thanksgiving.

Devon

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

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

Back in their shoes. Back with their bags.

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

Rafael

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

Rafael

Her boot thumps his leg.

Her boot thumps his leg.

Her boot thumps --

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

Devon

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

She grins.

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

Rafael

"Maybe my pants are dirty," he retorts.

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

"We gonna stay in your room again tonight?"

Devon

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

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

Rafael

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

Devon

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

Devon

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

Ever.

She just quirks a brow at him.

Rafael

Doesn't understand: "What?"

Devon

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

Rafael

Wolf grunts. "That sounded like a tease."

Devon

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

Rafael

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

Devon

This makes her laugh.

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

Rafael

They're glad he's coming back.

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

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

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

"They know you wanna tell her?"

Devon

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

Awkwardness. Feelings!

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

Rafael

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

"No one ever taught you the names?"

Devon

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

Rafael

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

Devon

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

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

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

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

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

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

Couple beats.

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

Devon

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

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

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

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

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

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

Couple beats.

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

[WHOOPS]

Devon

[DLP x2]

Devon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

Rafael

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

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

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

Devon

That makes her laugh. Game of Thrones.

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

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

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

It would not be history class.

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

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

So she smiles.

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

Rafael

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

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

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

"Yeah. Kinda is."

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

Devon

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

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

Just wants her close.

Devon

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

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

--

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

Rafael

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

Devon

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

Rafael

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

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

Rafael

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

Devon

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

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

Rafael

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

Devon

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

She probably wouldn't have.

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

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

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

Devon

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

well. It's basically what happened.

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

Meat good.

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

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

Rafael

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

"Sorry." It's muttered.

Devon

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

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

That's where she lands. Softly.

Rafael

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

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

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

Rafael

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

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

Devon

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

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

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

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