cheese fries, a fight, a drinking rematch.

Devon

It's daylight still, but only for another hour or so. It's warm but cooling; will drop precipitously when the sun finally sets behind the mountains. Devon is in a park near the river, across a bridge from Rafael's condo, a few minutes away from Naomi's. She's lying on a blanket, in skinny jeans with many rips in them and a pair of blue tights beneath, and a pair of ratty old Chucks, and one of those big holey sweaters over one of those tank tops, and she's wearing giant-ass sunglasses with black rims and stars at the temples.

Her hands are on her belly.

Rafael

Out of nowhere some ratty old backpack thuds to the ground beside Devon. Seconds later, her boyfriend too: flopping onto his back beside her in a rush of air, a rustle of his customarily heavy clothes.

"Hey," he says. And reaches over to balance something on her stomach, just over her hands. It's a styrofoam takeout container. Chili-cheese fries in there.

Devon

Some fucking douchebag drops his shit on her blanket and Devon is sitting up, jerking to alertness, a scowl already on her face, her body pulling away from whatever stranger is trying to lay down beside her in a park. Her knees are drawn up like she's getting ready to run. Or kick. Whatever is needed.

"Fuck off--" is already out of her mouth, her agitation ratcheted up to 8 from where it had previously been idling at a calm 1 or 2. Her arms are already ready to shove away whatever this fucking stranger is pushing towards her, even if its just his hand, because she's lying alone on a blanket in a park.

It's Rafael, and she exhales a heavy gust of air.

"Jesus. The fuck is wrong with you."

Rafael

He huffs a laugh -- "What, you sleeping or something? I got you cheese fries." Beat. "Well, got myself cheese fries. But then I saw you."

Devon

She's scowling at him. "I was relaxing. Eat your own damn cheese fries."

Rafael

"Gladly." He takes the box back, lifting his head so he can see. Pops it open, starts eating.

Devon

Devon is staring at him, not in shock, not in bewilderment, but really just: anger. Which is probably why his box flips over, spilling cheese fries all over his chest and, quite possibly, part of his face.

Rafael

"--HEY." Couple months ago he would've just been baffled, but he's been around her long enough. Chili cheese fries are still fucking hot, and he bolts upright, swatting a gooey lump of melted cheese off his face. "The hell is your problem?"

Devon

Her brow is furrowed still, but less scowly. Could claim she meant to scoot it out of his reach and it just got away from her, but that's not true. It was a thrust of energy, fueled by frustration and anger, and she didn't really care how it ended up working. She didn't really try to control it, so it acted like a hand: snapped out, grabbed the edge of the box, flipped it hard and sudden.

Still. Hot melted cheese on his face and neck probably hurts. And whatever else she was thinking or feeling a second ago, that hits Devon like a knife in the gut.

"M'sorry," she mutters, turning away.

Rafael

"What the fuck." Flings another clod of cheese-chili-and-fries away, snaps the box closed on what remains, and gets up. Walks away. Fries go slamming into the nearest trashcan.

He's just about angry enough to storm off after that. Thinks about it. Wants to. Against his baser urges, or maybe his better judgment, he comes back. Drops down on her blanket again, still angrily brushing bits of food off himself.

Devon

So Rafael storms off. And Devon starts to move off her blanket, to get her backpack and roll the blanket up. Glances up, shades still on, when his shadow passes over again. He flops back down.

"Said I was sorry," she repeats, quietly.

Rafael

"Yeah," he says. It's short. He finishes cleaning himself up -- sort of -- and then he's just sitting there, frowning at the river.

Turns to her abruptly. "You can't use your powers against me. Just like I can't use mine against you. Bullied you a couple times when we first met and you called me on it. Calling you on this shit now. It's fucked up, Devon."

Devon

That abrupt turn makes her startle. And by the time he gets to telling her that it's fucked up, she's crying. Quietly, in case he has more he wants to say, she doesn't want him thinking she's crying to make him back off. But she also can't help but start crying.

Rafael

Course he feels bad that she's crying. Grimaces, turning away. No one's noticed yet. No good fucking samaritans asking excuse me miss is this guy bothering you. Chivalry's dead when werewolves are involved.

After a while he adds, lower -- "Don't want you to cry. Just had to draw that line. It's important."

