definitely bristles inwardly at the suggestion that she was scared off, but truth is:

well. It's basically what happened.

Devon drinks her beer as they get their food: burgers, fries, nachos. She goes for the nachos first, since she ordered the burger and fries partly so Rafael could finish them with her. She likes sharing their food. She likes eating from the same plate: Rafael eating what she's too full for, doesn't want.

She shrugs, winding some melted cheese around the chip she grabbed. "Sort of. I never traveled much. Seemed a good place as any to start."

Rafael

"That still surprises me," he admits. For his part, he tucks into that big burger first: stacks of flame-seared beef and melted cheese, sesame buns ever so perfectly toasted. Makes a low sound, satisfied, because even the serious cant of their conversation can't keep him from noticing when meat tastes good.

"That you never traveled much," he clarifies. "When I first met you, figured you for one of those nomadic Fianna. Travelers or whatever. Something about you just seemed so wild. Maybe it was the witchcraft I was sensing."

Devon

Meat good.

A couple of sets of eyes flick his way when he makes that sound. It's not entirely human. They sense the animal in it, think they're going to see something furred and four-legged, sharp-toothed. They see Rafael digging into his burger, a thoroughly pretty young man whose nonetheless seems limned with a sort of meanness, a harsh rawness that jars against his bright eyes, his full lips, his chiseled features. They look away again, mostly failing to notice the girl with him.

She just shrugs. "I went on road trips sometimes." Pauses a beat, corrects: "Hitch-hiked, sometimes. Ran away. Went on a school trip to Ireland once. Saw the homeland, or what you might call it. And then you and I have been all over, sort of."

Devon takes a bite, chews, gets more beer, smiles. It's a little on the thin side, but not because she's upset with him. Nothing like that. Just: "Like traveling. Seeing new things. I wander on my own, but never that far. I... don't want to be like my dad, yeah? He was one of those. And never came back."

Rafael

Wolf laughs a little: saw the homeland. Bit of a scoff, really, not it's not directed at her. Just directed at the ... mythos, maybe. That particular and peculiar mystique that surrounds the emerald isle.

"Maybe I'll go see the homeland someday. Windmills and clogs."

Grows serious, then, even as she smiles. "Don't wander off and never come back. Okay?"

Devon

She blinks. "...are you Dutch?"

But they're not joking. He's pausing, he's serious, he seems wary, and it hurts a bit. Her brow wrinkles. She doesn't know what to say at first.

Rafael

He reaches over. Does that stupid thing he does: rubs at her furrowed brow with his thumb, like he can physically rub away her anguish.

"Just thinking of that season you spent away," he says, roughly. "Just don't want you to disappear someday. Even if it's for a good cause."

Devon

She wrinkles her nose at him and pulls away before he gets to rubbing. "Your hands are all greasy," she tells him, which is true.

He explains. This time, she winces. "Babe... stop. I feel awful."

Rafael

Draws back. Almost flinches back. Turns away, the furrow in his own brow only deepening when she says she feels awful. He's wiping his hands by then, roughly scrubbing grease off his fingertips.

"Sorry." It's muttered.

Devon

They're quiet for a bit. Recovering, both of them, from stings, from the bruises on the ever-easily-wounded hearts. Devon drinks beer, not quite wanting to eat yet. She is staring at her nachos, thinking, trying to come up with something to say.

"You don't need to ask me not to go away. Hurts that you think I might."

That's where she lands. Softly.

Rafael

Around them, everything's dark and noisy, bustling. Rowdy bunch in the corner yelling over beer pong. Even Harvard scholars are just college kids, after all.

Beside her, her boyfriend's silent a while. Broods. Drinks beer in tandem with her until she speaks. Then he looks over at her. More than a glance. A long stare, searching, eyes flickering over the side of her face.

"Don't think you'd want to," he says.

Devon

She feels his eyes on her. Turns to look at him when he says what he does. Her eyes shine. Not with tears, not with sudden rushes of emotion, but just their color, their bright blue glimmers, their deeper indigo depths.

"Good," she says, quiet but firm, "because I don't want you not trusting me."

There's a small pause, there. "I'm not my dad. I'm not your family, either. I'm not leaving you."

Rafael

Edge of his mouth quirks a little. Deliberately, making a show of it, he wipes his fingers, his hands, his mouth.

Then he takes her face in his hands, pulls her across the small gap between their barstools. Kisses her.

Devon

The trace of amusement in his not-quite-a-smile confuses her a bit; she's quite serious. She means what she says: that it hurts to think he doesn't trust her, thinks she's going to vanish, that this keeps coming up. And she means, too: she's not going to leave him. Even if plenty of others have.

And then he's wiping his hands off on his napkin. Slowly, deliberately, and her eyes narrow at him a bit, but she plays along.

Doesn't push him away or pull out of his grasp when he touches her face. Lets him draw her nearer, her eyes closing. Lets him kiss her, and kisses him back softly.

"I mean it," she whispers when they part, her face still close to his, her eyes still closed for a moment. They open after her words, focusing on his.

Rafael

In that moment she's trying to talk to him, eyes closed, he's still kissing her: his lips moving softly; his mouth sucking gently at her lip. So she sees him with his eyes closed, sees him blurred and close-up, sees his eyes opening and the dark lashes lifting, the feral green of his irises.

