There'ss a drunken night wandering Boston and the Harvard Yard, sneaking into Devon's godparents' house just a few hours shy of dawn. Creaky steps and muffled laughter; a creaky bed and muffled moans.
Other than the big meal with a totally different group of cousins and friends than last year, Devon spends more time out of the house with Rafael this year, showing him the schools she went to the various times she lived here. She tells him brief snippets of stories, which are sometimes all she can do without getting too caught up in past angst: a friend from elementary who moved away, a teacher who told her that it was okay if math was hard for her, that her imagination was more important, but that she would be able to do more with her imagination if she worked harder at the hard thing, a brief stint doing props for school plays before she moved with her mum to London. That leads to a conversation where he learns that Devon can do things like whittle and sew, and she tells him she'll show him some of the things she makes other than potions when they get home.
Home.
When we get home
is exactly how she says it. Their home. Her cluttered and messy room that smells of a thousand things that are not her but represent her effect on the world. His clean, stark room, which he doesn't know that she thinks of as 'serene' and 'calm' rather than empty or dull. His comfy armchair, their stack of frozen pizzas in the freezer, the barstools that are -- without anyone labeling anything or saying it aloud -- His and Hers. Home, which is not just his anymore, not even in Devon's mind.
--
They've been back now for a couple of weeks, and Rafael's people have decorated the outside of his house with white lights, a silver-leafed wreath on the door, greenery wound along a fence. Real greenery, of course: his house smells richly of evergreen when people walk by. It's uncertain if Devon asked them to decorate or if Rafael did or if it's just something they took upon themselves to do, but the exterior of the house is somewhat minimalistic, classy, understated.
The interior is decorated, too, but more haphazardly: Devon has strung up multicolored lights in her own room, and wound silver and red ribbon around the railing of the stairs. She took leftover evergreen bits from outside and has made little ornaments from them and ribbon and ornaments she got at Goodwill, and those are hung by windows and sitting on counters and dangling off doorhandles. She also got a very fat, slightly melted candle shaped like a snowman at Goodwill, and it is displayed with pride of place on the middle of the dining table. The snowman has a very goofy smile, even though part of his top hat is now a little well of dusty wax.
Regarding the party at the mountain house: planning has been going on for some months now, since late summer. The venue obviously would not need to be booked, but caterers and bartenders did. Linens had to be rented, decor had to be designed and approved and ordered, and given the changes Rafael is making from the traditional parties his clan hosted during his mother's reign, they can't simply wave a hand and say let's just re-do '01 with some edits'
This year Devon's mum is staying in London, and Devon and Rafael are staying in Denver (if one doesn't count the party). It's not a point of depression for Devon: she's seen her mother more since meeting Rafael than in the two years before. They're going to Skype on Christmas.
--
When Rafael comes home tonight, from whatever he was doing -- a hunt, a patrol, something with his pack, maybe just shopping -- Devon is sitting on 'her' barstool, cutting a huge orange into thin slices. There's a stock pot before her, cinnamon sticks, cloves, and the like, and a jug of apple cider.
She's in pretty regular around-home clothes for her, which means socks that go up over her knees and a little pair of shorts (these ones have tiny rainbows all over them) and a tank top. However, since it is chilly, she is also wearing one of Rafael's hoodies. Not a 'stolen' one, just one she got out of his closet because he isn't currently using it. Her hair is in two long black braids.
There's also a bottle of Leopold Brother's apple whiskey, which -- unlike the cider -- is already opened, poured, and being enjoyed.
He comes in, though, and she brightens. Her back straightens. She turns on her stool a little, hands smelling of citrus, perhaps preparing herself to be scooped up and loved on.
RafaelWhole house smells like her latest brew, which is perhaps less exotic than most her brews. Smells like the holidays. Smells like warmth and the harvest, and spices to warm one's blood after being in the cold.
