home.

Devon

Quiet as they board a new plane bound for Denver. Quiet as she seats herself and buckles herself and puts the arm-rest up. Quiet if a little grumpy-seeming as she tucks herself under Rafael's arm and against his side, unabashedly seeking comfort from him in a way she seldom ever has, and which no one around them can fathom. That man over there makes them feel like they're in a cage with a hungry lion. That girl held in his arm makes them think less of the proud lion-tamer and more of the dead doe the lion is feasting on for now, which is the only reason it does not lunge for their throat. They feel momentarily safe from him, but not comfortable with his presence, or with hers, or their complicity in her danger.

Their animal brains lead them in exactly the wrong direction. No, she is not his feast. And her presence only makes him more aware of them, more dangerous to them, especially when she is so clearly vulnerable.

When the flight attendants drift by with their carts, Devon asks for bourbon. Shows her ID, because she has her wallet and everything. She doesn't shake when she drinks it, iced, but she is quiet. She's no longer crying, hasn't been for a while now. She's just really quiet. Not that unusual; they go whole days without talking. She ends up falling asleep after the bourbon; it hits her harder than she really expects, but though she didn't feel hungry when she woke up she wonders when she last ate. She wonders when she last had alcohol. Her head lolls on his chest and she naps, and when she wakes they're still in the air and he has nuts for her, or trail mix, or whatever little snack they handed out. She eats it silently.

Eventually they land, and disembark, and she holds his hand as they walk wherever they're going, most likely to where Franklin waits with the car.

It's then, in the back seat with the partition up, that Devon starts talking. She tells him all about it: starts with something awkward, like:

So... we were both in the sixteen hundreds. In New England. Yeah?

--

He hears about the Noyes family and Mercy, who she was. She says she knows she must have run into him at some point but she can't remember when exactly or anything else about it, but that she's getting ahead of herself. She fills in the blanks between their brief meetings back then. She tells him:

I don't think I've ever wanted -- needed -- to fuck you that badly before. And I've wanted to fuck you really bad sometimes.

Which is worth a dry, relieved laugh here or there. But she means it: tells him how it made her feel. In sparse, uncomfortable words, which are all she has, but she tries. It helped her, in a way she needed, at a time when she needed it, and it made her stronger. She doesn't know how, but it did.

Devon is crying again as she starts talking about how rapidly Assawetough and Oiguina and Hannah became important to her, cruelly important, and she's never had that, and she didn't think she ever would, and now she's not sure she ever will again. There's not any comfort to give her: her friend-sisters are dead. Her first coven, known only in a single evening, is long gone, and he can't really understand, and she doesn't expect him to, but she's sad.

They are at his place. She is briefly quiet as they go in, composing herself. Maybe they make food, or order food, or just go and sit on the couch while she tells him the rest. All the bits and pieces she didn't have time back then to tell him, or the parts he missed entirely, or the things she didn't have words for until now. The memories she gave up, so that the men in that town wouldn't chase the women she led away, wouldn't kill the women left behind. How she knows one of them was about him, and maybe it was when they first found each other back then.

So maybe he gives her his memory of that. Like patching a tire.

There's nothing after that. She knows she gave up a season to the Ladies. She knows why. She doesn't regret it. She's sorry she couldn't tell him what was happening before it was happening. She's sorry she left him alone. But she's not sorry she did it. She doesn't have to say that bit aloud; he can see it in her eyes, hear it underneath her voice. Devon has no regrets about what she did. Any of it.

Now Devon is reclining on the couch, her feet up, her shoes and socks off, and there's no enamel on her fingernails or toenails, no makeup on her eyes or lips, and only the earrings she usually has, her everyday things. The clothes he last saw her in, which are clean and seem no worse for wear. She has her head on his lap, and is looking up at him, and she's holding his hand in her hand, holding it over her middle, sighing. Her eyes are a little red from bouts of tears, but currently dry.

"Need to call Brian and Sheila," she murmurs. "And Mum. And Naomi. Just really don't want to deal with it all right now. You know?"

Rafael

Feels like some sort of rescue. Does to him, anyway. Feels fiercely, desperately protective of her all the way home. She's quiet most the way and he's alert, vicious, arm heavy over her shoulders. Glares at anyone who looks at them. Nearly growls at the TSA agent when they have to come apart for a while, when one and then the other has to go through the scanner.

On the plane he's awake the whole time. He doesn't watch a movie. He doesn't read a book. He doesn't leaf through a magazine. Just sits, watchful, scaring everyone in his vicinity.

She gets bourbon and sleeps. He buys a sandwich for her, too, which is waiting for her when she wakes.

--

In the car she starts talking. Starts telling him everything he missed. They were there together -- more or less -- but they hardly saw each other at all. He has his half of the story too, shares it with her sparsely. No point going into details, as they're all terrible: the rapid downspiral of that town into paranoia and hate. The women rounded up and carted off. The one they hung in the town green. The ones they beat, and clapped into stocks, and dragged before kangaroo courts to berate and demean.

He doesn't say too much about it. Just: it happened. He saw. And he waited because he knew she would do something, but he didn't know what, and he didn't want to make more trouble for her.

Did kill those fuckers in the woods, though. Would've killed more the night she broke all the women out, but -- they didn't follow. Town was fast asleep. Didn't wake to any of it. And now he knows why.

--

Still has Franklin. Still has that luxurious sedan. Still has that townhouse, and the lawn is manicured and the interior is well cared for, so he must still have his housekeeper. No one else home except him and her, though, and he's thinking house finally feels like home again now that she's back in his life. Returned from whatever other-world she was in, which was so far away and so inaccessible she may as well have been dead. She may as well be risen from the grave.

He makes hamburgers while she tells him the rest of it. She does almost all the talking. He's quiet, but he pours her water and later juice. He serves up amateurish but edible burgers. Even cuts a couple slices of tomato, pulls some lettuce leaf. They go sit on the couch while they eat, and while she talks, and while he listens.