"I know," he murmurs. "I'm never leaving you either."

Devon

Somehow that makes her softly laugh. Or breathe something like a laugh. She kisses him again, since he's not willing to fully stop doing that. There they are, smooching at the counter over their nachos and burgers and beers, and no one here really cares.

Of course, she says 'not' and he says 'never'. She speaks of the present, the always-now, taking the words out of time; he speaks of promise, and vow, endurance. They don't mean the same thing. They do mean the same thing.

Devon kisses him for a while longer. Softly, not making out like teenagers in public, until she draws back, until they look at each other. She smiles softly at him.

"Come on," she murmurs. "Let's eat."

halloween rager.

witch

Devon was not upset that there were no places in town left to rent on the Saturday before Halloween; she wanted the party on Halloween, properly Halloween, or not at all. So it is on a Monday night, and most of the guests are either those who do not hold down normal jobs or those who are willing to say fuck it. And quite frankly, many of the guests did not decide to say fuck it until they saw what their friends were posting online.

It is a good party. Devon and Rafael did very little planning of their own. He talked to His People. And it turned out that Devon, when not drunk off her face, actually has some clear opinions about the party. Maybe Rafael does, too, in the end, but maybe he doesn't. And that's all right.

His People procure, in lightning speed and with little to no visible complaint, a venue, a DJ, catering, bartenders, and a setup and breakdown staff. There is a 'candy bar' along one wall that rivals a visit to Wonka's own factory, and the party has a 'signature drink' that appears to be a smoking green potion in a martini glass. Someone prints up little quarter-page flyers about the party, and after some back and forth with Rafael's servants, it is finally agreed that while their specifically invited guests will be checked in off a list, the public at large should be subject to a (reasonable) cover charge, if only to keep out troublemakers and drunks.

The mezzanine of the venue is off-limits to all but a select few. Those select few are of the blood, whether in full or by kinship. And since Avery's party ended up including most of her family and staff, and since a number of other members of the sept came as well, it is hardly a sparse gathering upstairs, though it is one of the more diverse sub-groups of attendees.

It is past ten now, and the party has been going for a few hours, and does not seem anywhere near ready to slow down. Devon is dressed up in a black minidress with a skeleton screen-printed onto it, black stockings with visible garters, and white go-go boots. The skeleton on her dress glows in the dark, and her jewelry is all bone-themed, but -- perhaps as a favor to her boyfriend -- she did not paint her face to look like a skeleton with too-bright eyes and a permanent rictus grin. She has worn herself out dancing at least twice and for once she's pacing herself with the booze, but she appears to be having a lovely time. Her friends (all two of them) came, and many acquaintances from Hooked or the witchy stores she frequents. Devon does not consider these people friends; they are just people she knows. But she's glad they came. She's glad that Rafael's pack came and brought so many people, even if she doesn't spend much time up in the mezzanine herself.

But right now, that is where she is. She's not in the thick of conversation and drinking and snacking among wolves and their kin, but around the corner, looking down at this rager she and her boyfriend apparently have thrown. And look: she's even got a bottle of water.

werewolf

So at least they know if they ever got hitched there'd be no shortage of guests at the wedding. There are a fuckton of people up in the mezzanine -- Avery's large party of charming elites and Avery's husband's even larger party of drunken cowboys, half of whom have committed the ridiculous faux pas of coming as cowboys. And then there are the wolves from the Sept, and their kin, most of whom probably came more because they liked Avery than because they liked (or even knew) their host.

Even more people downstairs, though. Word gets out when you have the money to put the word out, and the money to put on a good party. The food is good, the bar is open, the beats are sick, the costumes are impressive -- if only because there's a costume party later where the winner goes home with a grand. People glance up at the mezzanine sometimes, wondering what's up there, who's up there, what sort of amazing vip shit was going down up there.

Girl can see them looking up. They can barely see her though -- edge of the mezzanine is deliberately kept dark, lit only by the multicolored flashes and lights from the dance floor below, which is large enough that you can move, small enough that the dancing never thins out.

The shadows around her get a little warmer, feel a little thicker. Maybe she's been around wolves enough now to recognize it a bowshock of rage, moments before her boyfriend leans up against the railing beside her. He has one of those smoking green concoctions in hand.

He's even dressed up. Someone convinced him -- ha, ha -- to be a werewolf. So he's a werewolf. Which means: he's wearing jeans torn off at the knees and he hasn't shaved for a few days. And his hair is a mess. Secretly, he likes his costume. He thinks it's very funny.

"Threw a pretty good party," he congratulates... her? Himself? His People? Leans over and taps his glass against hers. "Happy Halloween."

witch

The VIP shit going down is... relatively chill. The whiskey is older and there is a card game going on at a corner table with bottle-caps used as poker chips. The laughter is more genuine and it's quiet enough to have a conversation, but here and there people dance, too. They can see down. People can't see up. The most scandalous thing to happen so far is that Rafael stumbled into a couple making out rather heatedly in a dark hallway, only to discover that it was his alpha and her mate.

