westward.

Rafael

Wolf likes muffins. So he goes to Hooked on Colfax and hopes girl'll give him one but girl's not there because she swapped schedules with someone, or maybe he just doesn't know her schedule as well as he thinks. He buys a couple muffins anyway, golden-brown and just a tiny bit crunchy on top, soft and moist inside.

Eating it when he wanders in that witchy little shop not too far from Hooked. One of the first places he met her in, and it's where he finds her again, browsing the crystals and the rocks, or perhaps bartering for herbs. Well. Not bartering; buying. Seems like something one should barter, though.

He still has the second muffin in the thin waxed-paper bag. And, finding girl, he calls out to her this time: "Hey." Then hands her the bag, sharing those prized muffins of his.

Devon

Asked what he liked by her mother, trying to get to know someone who is difficult to know at best, Rafael blurted out:

muffins.

No wonder he was so secretly delighted by the one that Devon brought to him that first time. They were broken up, or fighting, or just... strange together, as they sometimes are. Have been. (Are.) She didn't even know, but it was acceptance. It was a gift. It was love, and it made him happy, and it turns out that her shop sells pretty good muffins.

Just across one of the side streets off of Colfax, there is Spirit Ways: purple, crescent moons, the like. It's well lit inside, and the windows are all hung with crystals and windchimes and so forth. There are round tables with stones and pottery, there is a bookshelf in back with a small selection of tarot and oracle cards. There are little alcoves created by shelves or dressing-screens where, if you listen, you can overhear people giving readings: tarot, palm, tea leaves. Their selection of herbs here is thin, but it is a quiet, mellow place. There's a little sitting area with a couch and a table and on that table is a giant platter with a mountain of wax: an altar where candle after candle after candle has been added and burnt down, replaced with another and another and another.

Devon is in there, looking through a book, sitting on that low, saggy couch next to the coffee table altar. She looks up when the bell rings, so she sees him. She smiles at him. He's carrying a muffin, she'll bet her life on i-- yup.

"Hey," she says back, scooting over a little so he'll sit with her. "Coming in for some crystals?" she asks him, somewhat teasing.

Rafael

Wolf sits with her. Drops himself down, all lazy size and heavy bones, the couch sighing out a huff of displaced air as he does. Side of his knee rests comfortably against hers.

"Thought I might find you here," he says. Takes a second muffin out of the bag and starts eating it. "What are you reading?"

Devon

He flops; Devon bounces a little as the cushions displace, then scoots closer to him again. She shows him the book: it's a slim paperback, black and white, with intricate etching-style drawings. It say it is The Herbal Grimoire.

"This," she says, obviously. "It's a local artist and herbalist, so I wanted to check it out."

She eyes the muffin he's eating. "Did you go to Hooked looking for me?"

Rafael

"No," wolf deadpans, "just went there to get muffins. You gonna eat yours? 'Cause I will."

Devon

Devon is savvy. So it may be intentional naïveté on her part when she appears to take him at his word: why wouldn't he go to Hooked for muffins? He likes muffins. Her mum told her, staying up late and talking the night before she left, how awkward Rafael had been, how he'd answered her questions about what he likes. They'd laughed. Muffins.

"You can have it," she says fondly, turning towards him, tucking up on the couch a bit, knees against his leg. She props her elbow on the couch back, hand in her hair, watching him eat his snack. She's wearing a black tank top with a giant skull made of flowers on the front. Her leggings are black fake-leather with a wide diagonal stripe wrapping around each thigh of sheer material. There is also a giant, shabby hoodie balled up next to her on the couch, and her sneakers are the falling-apart Converse he's seen her in for the past year or more. Her hair is loose, and a little wild, and probably tangled.

Maybe he eats. Maybe she picks up her book again, flipping through it and not minding, it seems, if he puts his arm around her.

Rafael

"Got it for you," he says, low and matter of fact, while he pulls his muffin apart and eats it. After a moment -- "We'll split it."