He patches that bit of memory for her. She'll never have it back, not truly, but he gives her enough to build an imaginary scene. The church, the people exiting, the way he stepped forward and said her name.

And how she looked at him.

And how she walked out, because she couldn't stay.

Neither of them can patch her memory for the other two remembrances. Nor for the season she lost, the one she gave up. What she learned and what she forgot. That's all gone.

--

He puts his hand over the top of her head, thumb sweeping her brow. It's a curious, protective gesture. "Call them tomorrow," he says, simply. Perhaps it's a sort of absolution. She's not a bad daughter, niece, friend. There's just too much going on, is all.

Devon

Like she has a fever, Devon thinks. The way he puts his hand on her, like she's hot and he's going to cool her off, but his hands are never, ever cold. Some winters, especially in Boston and London, it would get so cold and she'd get sick and up til the point when Sheila would bring up some of that freakishly potent tea of hers that tasted like death but restored Devon year after year, flu after flu,

Devon's mum would put her hands on Devon's brow, and her hands would be so cold because it was winter and her mum didn't always have the best circulation and there was never a time when she was so fucking grateful for her mum but those moments. It was like ice could be soft and tender, like snow could love you back. Other times her mum's hands were always warm. But feverish, waiting for Sheila's special tea, feeling like she'd never feel better again, a cold hand on her brow was like being touched by a god.

She closes her eyes as he strokes her forehead. He's never taken care of kids. His dad maybe never did this for him, or maybe he did and that's where he learned it. But the touch is so soothing, so calming, that Devon nearly falls asleep again. She's got meat in her belly, and she's told her story, and Rafa's big palm and heavy thumb are making her drowsy again.

She tries to nod but can't. Just says: "All right."

Rafael

Just quiet for a while. Probably stuff he could say. Could tell her how much he missed her. Could tell her how awful it was, not knowing when or how or if she'd ever be back. Could tell her what that was like, all of it, and how the salt in the wounds came when everyone started thinking, suspecting, or at the very least wondering if he'd done something to her.

Could say all that, but what's the point? None. Not tonight, anyway. He's just glad to have her back. Doesn't quite trust it yet. That's why he's so alert, so watchful, so vigilant, even now. Doesn't trust that it's not a trick, a dream, and then he'll open his eyes and she'll be gone again.

Doesn't share that with her either. No point. Just takes a breath, then gives her hand a squeeze.

"Come on. Take you to bed. We can talk more tomorrow."

Devon

Fey thing that she is, with that black Irish hair and those otherworldly eyes: who could blame him for thinking her reappearance can't be trusted? Perhaps he's being tested by gods heretofore unknown to him. Perhaps, because she has no scent, she was only ever a figment, except:

he's met Brian and Sheila. He's met her mum and Naomi and she's given him muffins. Of course she's real. Look at the way she looks at him now, not quite sensing how he's feeling but sensing that now isn't the time, isn't the time, can't be the time right now because she is still holding on to centuries-old grief and triumph in equal measure and is not fully with him yet. She's not ready to let go of the one in order to dive once again into the other.

He squeezes her hand. She exhales, all in a rush: "Love you. Love you so much, Rafa." And bizarrely, because not even the way their hands touch is erotic at the moment, and she doesn't seem aroused, and she doesn't have that glint in her eyes or that redness in her lips that signals him so keenly: "Will you fuck me?"

Rafael

Brow furrows. He doesn't know how to answer.

"You want me to? You don't need to just ... be, for a while?"

Devon

She'll say it sometimes when they're kissing. Panting. Steam heat between them, his hands up her shirt or down her pants, her legs wrapping around him, and it's quite obvious to them both what's going on but she says it anyway. Never quite a question or a request; usually it's a demand. She says fuck me when he's already inside of her, or just about to be. Says it when she's either giving him permission or telling him to get on with it, she's ready, don't wait, please.

By then he already has her taste in his mouth. Not like this.

He is right to be bewildered.

Tears almost come to her eyes, but not quite. She isn't overcome right now. Her brow wrinkles in response, and she nods. "I don't even -- I just want to feel real. I want to know I'm here."

Which is the best she can do, right now, to explain. That it isn't lust. That it isn't the fact that he's so hot, he makes her so hot. That she doesn't even care, right now, about getting off, about getting there, about getting hers. And she feels almost bad about it, asking him for something so intimate, so singular, but somehow the other option seems like asking him to hit her until a bone breaks or skin splits, something she doesn't really want and he wouldn't do, but would have the same effect: to ground her where she is. When she is. Who she is. To bring her back fully to her body and her own time.

And she wouldn't ask, but she does, because it's really quite simple:

"I just need you," Devon whispers.

Rafael

He doesn't get it. He does get it. He's not even sure himself. He's not sure of this either: what she asks him for, and why.

Couple beats go by. Then he gets up, her hand still in his. He pulls her with him, firmly, not roughly. His hand in hers turns, adjusts, clasps the other way. They leave their plates where they are, bits of breadcrumbs speckling the surfaces.

Up those spiraling stairs, then. He never lets her hand go. She hasn't been in his house for three months, but little enough has changed. Guest room probably still the way she left it. His bedroom certainly is: still impersonal and underdecorated, though unmistakeably his by scent and presence. The curtains and blinds are open. Moonlight outside picks out details in the little yard: the tree, the fence, the grass.

Lights are off in the bedroom. He closes the door behind them and it's all shadows. "You wanna wash up first?" he asks.

Devon

Seems like a yes. Seems like an unhesitating one, actually, the way he gets up, helps her up, takes her hand, leads her upward. She doesn't remember the last few months: feels like a couple of weeks at most. Her time sense is warped; that's why she needs this.

So they're in the dark, door closed, and just being here lights her up a little bit. She feels it, low and warm, rising up through her body. The first time. Every time after that, in his big bed, on his soft sheets, in his ridiculously warm arms.