Devon is drinking her water to offset the many, many glasses of green potion she's had tonight, not to mention some of the finest whiskey that the fianna contingent felt appropriate for the season. She feels something warm and dark nearby and sighs before she even feels him. She shifts slightly in that direction so that when he leans over, his arm brushes hers. She is away from the gathering of rage and even the gathering of her own kind, not getting too friendly, but perhaps he knew that would be her way.

But when he shows up, she smiles at him. She didn't expect him to dress up. She thinks it's hilarious that he dressed up.

"We did," she agrees, but when he goes to toast, she says haphazardly: "Wait wait wait," and turns around to a nearby table where her drink -- her real drink, not her water-bottle-drink -- is sitting. She picks it up and completes the toast with a clink. "Blessed be," she says, with at least a little bit of irony, before she drinks.

And then she slips her arm around his waist. "Should give your people a... a bonus, or something. For pulling this off. This is fucking awesome." She drinks again.

werewolf

"Yeah," he agrees. "Kinda like this party. No speeches. No pressure."

His arm falls over her shoulders. His skin is warm as ever. His breath smells a little like alcohol; he's possibly not been pacing himself. There's evidence of that right now: he downs the rest of his drink.

"Just you, me, and the awesome party we threw."

witch

That actually makes her ache a little. His experience of parties. Speeches and pressure and bowties. "Oh, babe," she says, nudging his leg with her knee, leaning into him with her body. "Those aren't parties. Those are... whatever else." She follows his lead: he drinks, she drinks. He finishes his, she downs hers.

She smirks. "And our few hundred friends we apparently have," she adds wryly.

werewolf

"Even normal parties," he says -- not to argue or even to insist, but just to draw the distinction. "Even those. Don't know anyone but it's not my house so I feel like I have to ... I don't know. Do something. Put on a mask.

"Doesn't matter." He kisses her temple. "I like this. And our few hundred friends."

witch

Devon listens; she didn't understand, that's clear. So she tries to. And maybe he won't notice it, or realize it, but she does. Understand, that is. She stands up on her toes to give him a small kiss on his scratchy, unshaven cheek. "Not with me," she says, not like a reassurance, and not like a suggestion, and not like a question. A confirmation, she hopes, that she gets what he's saying.

"You could do worse stuff with your money," she says, nodding, looking down at the people again. It's nice being alone in these crowds. It's nicer being alone with him. She's never been at parties like this where someone she attached to for a dance or a conversation or a drink didn't then want to drag her in to the mass, introduce her, make her social.

Rafael just finds her. Stands with her. They're still apart from everything else here. That's what she likes. His arm over her, his sweat giving off his smell, her hip against his body. Both of them watching people.

And then suddenly she laughs. He doesn't have to ask, though, even if she is going backwards a bit: "The one fucking day a year you should be wearing a mask." She finds this hilarious.

werewolf

"Not with you," he repeats, softly.

Confirms.

Then, a quick smirk. "If I put on my mask," he says, "whole party'll run away screaming."

witch

Something about that, out of nowhere, makes Devon breathe in suddenly, but not out of fear. Not out of wariness. She turns her body to him, back against the railing, looping her arms up around his neck. Gives her hair a shake off her shoulders, off her face, looking up at him.

werewolf

Wolf doesn't really understand this shift, this change in her. He goes with it -- steps into her as she tosses her hair back. Put his hands on her body, at the waist.

"What?" he wants to know; a different tone than those breathless whats he mutters. A question, this one.

witch

There's not a ready answer. She doesn't know, herself. Just a rush of heat under her skin, a breathless tremor. She wanted to get closer. Felt natural to step closer to him, display herself a little before him, touch him. All these physical invitations. Which he is taken, has taken, by getting closer to her, touching her through her stretchy, tight little dress.

Which glows in the dark. Back and front. Has a little red heart in the ribcage, right over where her real heart should be.

Devon shakes her head once or twice, slow. "Don't know." Doesn't. Is thinking now, though, even while she's staring at him. "Just never talk about it to me. Or show it to me. Guess it... felt... intimate, when you mentioned it." Her shoulders lift as she struggles, shrugs her way through not having words. "Exciting."

werewolf

It, she calls it, as though that part of him were something altogether separate; a physical thing he could pull out and show her. Which in a way it is. In another way, it's not at all like that, not an appendage or an accessory but something as deep and embedded as bone, as nerve, as blood.

He doesn't pull it out. It grows, boils, wells up out of him, right through his skin.

And he's looking at that little red heart on her skeleton dress, smiling a little because -- let's face it -- it's a cute touch. A skeleton with a heart. Not a tin man then. Something more like a corpse bride maybe. He puts a hand over that heart, which is perhaps inappropriate because he's also putting a hand on her breast. But then it's dark in here, and no one's looking at them.

"Guess I just don't really think to talk about it," he says. "You have seen me like that though."

witch

He can feel her heart beating under his hand. Real heart, not the cartoon heart that is the only spot of color on her outfit tonight. It thumps against the heel of his palm in time to the music, in time to his heartbeat, in time to her quickening pulse. She breathes in when he touches her like that, right here, and it lifts her breast into his hand a little more fully.