Likes muffins, okay.

"Didn't use to like muffins," he adds after a while. "Thought they were wimpy cupcakes."

Devon

"It's okay," she assures him, regarding the muffin that he got for her. She rubs his shoulder idly with one hand. "Just don't feel like a muffin right now."

What he says makes her smile. Purse-lipped, trying not to. That sort of smile. "They're basically cake with no frosting."

Rafael

"You think?" His brow furrows; it is a serious discussion. "Think they're not as sweet as cakes."

Devon

"Barely," she says. "Still basically a cake."

Devon leans over, pressing her forehead to his temple. Her hand comes to rest on his chest, in between his pectoral muscles. She scritches him there idly, affectionately, curled up next to him and against him.

"Glad to see you," she mutters, because it's sort of a secret. But because it's also true.

Rafael

"Cakes aren't crunchy on top though. And I like the crunch. It's the best part."

She cuddles closer. He does, at this point, drop his arm around her. She tells him a little secret, which maybe isn't a secret at all because he already knew. Still makes him smile though, wry and half-restrained.

"Yeah? Too."

Devon

Devon, brow to his temple, his heavy arm snaking around her, makes a face that says weirdo but is hard to see, and therefore what it says is difficult to hear.

"Crunchy? Muffin tops aren't crunchy."

Rafael

"They are a little bit," wolf points out. "If they put crystal sugar on it, and also bake it just right. These are a bit crunchy. If you'd eaten one you'd know." He pops the last of the second on in his mouth on that note. "Too bad you didn't."

Devon

"That's not crunchy, though," she argues. "Carrots are crunchy. And I still don't feel like a muffin right now."

Her hand flattens over his chest, smooths out. Now it's almost a caress, though her public display of affection remains demure. "You like it. I like that you like it."

Rafael

He laughs -- it's mostly felt, not heard. "Yeah? It's almost like you like me or something. Want me to be happy."

Devon

Devon snorts.

Rafael

Wolf laughs. Leans over, kisses her, quick and sudden.

"You do like me," he says. "I know it."

Devon

Now it's disgusting. Now they're cute. Now she's not just resting her brow on his temple and gently touching his chest. Now he's not just holding her in one arm, trying to get her to eat some of this muffin that he got for her, after all. Now he's turning to her, tipping her head back to kiss her. Now she's wrinkling her nose and pretending to pull away from him. Now they're one of those obnoxious couples being cute in public.

"Come on," Devon says, getting to her feet with her book and picking up her hoodie. Beneath the hoodie is the satchel he gave her, the worn-in but still tidy lines of the leather bag no hint at all as to its real nature. She picks that up, too. "Let's get out of here."

Rafael

He spies the satchel. "You're using it," he says. Sounds pleased. Gets up after her, dusting some crumbs off his shirt.

"Rode my motorcycle," he adds. It's an advance warning.

Devon

Devon huffs a laugh, grinning but staying quiet, looking down as she slings the bag over her shoulders, over her head, wearing it cross-body style. She doesn't bother putting on that giant hoodie; it's sunny out, warm. She does reach into the bag, digging around for a second before she comes up with two items: her wallet, and a pair of sunglasses that she puts on but perches on top of her head.

"I like it," she says, of the bag. She heads for the counter, glancing past her shoulder at him with a small shrug. "All right." Gets to the counter, puts that self-published herbal book (which is barely a step above a zine) and takes out her wallet, paying with assorted crumpled cash from tips.

Rafael

"Good," he says, simply.

Girl pulls out wadded cash. Wolf knows the look of tips; follows her to the counter. Mutters, low enough that he thinks the girl behind the counter can't hear him -- "Want me to get that for you?"

Devon

"Nope," she says, somewhere between prim and chirpy. Hands over her cash and gets her change and dumps everything into her bag.