Which he has. Been in the cold, that is. Shopping. With his pack. Because apparently you're supposed to shop for Christmas presents for your loved ones, but he had no experience with it and so they did what good packmates do: taught him. Brought him along. Took him to a string of malls and shops and boutiques and big-boxes while he glowered confusedly at the displays and begrudgingly picked out a scarf for the housekeeper, a watch for the valet, a pen for the accountant, and so on and so forth.
Some things for his packmates, too. Some things for his girlfriend. And so he's bumping awkwardly through the door, laden with tastefully store-wrapped presents, immediately sniffing at the air.
"Making cider or something?" He drops the presents on the dining table -- the long, elegant one that they virtually never use. Rolls his shoulders after like it was such an effort for him, musclebound Ahroun that he is, to carry an armful of presents up the driveway. Grabs a little box out of the pile and comes over to where she's straightening up, eyes bright, smelling of citrus and cinnamon.
He puts the box on the bar in front of her. Leans down, kisses her.
DevonThe soon-to-be-mulled cider certainly smells better than some of her brews, which are -- unfortunately -- usually the most potent ones. Like her hangover cure. That one is pure magic, and it looks and smells and tastes like a green crawling death.
Still better than a hangover that lasts all day, but for emergencies only.
--
He was shopping. He told her he was going and there wasn't really even a suggestion that she go, or an indication that she would like to. Devon doesn't like doing things with other people, generally. Devon is slightly tense hanging around werewolves. Even nice ones. So he went shopping for gifts and comes back bearing bags of them, some of which are from his alpha because 'oh you must let me, that color looks so good on you' and 'you can't tell me you don't have a monogrammed robe and think I'm going to let that nonsense go on' and so forth.
He starts putting things down, and Devon smiles at him, waiting for him at the barstool, opening her legs and her arms to him, wrapping both around him when he leans toward her. She does glance briefly at the present, but only just. He's kissing her, and she kisses him back, sighing warmly as her arms tighten around his neck.
"Just started," she says. Hasn't even toasted the spices yet. Hasn't warmed the cider. "Did you have fun?"
Rafael"No," he grumbles. It's an automatism. After a beat -- after a second kiss, briefer but somehow more lingering -- he reconsiders.
"Yeah. A little." He straightens. Picks up the wrapped box and moves it closer to her. "Got you something."
DevonShe smiles when he grumbles that No. Even if he weren't Rafael -- who prefers to be alone most of the time, who has so few friends he doesn't recognize them, who was sort of innocently and hesitantly bemused to hear that Devon's family likes him visiting -- she wouldn't expect him to say he had fun shopping for Christmas presents.
But she smiles a bit more when he admits he did. A little. Because that's Rafael, too. There's more warmth and generosity in him than he even he quite knows what to do with. He's no Ghandi, no Mother Theresa, but he's not soulless. He may be a monster, but his heart is a curious blend of man and wolf. And both tend to be capable of deep love.
He loves her. She knows that. He's loved her for like two years now, she thinks, probably loved her even before he could name it in himself, or bear to say it aloud. Love's such a tender, secret thing.
He nudges her present closer. He wants her to notice it. She smiles and picks it up, looks it over, examines the wrapping or ribbon, if any.
"Not Christmas yet," she tells him.
RafaelIt's a smallish box; a cube perhaps four inches to a side. It's wrapped in silver wrapping paper, which is imprinted with silver snowflakes. The ribbon is silver too. There is no way, none in heaven or hell, that any of that was his handiwork.
"Not your Christmas present," he retorts, doing his best to affect nonchalance. "Just a thing."
DevonShe laughs a little bit. "All right," she concedes, and tugs one edge of the ribbon, letting the curls shrink in on themselves, unwind from their careful ripples and curves. She sets that ribbon aside, then the edge of her thumbnail gently pierces the paper. She unwraps it with surprising care. Apparently she's not the sort to tear everything apart in a frenzy to get at the gift. Nor is she the sort who unfolds the paper and doesn't rip so much as a corner. She's oddly fastidious about it, savoring, like she's building up her own anticipation. There's something furtive about it too, like a small animal methodically but eagerly trying to crack a nut.