Devon

Well, chivalry's dead too when it looks like a couple is just having an argument. Not like he's raising a hand to her. Or even his voice. He's frowning; she's crying so quietly it's barely noticable. Park's mostly empty, anyway; getting cooler every minute.

Devon sniffs, and just nods. "Wasn't arguing," she mumbles, softly.

Rafael

"Didn't think you were," he mutters. "Just telling you why I'm being such a hardass about it."

Devon

"Don't think you're being a hardass."

Rafael

He has nothing to say to that. Just sit there, stiff and silent, smelling like cheese fries.

After a while he sighs. Looks over at her.

"Was glad to see you," he says quietly. "'s why I came over. Didn't mean to scare you."

Devon

Her hand lifts up, wrapped in the end of her overlong sleeve, wiping away some of her tears from her cheek. Smudging her eyeliner; not that he can see that, yet. Not that it isn't smudged half the time he sees her. She's not looking at him anyway; she's kneeling on the edge of the blanket she started to roll up, and she's staring at her knees, ass on her heels. Her throat moves as she swallows. She sniffs again.

"Just say hi next time," she says quietly, half-muttered. "Could've been anyone."

But she stops there, and takes a little breath, and starts crying all over again just when she'd seemed like she was starting to calm down.

"M'really sorry," she says again, this time almost sobbing it.

Rafael

"Hey," the intonation's different this time. He moves over to her, knees rucking the blanket. "Hey. C'mere." And puts his arms around her, pulling her tight against his chest.

Devon

For some reason, Devon resists, curling in on herself a bit, pulling away.

Rafael

So he stops trying. Lets his arm fall from around her, settles back in his own space. Tries, very hard, not to be frustrated with her.

Devon

She takes a breath, hitching of course, and then starts getting to her feet, reaching for her backpack. "I'm gonna go," she mumbles.

Rafael

He stays put. Asks, though: "Where?"

Devon

He stays on her blanket. So that is staying here. She shrugs her backpack onto one shoulder. "Naomi's," she mutters.

Rafael

Wolf frowns a little; exhales something like a sigh. Then he does, in fact, get off her blanket. Balls it up and hands it to her.

"Should come over later," he says.

Devon

Takes it, not to stuff it in her backpack but just holding onto the big woven lump for now. It has grass on it -- mostly dry, still winter-brown. A few bits of green.

Devon doesn't really say anything to that at first. Doesn't want to tell him the truth, which is probably not, because he'll just get mad. Says: "Maybe," instead, quietly.

Rafael

Which sounds like a no, anyway. Wolf moves his shoulders a little; doesn't mean anything.

"All right. See ya."

Devon

"Bye," she says, ducking her head and stepping past him, walking towards the path that leads south, away from the bridge.

Devon

It's not much later, not terribly, but it's fallen dark. She doesn't have her sunglasses on anymore. Eyeliner smudged, with faint hints of where tear-tracks might go. Blanket is stuffed into her backpack, sticking out of the top, grass-stuck and unfolded, bunched up.

Knocks on his front door.

Rafael

Truth is he thinks maybe it's Morgan. Maybe Avery with another giftbasket. Maybe his maid with the dry-cleaning, because those damnable charity events still keep happening. Never thinks for a moment it's the girl til he pulls the door open and there she is, rather woebegone on his doorstep.

He stares for a second. Then steps aside to let her in, shutting the door behind her.

Devon

He doesn't invite her in, but he steps aside, which -- for Rafael -- is the same thing. So Devon steps over the threshold and off to the side, arms crossed over her chest tight and self-protective, turning to look at him as he shuts the door.

"I'm sorry," she says, less... choked by tears, openly miserable, shrinking. There's a firmity to her voice, a solidity that wasn't there before. Takes a breath. "You were right about... what you said. Even if this time it was just hot cheese."

Devon is awkward. Maybe he gets that. Pride. Apologies. How hard they can be. How hard it can be, for people like them.

Swallows, which takes effort. Her throat keeps getting dried out. "Which is why I felt so bad." Sniffs. Blinks a few times, to hold off a new surge of tears. "Cuz I hurt you. And then I felt like a monster and a freak. Because it was so fucked up." The tear-fighting is not... working so great.

Rafael

First thing out of her mouth is how sorry she is. Wolf's face changes; from a sort of guarded uncertainty to something closer to ache. He takes a breath, locking the front door while she speaks. Turns to her after.

