biscuits. gravy. a fight.

Devon

The witch is gone when he wakes up. Slipped from bed sometime in the morning. Maybe he wakes sometime after, and she's not there. Maybe he wakes up when she's coming back into the hotel room. Maybe he wakes when she opens the curtains, letting in sunlight, and sees the tray she brought up from the continental breakfast: sausages and scrambled eggs, toast, jam, a big belgian waffle with a ramekin of syrup. Two coffees. Some cereal and milk. Fruit. Bacon. She loaded up.

She washed up, too: her hair is already in two french braids, her eyeliner already applied, already dressed in jeans and tank top and brightly-colored bra beneath that. "C'mon," she says, seeing he's awake. "Eat," and she's already got a toast triangle in her mouth. "We gotta get on the road."

Rafael

Wolf's fast asleep when she leaves. Stirs when she comes in, though, reacting to a presence in his den -- however temporary the den; however familiar the presence.

Curtains whisking open opens his eyes too. He squints around. Lifts his head, hair all cowlicks. He smells food, rich and meaty. Some other stuff too but mostly he smells the meat.

"You're up early," he mumbles. Yawns. Stretches under the covers, opening that impressive wingspan. Falls relaxed afterward, eyes shut again.

"They got biscuits and gravy?"

Devon

"Just got lucky," she says, of waking early. He mentions biscuits and gravy and she looks over her shoulder at him. Huffs a slightly incredulous laugh. "You're welcome," she says, with a hint of a snap.

Rafael

Hint of a snap: that's what makes him sit up, covers tumbling off his chest. He rubs his face. Looks at her.

"Wasn't complaining," he says. It's an olive branch. He tosses the blankets back, gets up: bareassed in the morning sunshine. Comes over to where she is and picks up a sausage, eats it. "Just wanted some biscuits and gravy. Maybe we'll stop and get some somewhere." Arm goes around her shoulders, if she lets him; he kisses her hair.

"Gonna go get dressed."

Devon

Devon doesn't even answer him. He offers an olive branch, but it isn't any better interpreted than the last thing he says. He goes over to the table where she put the tray, eats some sausage, explains himself, and says maybe they'll stop. He reaches to put his arm around her but she's irritated now, frowns, shrugs him off.

He goes to get dressed; she sits down with her coffee and pours milk in her cereal, eats an apple.

Rafael

Now he's irritated too. Shrugged off, he doesn't try again. Words come out a mutter. He goes get dressed, and she can hear him whipping the wrinkles out of his jeans, stepping into them. Scrubbing at his teeth and splashing water everywhere as he washes his face, his hands.

Comes back, eating off the trays she brought up. They're silent a while. Then he speaks up again:

"I really wasn't complaining. Was just asking. Wasn't a demand."

Devon

She's eating. He comes back, sits across from her, and they eat in silence. Coffee is bland but hot. Food is... frozen and warmed up. Eggs are fresh, at least. Waffle isn't bad, even though the syrup is mostly corn, caramel color, and a processed drop or two of maple flavoring.

Looks over at him, dry but silent for a moment, thinking rather than just biting his head off. But she's frustrated. Worse: she knows that what's frustrating her is the last thing he wants to hear.

"Didn't sound like a complaint," she says, a touch flat but mostly careful. Doesn't want to get blown up at. Doesn't want to fight. Wants him to understand. Always just wants him to understand, but he hates all the talking. Thinks he understands her, connects with her, in silence and touch.

She tries anyway. Even if he might blow up at her. She's frowning, her brows tight together, more furrow than wince. "Just... you could've looked at the tray and seen there weren't biscuits and gravy. Could've just said thank you. Still haven't said thank you," she tells him, her furrow deepening for a moment. "Didn't have to get us breakfast. Just thought I'd save time, so we didn't have to stop on the road. But soon as you see there isn't what you want, you plan a stop, because what I got you wasn't good enough.

"Didn't sound like you were complaining," she repeats, exhaling. "Sounded ungrateful. A little lordly. And it pissed me off. Especially since I hadn't had coffee."