Her magic bag. Its mouth is too narrow to accept the Herbal Grimoire; she'll put it in there as they walk outside. It will not get bent and curled. The bag is too small and its sides too stiff to accept the giant wadded-up hoodie she's not wearing, but she'll put it in there before they get on his motorcycle. The sides will not bulge.

But as she shifts everything to one arm, putting away her wallet and flicking her shades down from her forehead, she reaches for Rafael and takes his hand, lacing her fingers with his. His fingernails are blunt and perhaps a little dirty; her fingernails are painted black and chipped.

They walk out into the sun on Colfax. Hipsters everywhere, on this section. It's not really unsafe. The road is pretty potholed and parking is always touch-and-go, even on the residential side streets. But there's a brand-new Sprouts nearby, an equally new big-box apartment building, a hospital around the corner. Devon shoves her fingers through her thick hair, shaking it off her bare shoulders. Along the straps of her tank top are the hints of an electric-blue bra, the tiny bows where the straps connect to the cups peeking out from her shirt. Her freckled but pale shoulders gleam in the bright sunlight. So do the tops of her (less freckled but still pale) tits.

"Where's your bike?" she asks, if he doesn't immediately pick a direction.

Rafael

A direction is not immediately picked. He's looking at her, see, distracted by her skin, toss of her hair. "Huh?" His frown is reflexive. He looks around. "This way."

Their hands clasp. He's privately happy that she's using the bag. Likes it. Makes use of it. He tries not to think about what a mess it must be inside, how much stuff she's probably already stuffed in there. Remembers the wreck she made of her room at his place, and her room at her friend's place, and really any room at all she lives in.

Bike's still parked in Hooked on Colfax's lot. Yamaha, but not a sportsbike: deep blacks that look almost lacquered; leather seats, chrome accents. Muscular, classic lines. All this time they've known each other and this might be the first time she's taken a ride on it. He gets on first, swinging a leg over and taking a seat, thoughtless. Unhooks the helmet and hands it over to her. "Only got one," he explains. "I taking you to my place?"

Devon

Hooked's lot are the few curbside spaces in front, but that's where Rafael's bike has been parked, kickstand up and everything. Devon smirks -- but happily -- to see it, crossing the street and walking towards it with him. She starts putting away the grimoire, wadding up the hoodie to put it away as well, stuffing everything easily into that magic satchel.

Which yes: is chaos inside, or would be if the spirit living within were not a creature related to the Weaver. Somehow when she wants something, it is close at hand.

Like the helmet she digs out. It's the little black one she has, with all its white symbols painted on it. Not the first time she's been on the bike, though maybe only the third or fourth time. She takes off her sunglasses and drops them in the satchel as she puts the helmet on, smiling at him.

"Sure," she says. "Or we could just go for a ride. Get out of town."

Rafael

She has a helmet in her hand when he turns to hand her his. He remembers suddenly that she has that. Did he buy it for her, or did she? Probably him. But the paintjob's all her. He grunts a laugh, cramming his helmet on his head instead. Full-face helmet, mirrored visor that he -- for now, at least -- leaves up.

"Yeah?" His voice is a little muffled, comes to her from the depths of the helmet. "Could. Been thinking about it recently, actually. Where you wanna go?"

Devon

"Don't know," says Devon, also muffled. She waits for him to climb on to the bike, one hand on her hips. "Let's just... go. Anywhere. Now."

Rafael

"Anywhere?" he echoes. Hard to hear the smile in his voice like this, all shut up in a helmet. Harder to see. But it's there. "How 'bout out west? Never been there. Maybe we'll go to Oregon."

Devon

"Let's do it," she says. "I'm not on the schedule for the rest of the week."

Rafael

"Can get there in two days easy. Spend a couple days on the coast. Come back." He nods her toward the seat. "Get on."