Devon catches her breath and she shakes her head. Breathes out the answer: "No."

Rafael

Leaves him feeling oddly naked, that. Would've been a shield of sorts if they'd washed up first. Gone through some sort of routine that terminated naturally in bed. Then he could have found her under the covers, as though they simply happened upon one another there. Wouldn't be so deliberate, so considered, such a conscious choice.

To go to her. Not because they're both overcome with passion, drunk on desire. Not that, but something more spare, bare-bones, the sort of copulation people engage in when they've been through natural disasters. They've been through something of the same: neither natural nor a disaster, but an upheaval all the same. He lets go of the doorknob and moves toward her, and as he does he feels it too, tendrils of want spreading through his limbs.

Tried to kiss her in the airport but it was too soon, too raw. Here in the dark he tries again, and the same way: cups her face in his hands, his mouth finding hers.

Devon

Devon makes a sound half-cry and half-relief, mostly sigh. Mostly breath. She sounds grateful when he comes near, takes her face in his hands, kisses her. She finds herself molten when he does, her mouth opening almost instantly, wanting but not quite wanton, leaning into him with her body. Her hands tentatively find his sides, run up his body, then clutch at the fabric covering him as the heat in that kiss intensifies.

Her hands rise up then to his face, pulling at him more fiercely, her kiss growing hungry. This is how she knows she was right not to ignore this errant thought, the one she almost discarded at first because it was not borne out of mindless lust and fierce attraction. This is how she knows this is right, this is what she needs, this is okay. She isn't asking him for something wrong or bad or cruel. She's crossing the rift of three months apart from him the only way she knows, truly and deeply, will work.

His body. Hers.

Her body. His.

Devon kisses his neck next. She groans when she does so, her hands creeping up his shirt, savoring his body's heat and the delightful ridges and planes of muscle she finds beneath his skin. Her teeth show; she bites him lightly, folds his skin gently between her teeth, sucks. Tastes.

Rafael

Knows it too then. Not a mistake. Not something sordid; not him taking advantage of her vulnerability. Feels right. Always did, even from the first when he was pretty sure they were wrong for each other. Feels like -- a homecoming. A rift closing.

Skin shivers like an animal's when she runs her hands up under his shirt. Been a long time since he's been touched like this, or maybe at all. He lets her go to pull that shirt off, yanking it up from the back. Skin is hot and body is hard; none of that has changed. He reaches for her clothes next, the same things she wore that morning so long ago. He pulls open buttons, zippers, fastenings. Peels her out of one layer and then the next, and when she's naked or near enough he scoops her up. Easily, one arm around her waist. Carries her bedwards.

Devon

Never once has she wondered what he was like before her. Well, that's not true: she wondered once, and then realized it was probably like the night they met: buying. Seeing, needing, paying, fucking, and then moving on. Maybe there have been other girls, even other kinfolk, but Devon truthfully doesn't know enough about the politics of kin and garou pairings or -- heaven forbid -- Silver Fang mating protocol to really feel threatened or uncertain about it. Not like he's her first either. Neither of them came to this virginal and uncertain. Neither of them came to this broken.

Nor do they come to it broken now. She doesn't feel so fragile when she bites his neck and sucks on his skin. She wants to growl. He didn't make her feel fragile or vulnerable in the woods all those centuries ago: she felt stronger, after fucking him. She felt better. She remembered who she was, even if she didn't yet know how much power she really had.

Right now it's not about power though. It's the other piece: it's feeling like herself again. It's feeling like she's in the right body, the right time, the right place, with the right person, doing the right thing. It's coming home. It's being who she is.

Rafael shivers; Devon's body trembles in mute, animal response. She doesn't think about how long it's been since he was touched, though if she reflects on it later she will feel a momentary pang of mixed-up guilt over her absence and worry about his behavior in that absence. Devon knows him more or less pretty well, and she knows now she's a badass witch who takes no shit, but still: who among us is truly free from all insecurity? That will come later. Right now, all she senses is the shiver, and she knows it's because she's touching him and he likes it, and she likes that he likes it. She likes that she makes him shiver like that.

So she laughs. Darkly, softly, low and guttural, she chuckles. It vibrates through her teeth. Her teeth part; he's moving and whipping off his shirt, and she opens her eyes to drink in the sight of him, greedy now. Advances on him even as he's reaching for her jacket, shirt, leggings, whatever: she finds him and grabs his hips and all but shoves him to the bed. Gets a step or two, really, only: he is quite heavy. And big. And solid. And intent, as ever, on stripping her down to nothing.

Next thing she knows her knickers are around her ankles and her bra is on top of his foot.

Next thing after that are his arms under her thighs, her ass, folding her legs up, holding her around the waist, turning her, laying her out on his enormous bed.

Absolutely gone and forgotten are the thoughts she had of guilt for asking him for this. Frankly, so is the thought that maybe it's fine: she just needs to fuck, get fucked, it doesn't even matter if she comes, it doesn't even matter if it's good, she just needs to be close to him like this. Fuck that.

Devon arches her back when she lays down on his bedspread; she pants softly as her spine relaxes, her hands running up his arms.

"Oh, fuck," she mutters, exhaling the words, glorying in them.

Rafael

Surprises him when she laughs. Didn't expect that. Seemed so vulnerable at the airport. So raw all the way home. Didn't think she'd laugh like that in the dark, like something powerful and wanting. Didn't think she'd shove him toward the bed either, backing him up a step or two. Maybe even three.

Beat of pause. Then he goes for her clothes. There go the jacket, shirt, leggings. There go the panties -- knickers is the word that comes to her mind, which he'd be amused by if he knew -- and then the bra. He kicks it aside. He picks her up. Mattress is a glorious thing, absorbing her momentum as he all but drops her there. There go his pants. There go his shorts. He follows her onto the bed, and her hands run up his arms, and he's got his dick in his hands stroking off as he comes down over her, kissing her.