"Maybe twice," she murmurs. It's not a protest, but... it also is, in a way. It's not about talking about it, either, but she doesn't argue that. "It's a part of you. Who you are."

But not with me, she doesn't say. It hangs in the air between them somehow, though. It shows in her eyes, which have a shadow of something forlorn in them.

"Don't want you shedding all over the bed or anything," she mutters. "Just... I want all of you. Because I'm special to you."

Which she'd never say so boldly if she weren't drunk.

werewolf

His brow furrows. Then clears.

"Not withholding anything on purpose," he tells her. "Just never needed to shift with you. Except that once in the alley. And that other time you were mad at me and I wanted to stay close. But sleeping in front of your door like this would make me some sort of ... homeless person.

"Other times I just stay in the shape I was born in. Just familiar. Not hiding anything." It's a repetition, albeit imperfect. There's another pause.

"Can try to take different shapes more often. If you want."

witch

Not on purpose. She wants to bristle and tell him that's not what she meant, and it isn't, but

it's the truth behind what she meant. That she is left out. That he keeps it from her. That she's shut out from part of who he is. An intrinsic part. A defining part.

Devon steps closer to him, which dislodges his hand from her boob, but no matter: she wants to be held. She turns her head and rests it against his chest, to listen to his heart. Not a cartoon. Thumps under her ear, and she wonders when she'll stop feeling the urge to bolt when he understands her, or sees something in her that she didn't say out loud. It is very hard to trust in love, when it seems like it's made out of clouds and sunlight and destroys its own etheral nature with its shining warmth.

Breathes in deep and smells him.

"I was thinking about the time in Brazil," is the first thing she says, which is probably weird of her, but that's where her mind goes. "Because we were traveling, and I hadn't seen you... shift, or go out and hunt on your own, and I worried. So then of course you were a prick about it," she adds, a little archly, but it was a long time ago and she's not upset anymore. It's a bruise long since healed.

"Almost forgot the other time," Devon murmurs, in addition, her voice softening. "I liked that you did that. Even though I was mad."

Her arms are around him, and she strokes his back. She hesitates to say she wants him to do that. Hesitates to ask something of him that might not be natural. Hesitates because it sounds like he isn't keeping her at arm's length, but it still feels like a distance, and she doesn't like that feeling. Her hands move up and down his back, and without thinking about it she is swaying slightly to the music with him. Or against him, if he's rock solid. Won't move. Her boyfriend the tree.

"Do sort of want that," she eventually admits. "Just... I just want to be with you. All of you." A repetition, perhaps, but these are the only words she has.

werewolf

There's something intimate about this. Her hands on his bare back. Her ear to his chest. His arms folding around her too, covering up the glow-in-the-dark skeleton.

"Weren't mad the morning after," he points out quietly, as though this mattered. "Were pretty happy. Hugged me. I was in the middle of a dream about ... chasing rabbits or something." He laughs a little.

"I'll do that more. Be a wolf. Or one of the in-betweens maybe. I ... think differently when I'm like that, though. That's not a warning. Just letting you know."

witch

She huffs a laugh against his big chest when he talks about chasing rabbits or whatever. Dreaming of it, at least. But he goes on: he'll do it more. Be a wolf, or in-between.

Her hands move gently on his back, around to his sides, which are softer somehow, more vulnerable. Closer to his ribs, his heart. Covers him there, with her small, longfingered hands.

"I thought you might," she murmurs. "That might be part of why I want it. To... get to know you." More of him. All of you, she almost repeats, but stops herself.

Devon lifts her head, looking up at him.

He can almost hear her whisper kiss me in his mind, but that isn't a power she's ever shown herself to have. Maybe he just sees it in her eyes.

werewolf

Finds him looking down at her when she looks up. Wolf does a funny thing then. Puts his hand on her head, atop it, like a blessing.

Slides his palm around to cup the back of her head a moment later. "Girl with the eyes," he mutters, almost to himself, as he leans down to kiss her.

witch

She almost laughs, but doesn't quite get there. Her lips open into a smile, slowly, as she tips her head to meet him. Kisses him back, sighing a little. Never did have a nickname for him other than that prick, or her name for him, which started the first night he was with her.

This night, two years ago. When she was a broken doll and he was just... himself, but lonelier and angrier and warier. Her hands stay where they are on his body, protective, as she makes out with him for a little while on the mezzanine. She doesn't even mind that he hasn't danced with her tonight. She hasn't asked.

Eventually they pause to breathe again. She smiles up at him. "I like our anniversary," she whispers to him.

werewolf

They share that smile like a secret. If it is one, it's one dawning on him right now, slowly.

"Yeah," he says. "Kinda is, isn't it?"

witch

This earns him a gentle thwap of her palm on the side of his belly. "Oh my god," she says bluntly. "You started fucking me two years ago tonight, you asshole. And you were already half in love with me before then, so don't act like you don't know."

werewolf

Rare grin flashes over wolf's face. Teeth glint in the dark; eyes too. "Know exactly when I started fucking you," he replies. "Down to the hour. Never going to forget that."

witch

That actually gets her. She sees his teeth, and his eyes, and that grin. He tells her what he remembers. And she takes a breath.

He can see the flash of her throat when she breathes. When she swallows.