"It's fine," he says gruffly. "Forgave you a long time ago. Didn't really hurt me. Just ... just had to make sure we never do shit like that to each other. Because we're only going to get stronger, both of us."

Devon

"I know," she says, closing her eyes, looking physically sore, like she has a headache. Like she's weakened. "Can you... stop hammering on it? Because I know. I get it. I got it at the park. That's why I didn't even want you to hug me."

Rafael

At that, he too wraps his arms around himself, folds them tight over his chest.

"Not hammering it in," he says quietly. "Trying to make it better. Trying to tell you I'm not mad at you or ... hurt or betrayed or afraid or whatever. Don't think you're a monster or a freak."

Devon

So there they both stand, just inside the threshhold, arms crossed, eyes either guarded or cast down. Devon sniffs, blinking a few times because she's still upset. Sad. Angry at herself. Worn out.

"All right," she says, after a few seconds. All she's got.

Rafael

Couple more seconds go by.

Then he closes in, reaches out. Doesn't take her hand or grab her arm or -- anything. Just the pads of his fingers, then his palm, pressing briefly to the outside of her arm. A moment of contact.

He passes her, then. Goes to the kitchen where, if she turns to look, she can see him going through the cupboards. Takes down a glass, just a plain glass you might drink OJ or milk from. Fills it with clear liquid, slightly viscous.

Comes back to her, if she hasn't followed him by then. Hands her the glass mutely.

Devon

Well, last time he tried to hug her she pulled away. And it was only because she hated herself too much to let him comfort her right then, but it's possible he doesn't know that. Doesn't realize it. Either way, she doesn't blame him for being careful now, touching her that lightly. Probably why she reacts as soon as she does, unfolding one arm, catching his hand as he starts to pull away.

Looks up at him, her smaller hand wrapping around his fingers. Sliding around, folding fingers together, interweaving. Holds his hand as they both walk, together, to the kitchen.

"What's that?" she asks, of the glass. Whatever he's pouring into it.

Rafael

He turns back almost immediately as his hand is caught. Perhaps their eyes meet; perhaps not. Either way he looks at her a moment, her smudged makeup and that light dusting of freckles, more visible every time she spends a while in the sunlight. Neither of them say anything about it, but her hand intertwines with his. His squeezes hers, once.

They go into the kitchen, where he takes down not one but two glasses, and that bottle. The writing isn't English. It's not Russian either. Or Portuguese, but he's not too sure about that. She wants to know what it is, and he hesitates, then breathes a laugh.

"Strong alcohol. Don't know what kind. Someone gave it to me. Maybe you can read it." He sets the bottle down, turns it so she can see the label. There's a little more in the glass he hands her, a little less in his own. At least he's realistic about his limits.

"Not just someone," he adds after a moment. "A new packmate. Was gonna tell you about it earlier today at the park, before things went to shit."

Devon

The smell hits her a second after he starts pouring, after she starts asking. He's huffing a laugh and saying strong alcho--

"That's tequila," she says. Lifts her free hand and points to the 'blanca'. Looks up at him. "Do you have any limes?"

She catches up to the non-alcohol portion of the conversation, not pointing out to him that maybe they might want to have less than the three ounces or so each he poured, because shit.

Her brow furrows, and not just in a flinch at the things went to shit part of the sentence. "Packmate?"

Rafael

Corner of his mouth turns up almost in spite of himself. Of course she'd know from the smell alone.

"Maybe." He leaves the glasses where they are, goes to pull open that huge stainless-steel fridge of his. Roots around in the fresh drawers, setting a bag of spinach on the floor, then some bananas. "Yeah."

Produce goes back into the fridge. He rises, a small dark lime in hand. Finds a fruit knife in the cutlery drawer and slices it into eighths, lengthwise.

"Yeah," again, to the second question. "I joined a pack. Well. We made a pack, me and two others. I'm not the Alpha." Says that with something almost like trepidation, eyes flicking toward her to take in her response.

Devon

Devon slides her backpack off her shoulder as he moves to the fridge, dropping it to the floor and kicking it slightly to the side. Doesn't know why she didn't just bring the satchel. It's so nice. She's afraid to use it half the time.

It is, technically, inside the backpack at the moment, which is pretty backwards when you think about it.

She gets out a knife, and a small cutting board, not knowing that the whole reason he got the tequila was to use them with the shot glasses made of salt. She takes the lime from him and starts slicing before he gets to it, because there is liquor to be had, and she's a Fianna, so.