Licks at her breasts. Sucks at her nipples, fiercely, his free hand scooping under her back to lift her toward his mouth. She mutters some small, lustful obscenity. He touches her between her legs, strokes her cunt to see if she's wet enough, to see if she's ready.

Last time they fucked was three months ago. Last time they fucked was four hundred years ago. Seems crazy but it's true. Still remembers the forest, the way it smelled -- pure -- and all her ridiculous clothes that they had to get her out of. Easier this time around. Neither of them fearing for their life. He nips at her shoulder on his way back up; finds her mouth again and kisses her burningly, his hand tangling in her hair -- so black, and her eyes so blue. So blue he can see it even here in the dark.

"Gonna fuck you," he whispers, which is an fyi or a warning or a promise; hard to tell. "Put your legs around me."

Devon

There is a part of Devon that wants to stop his hand stroking his dick. It's not a pleading part but a... well, somewhat bossy part of her. She wants to bat his hand away and take him for herself. She wants to lay claim to him and even after all this time it's not a claim she feels entirely obliged to. But it's one she wants. She kisses him groaningly, arching, whimpering at the loss of his mouth and then gasping when he starts licking at her breasts.

She thinks of how he loves her tits. She laughs again, that same shadowy sound as before, and all but grinds her breast into his mouth. She even likes the sting of it when his teeth scrape at her flesh. All of it is good, now. All of it helps. All of it satisfies this need of hers, calms this anxiety and uncertainty that she is all too eager to be rid of.

His hand slips between her thighs and it's electric; Devon gasps, clutching at him, works her pussy on his hand for several seconds. Not right away, no, but he feels her then: he feels her warm, feels her grow wet, feels it when she starts to squirm. Feels her whimpering, newly vulnerable all over again, when he lifts his mouth from her bright pink nipple and bites her shoulder briefly, kisses her hard.

Another time, she might laugh -- not cruelly -- at his warning. FYI. Whatever it is. This time she just shuts her eyes, feeling like she's falling from a great height, and her legs -- oh, her long, sweet, soft legs -- they rise up and fold around his waist, and she's about 80% of where she'd like to be before he fucks her usually but right now, just this moment, that momentary sharpness and shock is exactly what she needs.

Rafael

Knows she's not quite there yet. Progress after all: that he knows. That he can learn. Doesn't seem to matter to her though, and that's perplexing too. Knows that's an invitation when she wraps her legs around him. Knows it's an invitation when her eyes close like that.

Knows it. Takes it. Great sheets of muscle in his back and flank: they drive him into her, and it's not particularly gentle; it's not timid. Force of it pins her to the bed. He growls to feel her like that. He tries not to bite her, so he kisses her instead. Loves her so much, suddenly and inexplicably, at the edge of madness or need.

Has his arms wrapped around her. Not crosswise under her back, but under her arms, shoulders. Has his hands cupping the back of her head, her hair smooth and cool between his fingers. Holds her like that, momentarily still, heavy atop her and hard inside her.

Wants to know if she's okay. Doesn't quite have the words for it, so he just watches her. His breathing expands his chest into hers; they're so close she can feel every exhale. After a while he kisses her again, softer this time.

Devon

What she needs. Not what she'd normally want, ask for, expect: she cries out when he pushes himself into her, clutches at him as though for dear life. She groans as he grinds deeper, squirms her hips to meet his own. She remembers that he hasn't fucked her in three months -- by his reckoning. She knows what it's like when he hasn't had her in three days. When he hasn't had her in a week. Her hand seeks his: her fingers lace through his own, gripping him as he grips her, pins her, fucks her against that decadently firm, deceptively soft mattress of his.

He kisses her and she remembers, sudden as the last recollection, how she once told him not to bite her until he was coming. How, when he came, he kissed her instead. How it thrilled her, shocked her, intrigued her, scared her. Inflamed her.

But he's not fucking her. He's holding her, holding himself in her, and any moment now she's going to come back into her body and feel him there, invasive and invited at once, and

she begins to cry. Not from pain or loss or fear or disconnection but something else entirely. She couldn't name it if she tried. She weeps, and she's grateful, and she is aroused, and she knows he'll think this means she isn't okay, he should stop, so she won't let him: Devon reaches for him, pulls him closer, kisses his mouth and bites his lower lip and urges him on with a roll of her hips. There are tears on her face when she kisses him back.

Just as soft.

"I love you," she whispers, even as she is urging him to fuck her, fuck her, make her feel it. Something so tender, so inexplicable: her eyes meeting his, holding on. Her voice so very quiet: "I love you so much, Rafa. I missed you."

Rafael

If she can't even name what it is that makes her weep, what chance does he have?

None. That's what. So he's lost: he's baffled again, and alarmed, and his eyebrows are coming together and his brow is all awrinkle. He's two seconds from backing off. Apologizing. Something.

But she holds him. She pulls him closer. She kisses him and he doesn't respond, not at first, not except to mutter something that might be a question, only it never makes it there. Her teeth in his lower lip: he draws a breath. She moves, fucks him because he isn't fucking her, and that breath comes blasting back out, a harsh pant. His brow touches hers. She kisses him, they are kissing, it is soft.

She tells him something that sounds like a confession, or a promise. He smooths her hair back. Draws back so he can see her, and he's still frowning, uncertain. So she tells him again, and another piece. She missed him.

His brow knits harder. For a moment some emotion threatens to break over his face, or simply break him. He takes another breath. It shudders.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Me too."

Then it's too much to bear. So he stops looking at her. So he kisses her instead, fiercely, eyes closed; he wraps her up in his arms, tighter. Kisses the side of her neck -- it burns like a brand. No warning or fyi this time as he starts moving into her. Just the motion itself, intimated in his musculature, expressed in his body. Fucks her hard and deep, slow, holding her like that, enveloping her as thoroughly as he can.