Sighs: "You wanna?"

werewolf

That grin subsides. It's half gone by the time he starts telling her exactly what he knows. Totally vanished by the time she breathes. Swallows.

He kisses her before he answers. It's an answer in and of itself. Sometimes they're like this. Drawn together like magnets snapping to one another.

"Yeah," he mutters when there's a little space between them again. He takes her hand. "Let's get out of here."

witch

First time she asked him that, he... maybe wanted to, but didn't. In daylight, when people might walk in, when he wasn't sure of her at all. She doesn't mean to replay it with that whisper, but they don't replay it at all: he kisses her and she leans into him, and they're far from the only couple making out tonight in near-public. He's far from the only man to feel up his girlfriend.

Or mate.

Devon presses her hips closer to him. She wants to feel him get hard against her. Wants to feel him through their clothes. She exhales, looking up at him, whispers:

"No. Let's find somewhere here. Want you to fuck me up against a wall somewhere in the dark." Her eyes are livid, somehow, brighter than usual, like they're giving off their own light.

werewolf

"What?"

That is one of those whats. His eyes flick around; instinctively watching for peeping toms, eavesdroppers, maybe. Or maybe just looking for a place. Somewhere here. His attention comes back to her.

"Where?"

witch

She just grins at him. "You're the hunter. Aren't you geared to find secret hiding places?"

Devon stands on her toes, biting his lower lip gently. "Gonna go to the bathroom. Come get me when you know where you want to fuck me," she tells him, and slips away, taking her water bottle with her.

wolfman

Come find me, she says, and then

just

walks away. Leaves him there with a half-hard dick and a spinning head. Could blame some of that on alcohol. Blames most of that on her.

--

Party's just hitting its stride. Late enough now that everyone's drunk. Bathrooms are downstairs and staircase is full of people making out, people shouting staccato conversations. Dance floor's full of bodies now. Bar's seeing a steady stream of business.

Bathrooms are too. They're fancy; all futuristic lighting and black walls, black tile floors. Toilets are black too. Mirrors are ringed in lights, tiny and white; traces her face out of darkness when she looks into it. She can see those lights reflected in her eyes.

Wolf's waiting for her when she steps out. He has a fresh drink in hand, which he takes a sip of and then passes to her. Takes her hand and they squeeze past the sexy scarecrow and the fireman talking themselves into hooking up; past the Daenerys Targaryen (one of about two dozen) chatting up the Katniss Everdeen; past the group of friends dressed up as Minions. He takes her around the side of the bar, all the way over to the short hallway that, by day, would lead to the kitchen.

Kitchen's closed, though, and door's locked. Food was brought in by caterers. No one comes this way. It's dark. They're alone. When she leans again the wall, she can feel the heavy thrum of bass.

witch

In the bathroom, Devon checks herself in those bright-ringed mirrors. She sees two girls making out in the corner, eyes closed, mouths eager, hands shaking. She can barely fathom their costumes, or remember them: she just hears soft panting, and their wet lips, and shaking fingers as their hands intertwine. Her attention shifts back to the mirror, to her own eyes, to her smudged eye makeup, her lips that have lost most of their artificial coloring. She breathes in deeply and wipes the rest of her lipstick off her mouth with a wet paper towel, and when she's finished in there, she comes out.

Rafael is waiting for her, in his torn clothes, unshaven face,

with his broad shoulders, heavy chest, carved torso, big hands, lush mouth, vivid eyes,

and a drink.

Devon licks her lips and walks over to him. She's got something black hanging from one finger at her side, maybe a purse he didn't notice before, but as he hands her the drink she hands him what she's carrying and it's not a purse. It's a bra, and it's also the lace thong she was wearing under that dress of hers not so long ago.

She sips the drink, takes his other hand, and they walk away again without saying a word to each other.

--

The kitchen is locked, but Devon takes the door handle in her hand and something changes. Something clicks, and she pushes the door open, leading him inside. It is almost pitch-dark. There's a safety light on across the room somewhere, but nothing else. Devon follows him deeper in, to some space between cabinets, some secluded corner. He turns her to the wall. She leans back against it, feeling the music, looking up at him. Drink is gone; she finished it somewhere, set it down before they ever got here. She tips her head back, her hand touching his belly, sliding up his chest. Seems for a moment that she's going to reach up, draw him down to her, kiss his mouth, but her hand changes trajectory.

Devon's fingers only graze him at first, traveling downward. But then her palm is full and warm against his cock, feeling him through his clothes. Not for long. She's watching him, watching his eyes flicker, watching that sharp green ring around his blown-out pupils. Strokes him harder, more eagerly, then steps away from the wall, opening his belt, his fly, whatever is in her way. Kisses him, if he leans down to her for it. Doesn't stop until she's got her hand down his pants, in his shorts, wrapped around his cock. Takes effort for her not to moan aloud if he's not kissing her.

If he is, she doesn't try to stifle it with anything but his mouth on hers.

Another moment, only, a heartbeat, and then she's moving to her knees, drawing him out, sighing: "Told you it makes my mouth water,"

before she licks him, wet and lush and

slow.

wolfman

He does kiss her. Kisses her while she's reaching up, thinking she'll draw him down. Kisses her again when she reaches down, touches him, starts to undo his pants. Second kiss is harder than the first, rough. They moan into it, both of them, his ragged when she takes him in hand.