"Who are the others?" she asks, apparently not caring what an Alpha is, even though she can intuit it pretty easily. From what it's called. Duh.

Rafael

She doesn't seem to mind. He isn't sure why he ever thought she might. She's not like that; isn't with him because of his money, or his more-or-less nonexistent prestige. She's not like that.

He's still relieved. Set of his shoulders relaxes a little; not just because she doesn't care but also because they've moved away from the painful afternoon.

"Just two others for now. A Silver Fang female -- my elder, the Philodox. And a Fianna girl, full moon like me."

Devon

Truth be told, more often than not its his gradual settling-in to his money and prestige that bothers her. The tuxes. The parties. She doesn't mind it. It's just --

it doesn't always seem like him. And that's when it unsettles her.

She looks over at him. Eyes perk. "Fianna?" A beat. "Grab the salt."

Rafael

"Yeah. Redhaired and all." Obediently, he goes to find the salt; comes back with a rather fancy grinder of sea salt. Sets that down. "The Fang's mated to a Fianna too."

Devon

A roll of her eyes, at the mention of red hair. She's not red-haired.

"Good taste," she says, though, of the Fang mating with the Fianna. Smirks a little; she's still uneasy, still not feeling great about earlier, but she's getting there.

Turns to him, handing him one of the glasses. "Hold out your other hand," she adds, and puts a bit of salt on the soft space between his thumb and index finger. She is assuming, from his ignorance about what he was even going to be drinking, that he doesn't know how to do a shot of tequila. Looks up at him. "Lick that, then take a shot -- don't try to drink the whole glass, that's like three shots. Then you grab a lime wedge and bite into it. And we'll toast."

Rafael

Another huff of a laugh. "Yeah."

So asked, he gives her his paw. She salts it. He smirks. She'd be wrong about that: he does know how. Or at least he's seen it done --

"Just like in the movies, huh? Was just gonna drink it with you."

Devon

"If it's good enough, you just sip it like whiskey," she says. "Don't know what this tastes like, though."

She's still holding his hand, the one she just salted. "Don't smirk at me, you don't know how to drink anything."

Rafael

"Can knock back a beer pretty good," he counters. And that hand of his folds around hers -- if only with half his palm and three fingers. On account of the salt.

"Okay. I'm ready. Let's do shots."

Devon

Her eyebrows go up. "Oh, a beer," she says, in mock awe of his drinking prowess. She grins, teeth on her lower lip, tugging her hand back. "Stop, I have to get mine."

Salts her own hand. Picks up her glass. "Good?" Devon asks, checking with him. He's good. She taps her glass to his, licks her hand, thunks the glass lightly on the countertop, and tosses a mouthful of it back. Grabs a lime, bites down, and --

no wince. She puts the lime down. Looks at him.

"All right," she says, pushing the block of sliced limes aside. "Nevermind. That's really good."

Rafael

He mimics her. A half-beat behind. Taps the glass and thunks the countertop and licks and gulps and bites a lime, wincing, puts it aside.

"Liked it better without all that," he says. "Fun though. Again?"

Devon

"Of course not. This," she says, lifting the remainder of what's in her glass, "is for sipping."

Rafael

He taps his glass against hers, spontaneous. And, despite that, decides to gulp the rest of his.

Puts the glass down. Daring wolf: pours himself another two fingers' worth.

"Shit goes right to my head," he mutters.

Devon

Devon's eyes widen a little bit as he drinks the rest in one gulp. "You're going to get smashed," she proclaims, her voice level.

He pours more. She stares at him. "Are you celebrating or drowning."

Rafael

"I'm sipping," and he smirks.

And sips. Pointedly. Raising his eyebrows at her.

Devon

Oh.

Oh.

Devon raises eyebrows high. Keeps her gaze on him. Only breaks it for a moment:

when she knocks back the rest of what's in her glass. Returns her eyes to his, level and unwary, when she puts her glass back down. Nudges it toward him to refill.

"Been itching for a rematch, babe?"

Rafael

Obligingly, he picks up the bottle, uncorks it and pours.

"I get anything for winning?"

Devon

She vaguely remembers this. They were barely 'together' then. She also remembers throwing up afterwards because he scared the shit out of her, but she doesn't really think about that right now. Quirks a brow.