Devon

His stupid hands on her brow again. It makes her so awake in a way she can't quite cope with; she opens her eyes and looks at him as he looks at her, while he processes what she has said.

Love you.

Missed you.

Doesn't miss him now, though; can't. He's right here. He's inside of her, loving her, making her feel it even if he isn't thrusting, stroking, giving it to her the way he does. She can feel him all the same. She knows he's here. More importantly, more to the point: she knows she's here. Feels his mattress, smells his sweat, feels his cock. Recognizes all of it, and that matters.

Me too.

That's all he says.

For once, it doesn't hurt her that this is all he can say. She feels gentle towards him for it; she wants to protect him from how alone he has been for the last three months. She wants to go back and make the Ladies of the Wood promise to protect Rafael from Naomi and her mum and the police. She kisses him, kisses him as he kisses her, and holds him tight when he gives in and kisses her neck instead, hiding his face. Arms around him, legs around him: Devon gasps when he starts to move. Thrust. Give it to her. She groans, because she can't help it. She gasps, once, close to his ear.

Rafael

Always did love the way she sounds.

Always did go a little crazy when she gasps. Or moans. Or whimpers. That's what set him off so ferociously the first time. Well, no. That's not true. The fact that she was there, and offering, and asking -- that was what set him off. But what he remembers more keenly than anything was how she sounded when she finally got his shirt off, finally lifted her body to his, finally felt that contact, skin to skin.

Loves the way she sounds now. Makes him ardent, lights him up. Takes this from something strange and uncertain to something certain, and pure, and hot. He growls, because of course he does. He pushes up on his hands, unless she pulls him back down. Doesn't matter. Either way: he fucks her, and it's hard, and hungry, and primitive, and utterly without finesse.

No question who he is, then. No question where she is, or when.

--

Groans into her mouth when he comes. Pants against her skin. Bites her shoulder.

Keeps fucking her a little longer afterward, just to feel her. Just to convince himself, maybe, that it's her. She's back. She's not going to disappear.

And after he rolls onto his back, he keeps an arm around her. Hiding between the moments are instants where he almost forgets she was gone. Feels just like it did, before. Feels like those three months were a dream, never happened at all. Didn't almost lose her at all.

Wants to say something to her. Tell her something. His love, or how much he missed her, or maybe even something so mundane as we've got a ton of shit to sort out tomorrow, but let's just ignore it tonight. None of the words come easily. In the end he just pulls her a little closer against his side. Hopes that conveys what he needs to: about love, about gladness, about the need to have her near.

Devon

She does not pull him back down. He pushes up on his arms and she looks up at him. Her mouth quirks; her eyes flash. She's enjoying this. Enjoying how he looks. Enjoying how he fucks her. Her eyes hold his when he thrusts, hard this time, driving his cock into her. She gasps, never blinking, almost daring him. Dares, and dares, until he folds forward and holds her again. Kisses her again. Gives her his body again, which is so magnificent, she thinks.

Drunkenly, she thinks of the word: magnificent. Murmurs it incoherently in his ear as he starts really giving it to her. And then it's just silly things: oh, fuck. oh, Rafa. oh, fuck.

Silly, precious things.

--

Wasn't really expecting to orgasm. Wasn't angling for it. Wouldn't have been disappointed if she hadn't. Would've been gratified and satiated if he'd come inside of her, held her close, been with her like this anyway. She would've smiled.

But that's not what happens. What happens is that he fucks her hard and fierce against his mattress and she groans, crying out loud in the night, wrapping her legs tight around him and digging her nails into him as she comes, screaming a little.

It's good. And there he is, when she comes back down, fucking her through it, and she can hear their skins smacking together, a wet and firm sound that makes her want to laugh and makes her want to fuck all over again. She sighs when he slows. She strokes his hair when he bites her. She kisses his temple and the arch of his cheekbone, in turn, as they slow to a stop. Turn. Hold each other in twisted sheets for a while.

Sure, there's lots they could say.

Neither of them has ever been that good at talking, though.

that airport on the coast.

Devon

The airport is small and municipal, this far to the coast. It isn't Portland. Devon is dropped off and she goes in and she finds a cafe, something. She has no ticket, not even an idea of which terminal to be in. She finds a place that sells coffee and pastries and she uses the cash in her pocket to buy some of each. Ends up curling up in a bench, back to the wall, feet on the seat beside her, dozing. Somehow she's tired. Has she slept in the past three months? The coffee and pastry cool, half-eaten on the plate and in the cup. She has no appetite right now.

Her phone sits cradled in her lap, even as she dozes, waiting for it to vibrate. Waiting to be told that he's here, he's come to get her. To hold her and make her feel safe.

A year ago she would have been disgusted at the desire for this, the pathetic vibe of it, but right now all she feels is hopeful that when he sees her, he will hold her, and not let go for a very long time.

Rafael

Girl cabs and snacks and dozes and waits, in the end, for several hours. Denver to this small coastal town is a two-step hop, and then there's the business of security checks and transit to and from the airport and, of course, getting a plane ticket in the first place. Wolf's probably thoroughly impatient by the time the wheels touch down. Day's tending toward night when phone buzzes on girl's lap.

Just landed. Where are you?

Devon

Devon is very bored. She dozes. She gets up and wanders. She avoids security people. She goes outside and bums a smoke from someone. She exhales smoke as the day climbs to its temperature peak. She finds a spot outside of the airport, under a tree, behind a bush: curls up and naps. Goes to a bookstore and uses remaining cash for a magazine and reads. Every. Last. Page. Even the ads.

Is sitting inside again, and her phone buzzes. He landed he landed he

WHAT AIRLINE

WHERE DO I GO

I MISS YOU

gets three text messages in a row. She's already on her feet.

Rafael

United? But I think it's Skywest here. Just stay where you are I'll find you. Where are you?

And then ten seconds later:

Nm I see you.