Devon

She grins. He can see it, the corners of her mouth crinkling. And then she wants to jump on him but their helmets will collide, she just knows it. So she turns her big helmet-clad head and throws her arms around him, squeezes him. Steps back, while he holds the bike, and climbs board. "I'll text Naomi wherever our first stop is," she says. This is the extent of her planning: which direction to go (west), when to go (now), and maybe telling someone she lives with so they don't call the police and say her boyfriend is this big, scary-looking guy... he hates it when she doesn't stay with him... he has those 'serial killer' eyes, you know?

When Rafael climbs onto his bike with her, Devon wraps her arms around him. Gives him a squeeze.

Rafael

He's got the armor plates in his jacket today. Girl can feel their edges under the soft, well-worn leather, a degree harder than the flesh and bones they guard. While she wraps her arms around his waist, he raises the kickstand and levels the bike.

"Probably stop somewhere in the mountains tonight," he says. "Maybe on the Utah side. Still pretty cold up there. Don't wanna ride in the dark."

--

It's the last time they talk for a while. Thing about riding is there isn't much in the way of conversation. Then again, wasn't like their roadtrip was a font of verbiage either. Wolf's just the taciturn type.

Riding keeps them close, though. And maybe there's a certain comfort in that; the elemental warmth of two bodies pressed together, his sides expanding against her arms when he breathes, her chest to his back.

They don't go straight into the mountains. Heading west on the 70, they pull off the road in one of those well-heeled little foothill towns; head into some clothing store where they buy the girl warmer clothes for the coldlands ahead. Gloves, warm pants. Maybe a heavier jacket. Wolf unzips the panels on his jacket as they ride into the mountains; tucks her hands into lining of the jacket, under the armor plates, close to his body.

Could stay at his house tonight. Wouldn't be much of a detour. But neither of them really want to. There's a wanderlust about this; they want the open road, the new, the novel. They discuss it briefly at a pit stop where they get gas, hit the bathroom. They decide they'll pass that highway crossing. They'll ride on. Warm as the city was, the mountains are cold; there are clouds, and it'll snow later tonight. The interstate is wide and bold, though, sweeps four lanes wide high into the Rockies.

After the first alpine passes, a stretch of high desert; barren rocky cliff faces and a string of tiny towns with trucker joints and cheap motels. Tiny little town called Parachute's where they stop; dinner at a little diner called Mama's. Breakfast food and burgers and breaded-and-fried foods. Smells good, when the wolf shuts the engine off, kicks down the stand, pulls his helmet off.

Four hours since they left Hooked. Sun's already behind the mountains, but not truly set yet. Wolf waits for girl to get off the bike first; then climbs off, stiff-legged from the long ride. Shakes out his legs on his way into the diner, rolling his head on his shoulders, popping his knuckles.

Reaches his gloved hand out for hers. "Another forty minutes into Grand Junction," he says, "maybe two hours into Crescent Junction. You tired?"

Devon

He is in an armored jacket. Devon is in... a tank top. He makes plans; she smirks and snuggles him a bit, then leans back somewhat, holding on but getting ready to just enjoy the ride.

Which she does. She enjoys the silence. She enjoys the noise. She enjoys the meditative, isolating nature of it. Granted, sitting on a motorcycle for a long time does get uncomfortable. She shouts in his ear once or twice and after that decides she's going to come up with little ways of tapping him or signalling: she has to pee. She needs to stretch. Pull over I want to see something.

It all ends up being one signal: pull over and stop. Sometimes she points to an exit sign. At one of these mini-rest-stops she combs her hair and then ties it in two braids. She puts on her hoodie from the satchel, because the wind is burning her arms but chilling her, too. But later they get her something made of leather; some jeans to protect her legs better than her leggings. Gloves, for when she doesn't want to use his body for warmth, which will be almost never.

They don't go to his house. That's beside the point of the trip. They barely even need to talk about it, even at that rest stop. There's a glance at the exit that would take them there, and then: he drives on. And she squeezes him, because he understood.