"Fuck," he sighs as she sinks down. She has those torn-up jeans undone -- he isn't wearing a belt, but there's still a button, still a zipper -- and he spreads his feet so his pants don't just sag to the floor and leave him essentially naked in a public space. Even if they're in a dark hallway. He helps her with his shorts, though. Pushes them down and out of the way, gets his cock out, holds it for her like he's feeding it to her until she licks him. Wet. Lush. Slow.

He groans. He puts his forearms against the wall, leans his brow against his arms. He's leaning over her, and of course he would: of course he'd put his body between her and the world. When she puts her mouth on him again he closes his eyes, like he can't even bear to watch. A muscle flashes in his jaw as he swallows. He lowers a hand to cup her head, tenderly, while she blows him.

In a dark hallway. In a public space. At their epic Halloween party.

witch

Hot, firm, moaning kisses. Not too loud. Not too raucous, despite the heavy music filling the venue. But neither one of them is silent; neither one of them can be. Not when they're together like this, when his clothes are sliding off his skin and when her lingerie is hanging from his wrist or clutched in his hand and he knows there's just that dress, that soft, tight dress between him and her body. She can't be silent when he's hard for her; he can't be silent when she's sucking him off like this, her hands sliding up under his shirt, and she's moaning while he feeds her his cock.

Devon starts going faster. She feels his hand on her head like permission, or blessing, or protection; she responds by quickening her pace, sighing happily as his cock jumps in her mouth, as he twitches, as his breathing gets labored. His eyes are closed when she first looks up at him, opening those eyes of hers, watching him. Slowing again, but not gentling; she sucks him a little harder, until it's almost unbearable when her mouth slides off of him.

Maybe his eyes are still closed. Maybe he opens them when she stops. Maybe he sees her reach into her dress, up by her tits, and take out the little packet, and maybe he watches her tear it open. Maybe he watches her unroll the condom onto his cock, something she's never done before. Could there be a more obvious signal that she's about to fuck him?

...Sure. There could be.

Devon uses his hips for balance when she gets back to her feet, hikes up that already short skirt over her bare ass, and puts her arms around his neck. He'd better lift her, or catch her, since she's about to jump on him anyway.

wolfman

Hands are clenched into fists when she stops. Eyes are closed and mouth is open, breath is coming fast and harsh; groans under nearly every one. He makes a sound when she stops -- some wordless protest -- but then she's --

He laughs. It's barely more than a breath, but he can't help himself. "New moon?" he wants to know. "Or just being careful now?"

Sucks the next breath between his teeth as she rolls the condom on. Then she's getting up and he's helping her, taking her by the waist, taking her by the hips, lifting her up as she steps off the ground.

Wall against her back. Wolf against her body. He steps between her legs and there's something so fucking hot about that, her legs open, her eyes incandescent. He kisses her eyes-open this time, muscles in his lower back coiling as he grinds against her, rubs against her, finds her cunt and presses into her.

Eyes close again then. Growls hard into her mouth, grasping her hips tight. When that kiss comes apart he puts his mouth to her shoulder, muffles a grunt there as he starts fucking her.

witch

He would've let her blow him til he came, she thinks. The thought flickers towards practical concerns, but mostly it just warms her. Pleases her. Pleases her to see him so overcome. Turns her on. He asks about the moon. She grins. Of course he knows the moon is new. She shakes her head. "Got it off a girl in the bathroom. Don't want a mess."

She slides it onto his cock. He starts getting her up, her skirt is up, he can feel her ass in his hands, feel her warm and open when he steps into her, his pants falling further now. She wraps her legs around him, watching him. She's shrugging out of the straps of her dress to bare her breasts to him; she likes his mouth on them. She likes him looking at her the way he does. She pulls him closer when he kisses her, moaning as he rubs against her. Devon shifts her hips, reaching down to help his cock find her, help him slide into her. She cries out with a soft whimper when he pushes into her body, then grinds slowly down onto him, taking him deeper.

Kisses him then, with this helpless sound.

--

He's hot, and he's ready to go, he was barely standing while she fucked him with her mouth a moment ago, but she gasps softly for him to go slow at first. He feels her open around him, relax around him, soften as she gets used to him. Hears her when she sighs just past his ear that she loves his big cock. Hears her cry out again when he thrusts into her in answer to that. Hears her whimper when she starts to fuck him back, riding him slowly and rhythmically at first.

Feels her quicken. Feels the both of them tipping into some abyss just before she groans for him, clutching at his back. Just before he starts really giving it to her, fucking her harder against the wall. They both hear the click of the door opening, but neither of them stop. Or can stop. Both of them likely hear a soft little gasp from the door when someone realizes what's going on in here, and then the click of the door rapidly shutting again. It's a moment, a brief one, but it causes Devon to laugh, gaspingly, as he

quite frankly

fucks her brains out.