And he does. And she sees him too. It's a tiny airport; handful of buildings, maybe a dozen gates. Nothing but little puddle-jumper planes, some of them turboprops for fuck's sake. Whole day's flights fits on one screen, and this late there's almost nothing left on the boards.

He's walking past one of those boards. Doesn't have a thing on him, no luggage at all. Just himself in -- god, of course -- grey t-shirt, jeans. The jeans are grey today too, a dark shade a couple rungs down from black. He comes toward her quickly, pushing past some local who exclaims in surprise and annoyance, but does he apologize? No. He gets to where he's going: picks her up around the waist and wraps his arms around her and nearly squeezes the air out of her.

Doesn't say anything. Has his face buried against her hair, her neck. After a while, still without letting go, he just ... turns and sits down. With her. Still holding her.

Devon

She has no idea where she is. Somewhere in the fucking airport. And then another text: nevermind. He sees her. At this point, the fact that he uses 'nm' and the fact that he sees her are equal in their ability to make her want to burst into tears.

Devon's head snaps up as soon as she sees that text. He sees her. But she sees him, too. He's easier to pick out of a crowd: quite tall, and quite beautiful, and with a strength that even Devon doesn't know how to express in words. She doesn't quite know how to communicate what she's really seeing: his purity. The mad, mad blood in his veins.

Devon doesn't know that all Silver Fangs are mad.

--

So she bolts towards him, runs, and leaps onto him the way she did not so long after the first time they fucked, that time he was gone for days and she threw herself at him -- literally, in this sense. Throws her arms around him, wraps her legs around him, buries her face against his neck.

He picks her up. Sort of: catches her. Wraps his arm around her, squeezes her.

He hasn't seen her in three months. She sucks in air suddenly, and that's how he knows he really is squeezing the air out of her lungs. They're holding each other like doves, lovebirds, faces hidden. And then he turns, and sits right on the ground, and her legs adjust behind his back, and she doesn't look up, either.

Really no need to.

Everything she needs right now is right there.

Devon

[rafa sit on bench. not floor.]

Rafael

Passerbies chalk them up to lovers. Long-distance. Maybe she's a marine biologist or something, stationed on the coast for months. Maybe he's some sort of soldier. Maybe their work keeps them apart, or something about their lives. Doesn't matter. Anyone with eyes can see they haven't seen each other for some time. Anyone with eyes can see they're in love, and missed each other desperately, and their reunion is a private thing.

People avert their eyes. Go around them. No one looks at them, and they look at no one; just hold on to each other like maybe the sky will topple if they didn't. Seconds go by; then minutes maybe. He has a hand on the back of her head. Both arms tight around her. It's been months.

Devon

Long-separated lovers. Which is the case. A season, a spring. The way he holds her, his arms tight and corded and straining. The way she holds him back, trembling. Some people look away. Some people stare. One person takes a surreptitious photo for Instagram, tags it with something about themselves.

But they may as well be avoided entirely: Devon doesn't notice. Rafael doesn't notice. They are buried in each other. He is smelling her coffee and her cigarette, the grass outside, the stale air of the airport. She is smelling everything, and all of him, and mostly him. She lets herself be cradled. She doesn't ask him to loosen up, or let go, or talk.

It's a very long time before she even says, quiet: "Are you all right?"

Rafael

Doesn't really answer immediately. Makes this low sound, a grunt that could mean any number of things but mostly is just acknowledgment. He heard her. Just not ready to answer yet.

Bites her, softly. Nuzzles her shoulder and takes her gently in his teeth for a moment; nuzzles again. Then he draws back a little. Isn't squeezing her quite so hard. Isn't squeezing her at all, then: has her face between his hands, those big paws of his tender. He kisses her, a small, slow, soft thing.

Then, "Yeah. You?"

Devon

In a hotel room in Oregon, before they went out walking and before she and he slipped into bodies in other centuries, she told him not to bite her 'anymore'. Devon suddenly, vaguely remembers this. She cannot even remember why she told him that. She doesn't remind him of it now; she doesn't want to explain, chatter, go around it in circles.

He bites her now. Nuzzles and holds her gently between his teeth, then nuzzles her all over again, and it's hopelessly, inhumanly tender. She breathes in, and out, and he tries to hold her face and tries to kiss her but the intimacy of it is too much. Devon wriggles from his paws and buries her face on his shoulder again before he can kiss her, hiding, curling.

"Want to go home."

Then says:

"Want to see my mum."

And begins crying all over again.

Rafael

So he goes back to holding her, tightly, tightening his arms around her like maybe that'll help her put herself back together again.

There's a lot to unpack. Discuss. Ask. He knows so little: had nothing but some 17th-century witch's half-explanation, something about a price and a season. Had nothing but faith, really, that it wasn't just some dream, that he didn't make her up altogether. That she'd be back. And she knows so little, too: how or when he even came back from that other-life, and what's been going on in the meantime since she's been gone. Her roommate and her mother and her cousins in Boston and him: all of them moving about their lives, all of them suddenly askew in their orbits when she vanished so suddenly, so utterly.

It's too much. Neither of them can even start, except with the simplest threads. She's back. He came to get her. She wants to go home. She wants to see her mother.

He kisses her where he can, which happens to be the side of her head, somewhere above her ear. And then he gets up -- carries her if he must. Sets her down, if she can.

"Got your ticket," he says. "Heading right back out. That okay?"

Devon

When Devon starts crying, it wracks her. He can feel it all through her body, jerking through her limbs and ribs, radiating out from her spine. She's crying because she has to do all these things like call Brian and Sheila and find out what the hell they told her mum, and find out what Rafael did when the police showed up, and maybe find a new job. She's crying because really, she doesn't want to do these things. She wants to see her mum. She just wants her mum.

His mouth presses against her. He stands, her weight lifted rather effortlessly. She sniffs, trying to stop crying, but she doesn't realize he's trying to set her down so there she is, legs around his waist and arms around his shoulders, clinging to him koala-style.