--

Now they are in a town and Devon, not used to being on a motorcycle, has shaky legs and her knees hurt, she says. She takes off the helmet, feeling gross. She digs around in her satchel a bit, looking for this little tin of muscle rub she makes with beeswax. She also puts some sort of balm on her lips, on her face. At one rest stop she finally put on some sunblock. She looks tired, even though she's not the one driving. Doesn't take his hand, more because she's rubbing lotion onto her cheeks than anything.

"Yeah," she says, her voice a little hoarse. "Thirsty, though. Hungry."

Rafael

He walks a little slower, keeping abreast of her while she slathers lotion on. "Could stay here tonight," he says. "Could even get a car instead if you'd rather. Long way to go yet, if we're going to Oregon."

Turns out Mama's is a tiny little restaurant; a flat-topped, bricksided little box of a building with an interior cramped with tiny diner tables and a surprisingly large, nice patio out back. Big cedarwood pavilion; picnic tables and patio sets, even a cushioned couch near a big wood-burning hearth. Bit too cold to sit out there, though, especially with night falling. They take a little table in the corner, windows on two sides. Waitress gives them laminated menus; the usual greasy-spoon fare, and a couple borderline-healthier options. Salads, fish.

Devon

"Noooo," she says, scowling at him as she puts the balm back in her satchel. Glares at him with those fierce blue eyes beneath her matted black hair. "Let's get to... one of the Junctions. Then sleep."

They go inside, and Devon is already shedding her new, creaky leather jacket. Her helmet -- and Rafael's, if he wanted to give it to her -- are already in her satchel, more or less weightless on her hip. As soon as they step in the door, her stomach growls. She smells meat and cheese and carbohydrates; her mouth gets wet.

They sit. She asks for water, and then after a few minutes looking at the menu, asks him -- without looking up --

"If I get the Grand Stack and eat half of it will you eat the rest?"

Rafael

"Which is that -- oh, I see it." He considers. "Yeah, sure. I'm getting a T-bone too though. Should split a sundae too. Can always bring leftovers along in that bag of yours. Probably be a little hungry again when we stop for the night."

Devon

Obviously he's getting something of his own. But she wants that fucking Texas-toast-coleslaw-bacon-onion-ring-et cetera sandwich and she wants it with sweet potato fries but she knows she'll only eat half. If she's lucky.

"You'll make the whole bag stink," she says, defensive of it, protective. "Leftovers go in the bike. Compartment under my seat." She is adamant.

So they order. She gets her giant sandwich and her fries, and a side salad. He gets his T-bone and whatever on the side. He wants a sundae; Devon turns down more than a couple of bites, because -- not shockingly -- after stuffing her face for ten minutes straight, she is full. More than half her sandwich remains; she dips some of her fries in melted ice cream, slouching in her seat.

"We should sleep outside. Where it's warmer."

Rafael

Maybe two or three other tables here. Their orders taken, their food and drinks delivered, they're mostly left to themselves. Girl scarfs down a surprising amount of that enormous meal, but leaves a good deal on the plate. Wolf makes his way through that entire fucking t-bone and all of his fries. Now he's eating ice cream, spoon by methodical spoonful.

"Not sure Oregon's warm enough for that," he muses. "Can try though." Quiet a moment. "Remember that time in the yard?"

Devon

"You're warm enough," she mutters, pushing the rest of her sandwich closer to him. He hunches over his food. Even his ice cream. He's like an animal. She wishes, furtively and with a pang, that --

He mentions something that makes her blink. Her cheeks get a little hot, but not from embarrassment. She huffs a soft little laugh. Shifts a little, ducking her face. "Yeah," which almost sounds like duh.

Rafael

He is, indeed, hunched over his food. Even his ice cream. Eats it in big spoonfuls, almost like he can't ferry food to mouth fast enough.

Even so, when she offers up the rest of the sandwich, wolf shakes his head. Puts up a warding hand. "Can't," he says. "Explode."