--

She's a squirming, laughing, slightly bouncing girl when she comes, crying out without remembering to muffle it, panting Rafa, Rafa -- oh, fuck, Rafa, oh fuck nonsensically, helplessly. God, she's useless for a few moments there, her head tipped back and her breasts bared and her cunt so, so tight on his cock.

wolfman

He's a little scandalized at the thought -- bumming a condom off some girl in the bathroom. He's a little amused too; because of course she would, the little mooch. His mind wanders down that path a bit. Wonders what she said. Wonders how she asked. Wonders if she just straight up told some stranger she was about to fuck her boyfriend, right here and now, and that's why she needed one.

He's a little turned on by the thought. Might as well be honest about it.

--

And a little later: not so fucking scandalized after all, it seems, to fuck her brains out in a dark little corner of their halloween party. Not so fucking scandalized that he doesn't get a wicked little gleam in his eye when she compliments his anatomy. Not so fucking scandalized to keep fucking her even when there's a click, there's a door opening and a quick slice of safety lights that rapidly flashes off again. He pants a question, was that --? and she laughs, and he has his answer but hardly seems to matter. Fuck, he mutters, but doesn't stop, and doesn't even slow.

He has her cantilevered against the wall when she starts to come. Her arms are around his neck and his hands are still holding her by the hips but there's a bit of room between, enough that they can see each other, enough that he can see her tits bounce as he bounces her on his cock, enough that he can see the look on her face while she's laughing, whimpering, coming.

There's no room at all between them when he comes. He has her wrapped up in his arms then, pressed between his chest and the wall. He has his teeth in her shoulder, because he never can seem to help himself for long.

--

She's useless afterwards. He's so fond of her, his limp-limbed, gasping, postorgasmic girlfriend. His pants are down around his knees and his shorts are at the top of his thighs and he's bare from his head to his ass. Her tits are bare, too, and pressed against his chest. He thinks lazily that he should cover her. Oh, and cover himself too.

He kisses her where he bit her. He kisses her on that little spot he found a few nights back; the one near her ear. He makes some low, rumbling, grumbling noise -- apparently for no better reason than that he has to pull out of her sooner or later, they have to put their clothes back on.

"So fucking hot," he mutters, "when you strutted out of that bathroom with your lingerie in your hand."

witch

The conversation was simple. "Hey, you got a condom?" like she'd ask someone for a light. Girl was a little older, a little taller, looked sort of giddily delighted that this hottie in the skeleton dress wanted to practice safe sex, so she laughed as she handed it over, "Sure. Go wild."

Didn't even have to pull the my boyfriend and I threw this party with the badass DJ and the epic open bar, mind giving me a rubber? thing.

Maybe less erotic than whatever Rafael imagines when she's starting to unroll it onto his body. Her hands are so fucking gentle though. She's so soft. She kisses him beneath his navel before she stands up.

And fucks him.

--

They are useless. Weak. He's still inside of her, half-hard, and their clothes are hanging off their bodies. She's panting, and she's a little sweaty, despite the room being cool. The AC has been on full blast all night, to compensate for all those bodies downstairs, all those costumes. At the moment, it may as well be to compensate for a werewolf fucking his girlfriend, his skin almost as mind-blowingly hot as her cunt.

He kisses her beneath her ear and she shivers. Shudders, really, almost unable to take it. Her arms and legs tighten around him, hold him more dearly. He makes a noise; she makes a similar one back to him. Rests her head on his shoulder.

Rafael decides to tell her what he thought was hot. She exhales a soft sound, almost a laugh. "Wanted to make it easy on you to get to me."

The opposite of their relationship, really. She hears that thought in her mind, an echo, and holds him a little tighter. Makes her say, inexplicably (but not really): "God, I love you," all in a breath, like it filled her suddenly, has to rush out of her. She lifts her head and kisses him, as if they didn't just fuck. As if it's the first time she's ever had the chance to kiss him like this. She has to take a breath when she stops, her hand on his face, drawing back so she can look at him.

"Lets go get another drink, yeah?"

wolfman

Wolf murmurs something -- too, maybe, though the music and noise around them steals much of the word. That kiss is a fierce thing, almost has him ready to go again, has him reaching for her in that way that says he's a second away from picking her up and planting her on his dick again, but --

another drink. He looks mildly scandalized again, god knows why. "Like this?" he says; meaning immediately post-fuck, one assumes. Thinks about it a beat. "Yeah, sure. Need water though."

witch

Devon squirms on him a little. He's reaching for her; she's not resisting. Her eyes are opening, luminous, and he's so shy sometimes, he's so shocked, he's hilarious. She kisses him again, quick and happy.

"Don't have another condom," she says, almost purring it, smiling through the words. "Might as well."

Bites his lip, quick but soft. "Let me down and hand me back my thong."

wolfman

Exhales a laugh. Sets her down, gentle, like she's far more breakable than she is. Sometimes forgets how tender she can be when he's fucking her, but seems like he tries to make up for it all the other times.

Hands her her thong back too, mutely. Pulls the condom off and seems at a loss; ends up stepping out of his jeans quickly, dropping his shorts altogether, pulling the jeans back on. Wraps the spent rubber up in his underwear. Wipes off with it. Starts looking for a trashcan into which to shove the whole affair.