She nods, wordless, hard, rough, against his shoulder. It's okay.

Rafael

She's crying. Hard. He can't carry her around like this; people will think he's doing something awful to her. Certainly can't try to go through security like this. TSA'll think he's some sort of terrorist.

So he sits again. And rubs her back. And waits for her to be okay, or some semblance of it. And glares, ferociously, at anyone who glances their way.

Devon

So Rafael sits, and Devon cries.

She quiets quickly. She's not the sort to go on and on. Especially not in public. She eventually is just curled up against him, his hand rubbing her back, her face hidden. She eventually is just breathing, holding onto him, until she starts to feel... something else. Something approaching normalcy.

For a long time she's just holding him, legs akimbo and curled around him, being held, until he's almost too warm for her, until her hips ache, until she can lift her head and look at him. Her eyes have turned red-ringed from tears. She sniffs. She has none of her makeup on. She still doesn't look like she wants to kiss or make out or anything. She just wants to see him.

If she spoke right now, she would just say that she missed him so much. She can't even think about how he might've felt. It surely must have felt longer to him.

"Can we talk about it tomorrow?" she asks, softly. "All of it. I just... need to wake up in a bed and feel normal for a moment. Start over."

Rafael

Doesn't try to kiss her again. Gets it -- instinctively, viscerally. It's too much. It's too intimate, overloading; after all that time, all that space, all that had happened.

Doesn't even know, yet, that to her it felt different. That the time that passed feels quasi-real, barely remembered. Maybe he'll know tomorrow. They'll talk about it tomorrow.

For now, he puts his hand on her face. No makeup to smudge and smear, no mascara to run wild down her face. Just his thumb smoothing across salt tracks, gentle and fond. "Yeah," he says again, quiet. "Come on."

He stands. He puts his arm around her, over her shoulders, heavy and protective. Steers her gate-ward, plane-ward.

"Let's go home."

that beach in oregon.

Devon

Before her eyes even open, Devon can smell the saltwater. Breathes in and opens her eyes, slowly, finding she's lying on her back on a rocky shore. Her lashes flick and she blinks a few times, sitting up, finding her body unharmed. She sees her feet are facing the water. A jacket weighs heavy on her; it's too warm. She shrugs out of it gradually, unsettled but not surprised: she can sense that it's summer the way animals know when the seasons change and begin to feed or mate or build or migrate. It's in her bones, even if the rest is sliding from her mind, like those lost memories: farther away the harder you reach for them.

Devon inhales again, slowly, looking around the beach a bit, looking for signs of life, for time of day. She knows the time of day, though. This is easy for her: a shadow, a cast of the light. She finds she is rather certain of the day, down to which half of the hour she's fallen in.

Something heavy in the pocket of that jacket. She blinks, disoriented and groggy, fumbling for her phone. It's the same one she's had since she moved to Colorado from Massachusetts. It's banged up, but has no new cracks or dents. And it has a full charge. And she was right about the time, right about the date, though it's still a shock to see it.

There are many missed calls. Her voicemail is full. She has a lot of texts. She doesn't read them, doesn't listen to her voicemail yet, her stomach sinking: mum. They talk all the time. Texts, emails. They talk on the phone at least a couple of times a week. And she's been gone for months. She probably started calling Rafael. Brian and Sheila probably did, too. And Naomi.

Devon doesn't even hold out hope that she still has a job. Even if it were somehow explained, no one keeps a waitress on the payroll who has been gone for three months. Waitresses and baristas don't take sabbaticals.

She breathes in, exhales. Tries to steady herself. She can't remember clearly what was said behind her as the Ladies came forward. She knows Oiguina and Assawetough and Hannah kept the others away from her so the price could be paid, but she doesn't know if they could explain it to Rafael or what happened to him, and suddenly, she realizes that they're all dead now. Centuries dead. Little Faith, too.

Tears are in her eyes and falling before she knows what to do. Before she comforts herself with the knowledge of lives lived in isolation and peace and control of their own destinies. Before she thinks about how silly it is to be crying over people who died four hundred years ago. They were her friends. They were the only coven she's ever known, and she only had them for a night.

Devon is crying then, sobbing, bent over with the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes. She knows she needs to call someone. She needs to call Rafa and see if he's still in Oregon or if he gave up and went home. She needs to call her mum and tell her... something. And she has to call Rafa first to see what he told her poor human mum and her poor kinfolk godparents and her poor human roommate Naomi and her poor human employers when everyone started pinging his phone or knocking on his door wanting to ask the scary boyfriend what the hell happened to the nomadic girl who took up with him.

She has to. But at the moment, she just really misses her sisters. Grieves them, and Mary Goffe, and Faith, and even Ulu, who she never knew. So at first, for a little while, Devon just covers her eyes and tucks her legs close and cries beside the water.

--

It passes because it has to. Because the longer she's here, the further away the rest feels. The more she cries the more she talks to herself, trying to calm down. It's grief. It'll linger. But the longer she stays here, crying by herself, the more the loneliness starts to press against her. And reason asserts in the back of her mind: you aren't going to feel less lonely if you just sit here alone forever. So she sniffs, and wipes her face, dragging up the hem of her shirt to dry her eyes.

Then, still without even checking the multitude of voicemails or texts or emails, Devon taps Rafael's grumpy-looking face on her contacts list.

Somewhere else, his phone rings. That picture of her staring sideways at the camera with her middle finger lifted, fingernail black, shows up on his screen.

Rafael

Considering wolf probably has no other friends than her, and considering he's probably nearly forgotten he has a cell phone by now, it's impressive that he answers on the second ring.

"Devon?" He sounds far away. He sounds -- cautious, and beneath that, barely contained, a sort of raw hopefulness. "That you?"

Devon

Devon?

"Yeah," she exhales, and fresh tears are flooding her eyes at the sound of his voice. The fact that he's cautious. The fact that this signifies to her that it really is him, because of course he hardly ever dares to hope. He's so grumpy. She's shaking, and so she grips her phone a little harder.