Rafael

Somewhere in the middle of that he stops chewing. His jaw gets tight. He stares at the tray, if only so he doesn't glare at her.

"Aren't you blowing this out of proportion?" he says at last, low and tight. "I just asked if there was biscuits. Said maybe we can stop for some. You're acting like I demanded caviar and threw a fit when there was none. It's like you want to fight."

He thinks a beat.

"No, it's like you want to draw battle lines over me being a goddamn Silver Fang."

Devon

He gets pissed. She gets her head bitten off. Devon puts up her hands, palms out, scooting her chair back and rising up. "All right," she says, and it sounds like she's talking to herself as much or more than him.

Walks out, grabbing her satchel -- his satchel -- on the way.

Rafael

He stays where he is, staring at food. It's an improvement. Was a time he'd run after her, shout, slam things.

She walks out. After a while, he eats. Makes his way through broad swaths of breakfast; washes it down with bland-but-hot coffee. Eventually he's done. Eventually he goes looking for her.

Devon

Devon's downstairs in the lobby, sitting in an armchair with her feet up on a coffee table. She's got her satchel, which holds everything she had upstairs anyway. And their helmets. So she hasn't hitched a ride back to Denver.

Rafael

He has a shirt on by then. Sees her when he comes out of the stairwell, but doesn't head over. Goes to the dining area instead. Gets a plate. Fills it with waffles and fruit, some eggs.

Gets a cup of orange juice. Gets some hot tea -- boiling water poured over a Lipton's bag.

This is what he carries over to her. Sets down on the coffee table next to her, wordlessly. It's another peace offering. He himself sits in the armchair next to hers. Pulls his phone out and pretends to be looking at a map.

Devon

More waffles, more fruit. She watches him, wondering why the fruit she got for both of them or the waffle she got for them to share wasn't fucking enough somehow, watches him as he comes over. And sets it down without a word, and then gets out his phone.

It's unclear if she can even tell that he means it as a peace offering. Unclear until she is staring at him, while he's staring at his phone. And then, since he's not eating, she figures he means it as a peace offering. And it feels to her, right then, like manipulation. Passive aggression. She already ate. She doesn't want more. Food is not the way to make peace with her right now. But if she refuses it,

she's ungrateful then too, isn't she?

He doesn't talk to her.

She isn't hungry.

Devon doesn't reach for food. And she doesn't say anythign to him, either.

Devon

[*anything!]

Rafael

So food just sits there.

Girl just sits there.

Wolf just sits there too.

People pass them by. Families on spring break, heading for warmer climes. Midwesterners off to visit the west coast. West Coasters cartripping to NYC. And the two of them, young and attractive and so clearly in the middle of a fight.

Eventually he puts his phone in his pocket. Exhales, sort of a sigh. Talks low without quite looking over at her:

"Still don't think what I did was such a big deal. Sorry I didn't say thanks for breakfast. But I didn't mean what you got me wasn't good enough." Couple beats pause. And then -- almost pleadingly this time, "Just asked you if there were biscuits, Devon. Honestly don't know why it's such a big fucking deal."

Devon

They both stare ahead. He on his phone, at least at first. She at nothing. At people. At a wall. A shitty hotel lobby painting.

"Didn't make it a big deal," she says tightly. "Got upset. Tried telling you why it set me off. And you started telling me all about myself." Looks over at him. She's not made of stone. Something harder, it seems sometimes. Something that is sometimes brittle, all the same. "All you had to do was say thank you," she says, frowning. "Got up early, trying to save us time so we could actually get to the coast and back before I have to work again. Was nice, getting you breakfast. Making you a waffle. Thought you'd think it was nice. Thought you'd take half a moment to notice I did something for you before you took it for granted and started looking for what else you wanted."

Her frown deepens to a scowl. "You don't ever seem to get that I can't fucking read your mind. You keep expecting me to. Like if you hug me or look at me, I'll know what you want me to know. I'll know how you feel. Nine times out of ten, Rafa, all I've got to go on is what comes out of your mouth. And that isn't much. And sometimes what does come out? Hurts my fucking feelings. Forgive me for putting a lot of weight on the ten words you say to me some days."