"Gonna go wash my hands," he says, sanitary creature that he is. "Meet you at the bar?"

witch

So gentle, he is. Her legs unwind and her go-go boots touch the floor, and he's standing there nearly naked, pulling off his condom and she doesn't notice him looking around or she'd point out that they are in a kitchen, there are paper towels right over there. She is, after all, stepping gingerly leg by leg into her thong, pulling it up over her hips and straightening herself out before she tugs down her skirt.

He is undressed completely for a moment there, and she misses it. She might've fucked him again. Still doesn't know how she went all night without fucking him sooner, walking around barechested and rough and warm like he is.

He throws his underwear away in a nearby trash can when he finds it, and she is baffled, but she doesn't question it. She laughs a little. "There's a sink over here," she tells him, and takes his (filthy) hand in her own, walking with him to the giant steel industrial sinks.

While he washes, she does too. She swishes warm water around her mouth and spits. She decides to go ahead and put her bra back on, first dropping the top of her dress again, then putting it back on, twisting it around, putting the straps back in place, pulling her dress back up. They sort themselves out in the dark, pragmatic and utterly without shyness. She's never been terribly shy about physicality; hops up to go pee nearly every time he comes inside of her, wipes herself off with tissues or washcloths, threw up in front of him once, doesn't necessarily always excuse herself to go blow her nose. Once, when she was getting up mid-movie and he tried to tug her back to cuddle more, she laughed at him and said I have to shit, you asshole.

It's really just her emotions that she's shy about, wary of sharing or showing. That's where her pride is so easily wounded, her security so quickly threatened. She comes by it honestly, but perhaps even Rafael can see it getting better. He's loved her for two years now. Even though she has no scent. Even though she storms away from him as a default response to disagreement or hurt feelings. Even though she's a witch, and a weird one, and even though she abandoned him for three months and he had no fucking clue where she was or when she was coming back or if. Even though she is a mess and a mooch.

They have clean hands. She holds his with hers, going back to the door with its magically-undone lock. Doesn't check to make sure no one is in the hallway first; she just slips out with him, so they can head back to the bar, and to their party, and to his alpha who says brightly that she's been looking for him everywhere to say goodnight and to thank him for the lovely, lovely party, please don't let Morgan get into too much trouble but her slightly drunken eyes are so twinkling when she says this that even Rafael can pick up on the fact that she knows what a lost cause that is when it comes to Fianna.

Devon slips away somewhere during that exchange, off to the bar. When she comes back, Rafael's fellow Silver Fang is being gently poured into a waiting car by her husband, and Devon is carrying two water bottles. And a bottle of champagne.

wolfman

Party's -- not quite winding down, but changing in character. The bright-and-early, the daybreakers, the morning crowd is departing. The night owls stay behind. The crowds thin, the music changes; deeper, downtempo, cooler. The bar's still seeing good business, tip jars overflowing because the booze is free.

Girl comes back with a whole bottle of champagne. Two bottles of water. Wolf takes one of those and slugs down half the bottle at once. Takes the champagne, then, and her hand as well. They weave through the crowd, one after the other. No one knows who they are. No one suspects, and that's the way they like it.

Finds an alcove. By day this place is a restaurant, and a rather fancy one at that. These are booths. By night the heavy tables are wheeled away and all that remains is the seating, plush and velvet, semi-circular. Earlier every single one was full, but now anyone still here is either dancing or drinking or both.

Wolf sits. And he doesn't have a glass, but he opens the bottle anyway. Untwists the little cage, tosses it aside. Nudges the cork out with his thumb -- bang! -- and catches the spill of foam in his mouth.

Passes it over to his witch. Leans back, sinks down, lays his head against the top of the booth and ... lets out a sigh, satisfied.

witch

These people who stay: they break the dawn in a different way. They meet up at diners in the morning, they see the sunrise from the wrong side. They dance until they can't dance, sometimes they fuck, and those lucky few sometimes fall asleep for a few hours. The others stumble around downtown, or end up on rooftops or on strange trips to midnight theaters or the edges of town. These people cry and laugh at the same time. They are mad and useless and sometimes Devon is one of them.

Right now she is pulling the champagne back from Rafael with a grin, refusing to let him take the heavy, cold bottle. She carries it as they walk down from the mezzanine again, walk through the crowd. He takes them to a soft place to sit, to watch these people who are here because Devon likes parties and Rafael likes Devon and Rafael has so, so much money.

She leans into him. The bottle sits on the table and when he reaches for it, she stops his hand and whispers: wait wait wait and to his quizzical look she says:

"We have to wait til it's really past midnight. We didn't really fuck til after midnight."

He knows this. Down to the hour, he said. Their anniversary is not really Halloween, but it is certainly not the first of November, either. It's this between time, it's in limbo, in the shadow realm between two days, two realities, two lives. Of course it is.

But after midnight -- and perhaps she knows from some internal clock -- the smaller but still crowded, still lively throng of dancers still going at it hear the bang and pop if they are close enough when Rafael unleashes the champagne. Drinks the foam, gives it to

his witch,

who also drinks. They do not have glasses, and do not toast, and do not pour for one another. They share, messily and rudely, as they always have. She sits with him, her head on his shoulder, her hand laced with his hand between their thighs, passing a bottle of champagne back and forth.