"Bragging rights," she replies, deadpan.

And sips.

Rafael

"How about you throw in a kiss." He deadpans right back. "Sweeten the pot a little."

And yes: sips.

Devon

"You get a kiss if you lose," she tells him, "because I feel bad for you."

SIPS.

Devon

Devon pauses, laughs at herself. "I'm sorry: I mean when you lose." And sips again.

Rafael

"Damn, Paredes," he smirks, "talking all the trash there."

And down the hatch. So much for sipping. Sets the glass down with a decided click.

Devon

"Only because I know not to waste good tequila," she throws back, taking another sip.

Rafael

"Well, how the hell we are gonna rematch, then? If you're over there sipping."

Devon

"Babe," she says flatly, "we both know you'll be on the floor in a few minutes." Sips.

"Actually," Devon goes on, reaching for his hand. "Let's go sit down. Don't want you getting a concussion."

Rafael

Wolf snorts. Doesn't argue, though. His big hand slips easily into hers. He leaves his glass where it is; takes the bottle, though.

Pauses, as she's heading for the couches. Tugs her to a gentle stop. Looking at her seriously now.

"Let's just go upstairs," he says.

Devon

She's grinning a little when he tugs her to a stop. Turns, almost but not quite twirling, back toward him, carefully holding her glass so it doesn't spill.

Laughs, giggling, but stops when she looks up at him. Bright eyes. Bites her lip against her grin for a second.

"Know you don't have to beat me in a drinking game to fuck me, yeah?" she murmurs. "That's just dumb."

Rafael

Always hits him somewhere low and deep when she says those words: fuck me. Even now she can see it flickering in his eyes, an errant flame. He doesn't have eyes quite so remarkable as hers, that electric hue. His are just green, just animal. Just hungry.

"Know that," he says, smiling. "Would've never gotten to fuck you if I did." Tugs her closer. Puts his hand on her cheek; his brow to hers. Breathes in. Sighs out.

"Like you a lot," he says.

Devon

At least -- at last -- he admits his inevitable defeat at her hands. He never, ever would have gotten to fuck her if he had to beat her at a drinking contest in order to do so.

A year ago, and not even a year ago, they wouldn't have joked like this. Too close to him thinking she was a whore, or hoping she was, or simply not knowing how to get her into his bed if she wasn't. Too close to her wariness that he might think she was only with him for his money, his free room and board, buying her thousand-dollar antique silver hand mirrors. They both know, though. They're less instantly defensive, which is saying something: they are both of them wary, furtive creatures when it comes to their hearts.

Still, she whispers: "Good," when he says he knows it. "Don't... want it to be a prize. Even kisses."

Still: because there's a layer to the joke that she doesn't like. Asking for kisses if he beats her. The idea of exchange, at all, anywhere near this, like something dropped into the water supply.

Rafael

Something in his face, his regard, softens a touch. He puts his hand on her cheek after all. Strokes in that heavy-handed way, incapable of subtlety.

"Know that too," he says quietly. "Was a dumb joke, shouldn't have said it."

Devon

Devon gives a little nod. Yup, dumb. But also just... he knows. She knows he knows. She closes her eyes, leaning into the touch. Sips her tequila blindly, while he's touching her cheek. Opens her eyes after that sip, finding his. "C'mere," she tells him.

Rafael

Of course she drinks her tequila. Of course she takes that moment, while she's still got a moment, to drink her booze. Girl's Fianna. What'd he expect?

Her eyes open again. Unbelievable blue, especially framed by that sooty makeup. He goes to her: hand still on her cheek, he kisses her, gentle and slow and thorough.

Devon

They both taste like tequila. A little bit like lime, still. And she likes how tasting of a kiss it is, searching and inviting at once. She likes that she didn't have to tell him to kiss her when she told him to come here. She likes that after a few seconds, she is putting her arm around his neck, his big strong shoulders, tipping her body up and against his chest. Likes it when he wraps his free arm around her waist, holding her there, the bottle of tequila pressing against her hip. She even likes it when her glass slips from her fingers, and crashes to the floor, cracking but not quite shattering, tequila splashing on both of their legs.

Likes noticing, when that glass smashing to the floor awakens her a little, that she's panting.

Pauses kissing him then, looking at him. Doesn't say anything.

Nor does he.

He takes her upstairs.

And she likes that, too.