Rafael

He just listens. He doesn't even look at her half the time. Fuck, but it can be frustrating dealing with him. Wolf practically acts autistic sometimes. It's not that, though. It's something primitive, instinctive: he doesn't meet her eyes right now because that would be a challenge. That would make things worse.

That's how he feels. Makes no sense but that's how his blood runs.

When she's done he's quiet a good long time. Then he looks at her at last.

"Thought it was nice," he says, quiet. "Did think that. Should've told you." He shrugs a little, those heavy shoulders rolling under his shirt -- boulders under the waves. "See that now."

Devon

"You should've," she echoes, firmly, but as angry as she sort of sounds, what comes across most clearly, most cleanly, is the hurt. She was trying to be so nice. Vulnerable for her, to serve him. To bring him breakfast. To be cute like that. And to hope for one thing, get something else entirely.

She looks over at him.

"M'sorry I sometimes see the worst in what you don't say, or don't do." Takes a breath, sighs it out. "Just not used to there being much good to see, in absences and silences." She huffs. "Usually means someone's getting ready to hurt me. Or leave."

Rafael

And there it is again. That old scar caused by her father; old but so deep it still bleeds. Wolf's silent again. It goes on a while. Then he says, a weight behind the words:

"I'm not leaving you. I don't ever think about leaving you."

He holds his hand out for hers. It's a little hesitant.

"Thanks for getting breakfast, though."

Devon

Her father was just the first wolf.

There were also the ones who stared at her, whose heavy, rage-filled silences and long gazes were not communicating desire, were not translated as longing or closeness. They meant run. They meant go, and now, before she did or said or simply was something that might set them off.

But yes: beneath that, and beneath everything, is Devon's own rage. Devon's oldest hurt. Devon's hatred. One thing that she blames so many other things on: a scaffold for a dozen other wounds.

She is watching a three year old boy getting hoisted up against his father's side, a father who is looking over his shoulder at mom, his free hand dragging a roll-along suitcase. They are flying out to a family reunion in New Mexico for Spring Break. Great Aunt Ellen still has not met the little boy, who is still working on his jam-and-banana toast sandwich from breakfast. It's cold now, disgusting, sticky, all over his face, but it's better than him wailing that he's hungry while on the plane. The family is in a hurry to get loaded into the airport shuttle. Mom is pregnant. She doesn't know it yet.

Devon blinks slowly, and turns to look at Rafael, sees his hand. She takes it. It isn't unthinking, but it is unhesitating. She holds it lightly, gently. She can't really handle anything tight or too close right now, which is ironic, since they're about to be crammed together on a bike for another few hundred miles.

"All right," she whispers, and then sighs.

"You ready to go?"

Rafael

It's a start.

It's enough, for now.

He gives her fingers a little squeeze, very light. "Yeah," he says. Their hands part. He picks up the plate, eats some of the eggs since she doesn't want it. The fruit and waffles will go to waste.

"Gonna check out. Meet you outside."

Devon

"All right," she says again, and the fight is over. Not one of their more epic throw-downs. But important, nonetheless. Maybe he wonders when she'll fucking get over this shit about her dad, maybe not: she doesn't even talk about him, acknowledge him. And it's been over a year, so clearly... it'll take longer than a year.

She eats some of the waffle, since neither of them did upstairs. She drinks some orange juice. Some more fruit. Why not. She does it because sometimes the ritual matters more. Right now, the ritual matters more.

They check out, and when he comes out to the bike she's got their jackets and gloves and helmets out of the bag. She's leaning against the bike, waiting for him. When he gets on, and she follows --

when he revs the engine and checks the gas gauge to know when they need to pull over --

when she settles onto the seat,

she wraps her arms around his waist. Not always, but sometimes, and this is one of those times, she can communicate just by the way she touches him. This thing she does now, wrapping herself around him, trusting him to keep her safe, holding onto him while they travel,

means she loves him.