"Yeah," she repeats, when he wants confirmation. "It's me. I'm here." Here is = ?

"I think I'm on that beach in Orgeon." Devon starts crying in earnest now, not sniffling, but they're rolling down and her voice is a little choked. "Did you stay? Can you come get me?"

Rafael

It's me.

Doesn't say anything to that. No jesus christ or thank god or whatever else one might say when a long-lost loved one suddenly resurfaces. Just -- this exhale, this rush of breath barely caught by his cellphone mic. Then a beat of silence, awkward.

"Had to go back," he says. He can tell she's crying; feels wretched about it. "Stayed a couple weeks. Told me you'd gone to keep your word, that blonde girl. Before I came back from Newbury. So I tried to wait for you. But then people started looking for you. Your mom was freaking out. I didn't know how to tell her. I told Brian, and Sheila. Don't know if they believed me or what they told your mom. Your roommate called the cops, anyway. That's when I went back to Denver.

"I'll get on the first plane over. Probably be there in a few hours. Can you get to the airport? Uber or something?"

Devon

"Hannah," Devon can't help herself. That blonde girl. Hannah. Who literally gave her up to be hanged or burnt at the stake and ended up becoming her sister, as close and as necessary as Asswetough, as Oiguina. She aches to think of her. She aches to think of Rafael alone for months, with only what 'that blonde girl' told him to give him peace.

"She called the cops?" Devon repeats, of Naomi's action. "Shit, what happened?"

They're talking over each other. She wipes at her face but she keeps crying. At this point she hardly even knows why, exactly. All of it. Everything. Grief. Worry. Guilt. Overpowering, body-wracking relief.

She realizes she is nodding and not answering him.

"Yeah." The Uber account on her phone is still linked to his money, anyway. His credit cards. His vast bank balances. "Just. Stay. Stay on the phone, I'm going to get a car right now." And then she starts crying, very hard, even though she feels really stupid for it and she's trying to stop: "Please don't hang up."

Rafael

Answers her the best he can, piecemeal:

"Think she thought I killed you. Called me asking why you weren't picking up. When I couldn't give her a good answer, think she got scared. Next day cops were at my place with a warrant. Had to go in for questioning."

And,

"Not gonna hang up." Reminds him of that other time, long ago, when it was frigid cold and she was underdressed and he was driving to get her. "Don't cry. Baby, don't cry."

Devon

"Oh, god..." Devon mutters, regarding Naomi, regarding the police.

But then she's sobbing, and begging, and he's calling her baby, which he never does. She calls him 'babe', sometimes, somewhere between an endearment and a claim and a simple statement of her opinion of his appearance, but he doesn't really call her things. Babe or baby or dear or sweetheart or darling or often even her name, unless he is Very Serious.

For a second it seems like him urging her not to cry is going to have the opposite effect and only make her cry harder, but she doesn't want to be crying in the first place. She forces herself to breathe in deep, even if it's just through her mouth, and there's something hitched and asthmatic and shaky about it, but she does it. It actually is hard for her, for a moment, to exhale. She ends up, perhaps absurdly, yawning. And then her mouth fills with air again and she sighs it out. She sniffs and then inhales, deeply, this time through her nose. Exhales slowly.

He can hear her take these breaths, some of them tremulous, until she gets herself under control a little. Sniffs again. "Okay," she whispers, sounding rather small at the moment, sounding -- for this is what she is -- just overwhelmed. Too many emotions, too much in her mind. "I'm going to call the car."

He promised not to hang up, but it's still difficult for her to take the phone away from her ear. Feels like a disconnection she can barely handle right now. She opens up Uber. She taps the button to request a car. She is reminded to turn on her GPS, mutters jesus fucking christ in annoyance as she turns it on and tries again. She waits a few seconds, gets a notification that 'Antonio' is on his way, and then she puts the phone back to her ear.

"I'm going to the airport," she says, somewhat dumbly, because she doesn't know what else to say. If she tells him she can't wait to see him, she's going to probably start crying again like an idiot. If she asks him when he'll be there she knows he won't know yet and then she'll probably start crying again like an idiot. She almost asks him if he thinks she should eat, then realizes that is an idiotic thing to ask and he doesn't know how her stomach feels.

"I miss you," is what Devon finally settles on, because she can say this without breaking down, because she really does miss him, even though it feels like she just saw him a few minutes ago, a few hours ago. At most a few days ago. Not three months. Those three months, for her, are gone.

Not gone. They're there, written under her skin. She just can't remember them. It's different.

Rafael

She hears him -- make this sound, this exhale, harsh, like he's been gut-punched.

A long silence.

"Miss you too. So much."

Beat.

"Coming to get you. Stay at the airport. Be there on the next flight. Promise."

Devon

A sort of long almost-silence. Because she interrupts, worried: "Babe? Are you al--"

Miss you too. So much.

And she understands her, brow beetling deeply and her bright eyes closing. That he isn't there to show her how he feels with his body folding around her, by holding her, anything like that. That he had to find a way to the words through the intensity of whatever it is that made him make that sound. That they don't come anywhere near capturing what that feeling is.

Nearby, a car is rolling to a stop in the parking lot beside the part of the beach Devon is on. She sniffs again, wiping her face. It occurs to her that he could just buy her a ticket, pick her up in Denver, but she's glad they aren't doing that. It's stupid. Doing it this way doesn't actually get them together faster, probably. But she doesn't care. She's glad he's coming to get her. She's glad she doesn't have to get on a plane alone, no buffer between her and all those strangers.

"All right," she says, standing up and half-turning, waving briefly at the driver. "Car's here. I'll be at the airport."

A brief pause. "Love you, Rafa," she says quietly.

Rafael

"Love you, Devon." He doesn't even hesitate this time. "See you soon."

And this small gentleness: he lets her hang up first.