So the paper -- ripped but not shredded -- is peeled off, leaving her with a box to look at, examining that, too, before she looks for a hinge, or loosens the lid.
RafaelFaint smile on his mouth as he watches her get the present open. She's so fucking endearing. He's so fucking endeared. While she peels the paper off, he pulls one of the ribbons over. Plays with it thoughtlessly, pulling it straight and letting it recoil between his hands.
The box is rather plain: matte white, no hinges or levers or clasps or -- anything, really. Just a lid and a bottom. Which isn't to say cheap or tacky, because it's not: it's nice. But nothing fancy, nothing spectacular. Surely he could afford customized, bespoke gifts. This is not one. This is something from a decent store in a nice mall.
While she opens it, he watches her. Not the box or her hands, but her. Her face. He already knows what's in there, after all: not jewelry but a simple satchel of chamois dyed charcoal-grey. The slide-clasp on the drawstring is in the shape of a crescent moon. Her initials are tooled into the soft leather.
There's something inside -- a simple copper clip, about large enough to hold a deck of cards.
"Figured you could use something to carry your cards around," he says.
DevonSo at first she thinks the leather bag is the gift because it is pretty and it would be good, itself, for holding a deck of cards. She's smiling to see it, her initials and the moon and everything, and then she picks it up and realizes there is something heavy inside. Devon looks briefly bemused, then tugs the string, wiggles a finger into the bag, and then tips it out into her palm.
She looks at it not quite knowing what it is, and then he says: cards. And she realizes that the bag and the clip are the gift, and it's so pretty.
Devon beams up at him.
"Thank you, babe," she murmurs, very soft, wrapping her legs around him where she sits, holding the clip and bag in her hands. "They're so pretty."
RafaelThere's that grin of his, rare, quick. "You like it?" he asks, inanely, because of course she does. He knows she does. Only asks because -- well. Maybe because he's so unused to giftgiving. The whole process of it.
Almost thoughtlessly his hands drop to her thighs, cup the outside of her legs. "Just saw it and thought of you."
Devon"Of course I do, dummy," she says, laughing at him. He's touching her, keeping their bodies close. She thinks his jacket is cold, his jeans are cold, but he's inside now and she's warming him up. Truth is, he's warming her up. The chill on his clothes is no more than a passing breeze trying to cling to something more solid than itself.
Perhaps the polite thing to do now is to at least make a pretense of apologizing for not having anything for him. Maybe she should start thinking about what to get him for Christmas, if they're going to start exchanging gifts now. But Devon doesn't do either of those things. He gave her something because he saw it and thought of her. She would do the same if she saw something and thought he might like it, or if it pleased her. They don't have to be gift-givers. Not as a routine. Not as a seasonal obligation. She knows that, without having to discuss it with him.
He saw it and thought of her. He is happy she likes it. He is happy that she thinks it's pretty.
She just smiles at him. "You want to learn how to mull cider?" she asks.
RafaelSomehow this makes him smile again. "Sound like some medieval alewife," he says, "teaching me how to mull cider and brew ale. Maybe ferment some mead in the summer."
DevonHer nose wrinkles. "I do not," she argues, wiggling a bit until he steps aside and she can slide off the barstool. She tucks the clip back into its bag, and then tucks the bag back into its box, and then puts the lid on the box, and then picks it and the wrapping paper and the ribbon up to move them to the table where they won't get messy.
"Don't know how to brew ale or ferment mead, anyway," she explaines. "Just potions and tinctures and salves, my pretty," she adds, making her voice a bit more shrill, with a cackling edge, wiggling her fingers at him.
Devon reaches for him. Takes his hand. "Come on. We'll get drunk on whiskey cider and watch the Muppet Christmas Carol."