And he puts down the spoon. And asks her if she remembers. And she turns a little pink, and he grins a little, darkly.

"Yeah. Me too."

Turns away then, gesturing to the waitress for their check. He pays, of course, putting down a good tip, packing their leftovers into a box.

"Ready?"

Devon

"You're a liar," she muttered, when he put up his hand. He said he'd help her eat. Granted, he also said they should take leftovers because they'll be hungry before they sleep.

Moments later: he grins at her, darkly. She's not pink, but she is looking away, and taking a breath, and while he gets the check she digs into her bag for a tin of mints. Pops a couple into her mouth, offers him some if he wants.

Quiet, as they head outside.

Rafael

He takes a couple. They're strong, so he rolls them around his tongue as they go back out.

Significantly cooler now. Mountain air is dry, doesn't hold heat well. They're in a high desert between two forks of the mountain range; about a mile up here, same as Denver. Quieter, though. Little town with little houses, vast night sky.

"Just gonna go to Grand Junction tonight," he says. "Maybe we'll break it down, take three days on the road. Don't wanna tire you out."

Devon

She's shrugging back into the leather jacket he bought her. She is blinking up at the stars as they walk into the darkness. Doesn't get their helmets out yet. She glances at him. "Rather get there faster," she says quietly. "Have to go back to work."

A reminder, gentle, that she no longer mooches off of him quite so completely as she once did. As he may have once enjoyed.

"Why'd you bring up that afternoon?" she wants to know, standing out by his bike.

Rafael

Brow furrows. "Just don't wanna tire you out," he says again, as though repeating it will somehow convey some meaning that failed to make it across the first time.

And they're standing by the bike. And she's asking him why, and he pauses, halfway through stashing their leftovers.

"Just remembered it," he says, and shrugs. "No reason. Just a good memory."

Devon

The rear seat -- saddle, really -- is up, and he's stowing the rest of her sandwich, the remainder of his dinner. She's leaning against a lamppost he parked under, zipping up her jacket, hands in her pockets. "I'll be all right," she murmurs.

"But..." Devon begins, and hesitates. Doesn't shake her head and say forget it. Just hesitates. Winces a little: "We fought so much after it. Because I wanted it like that again. And you didn't."

Her brow is furrowed; she seems more confused than anything. Not angry. Not upset. "Makes it a sort of weird memory, to me. Nice, and then... sad."

Rafael

"Oh."

He straightens, locks the seat back down. Turns to face her where she leans against a lightpost, reminding him of that first night, reminding him of the first time he saw her, her bracelets and her chains and her skinny pale body, her sooty-smudged makeup; that sense that she, this plainly young and mostly-human girl, nonetheless crackled and burned with a wild old magic.

He comes over to her. Shrugs again, inadequately. "Guess I forgot that part," which is perhaps uncomforting, but certainly is honest. He puts his hand on her upper arm, rubs a little. This is also inadequate.

"Come on," he says. "Let's go find a place to sleep."

Devon

Devon's forehead is wrinkled, and stays that way. She looks up at him as he comes near, shrugs, speaks, touches her -- all not quite helping. She wonders if he realizes.

Flicks her eyes away again and straightens, moving away from the lamppost. Uncrosses her arms and walks back over to the bike, digging her helmet -- and his -- out of the satchel. Hands one to him and then affixes her own, waiting for him to climb onto the bike and kick up the stand so that she can climb on after him.

Rafael

Wolf gets the feeling something's off, something's not right. Doesn't know how or why or what to do, though. So he takes the helmet as she hands it to him, pulls it down over his head. Snaps the visor closed and now he's hulking, faceless; she wouldn't even know it was him if

she didn't know it was him. Of course she knows.

He gets on the bike, straightens it, waits for her to get on. Reaches around behind himself to give her a brief, awkward squeeze. Then he starts the ignition, steers the Yamaha out of the lot. Back to the road. Back to the highway, westbound.