grand junction.

Devon

When they are almost to Grand Junction, Devon thinks they should keep going.

When they are in Grand Junction, passing hotels, approaching the glut of them beside the regional airport, Devon -- sweaty under her helmet, thighs and butt sore, thinking of how food tastes better when it's warm -- wants him to stop.

So they pull over to the Holiday Inn, the nicest-looking one. The cleanest-looking. This time she doesn't care if he pays, and doesn't pull out her tips from her satchel. When they get into their room with the king-sized bed and the little fridge-microwave combo and the white towels, she goes to the bathroom and then sits down on the floor, taking off her jacket, her clothes, until she's sitting there naked and unwinding her braids.

Devon has been in this room all of five minutes and the floor is already littered with her detritus.

Rafael

Wolf trails behind her, taking time to do things like fill the ice bucket and lock the door and close the curtains. And then unlock the door and go downstairs and ask for some toothpaste, some toothbrushes, because they 'forgot'. There's a market pantry in the lobby; he buys some bottles of water, some preservative-laden packaged muffins for the morning. Also a couple cup noodles, because sometimes after a long trip you just want something hot and warm and liquid.

Door beeps softly when his card activates the lock. He comes in, setting his spoils down. Comes into the bathroom, which is obviously where she is because she's not in the main room and there are only so many places one can look. He's already kicked off his shoes.

She's naked on the floor. He tosses her a towel, not to cover up but -- "Sit on that. Floors are dirty as hell, don't you know that?" And then he lowers the lid on the toilet and sits there, because obviously toilets aren't gross; leans back against the tank with a satisfied grunt.

"Think you can handle another day's ride? Gonna be longer than today's. Maybe I should get one of those cruiser bikes. With big cushy seats and a stereo."

Devon

She looks up at him from where she sits on the floor, naked, and sticks her tongue out at him. "M'bout to shower," she says, and tosses the towel back at him. Specifically, his face.

Finger-combs that long, thick, currently somewhat greasy hair of hers now that it's all down. She nods. "Can handle it. Can just stop a little more. Stretch."

Pushing off the floor, Devon picks up her panties, the ones she was wearing today. She hand-washes them in the sink even though she's got a pack of brand-new ones from the same place where they got her jeans. Hangs them off a doorknob to dry. Stands in front of him before leaning over, cranking on the water. "Like your bike the way it is. Suits you," she adds, a little louder than before, now that the water is pelting the tub.

Rafael

He makes a half-hearted attempt to catch the towel; mostly just bats it off his face and traps it against his stomach. Puts it on a hook on the wall. There are little bottles of shampoo, conditioner, bodywash. He adds two toothbrushes and two tiny tubes of toothpaste.

"Yeah, like it too," he agrees. His eyes flick down when she leans over. "Don't like the cruisers anyway. Might as well go in a car.

"We should shower first," he adds. "Then I'll soak with you."

Devon

"Exactly," is Devon's estimation of the somehow slim difference between a cruiser bike and a car.

She closes the curtain as the water from the showerhead pours and warms. Sees him looking at her and tips her head to the side. Considers him like that for a moment, like she's studying him. Then steps over to him, between his knees, and puts her hands on his chest.

"You smell bad," she says, strangely soft, oddly tender. Leans over and kisses his mouth,

also soft.

Also tender.

Rafael

His spine straightens as she nears, his back lifting from the water tank. He looks at her, animal and alert, as she comes to stand between his knees. Her hands on his chest.

His hands touch the outsides of her thighs. He has callouses, and but the touch is gentle and his palms are very warm. He makes a little sound into her mouth when she kisses him, quiet and satisfied and -- finding, that's the word for it.

It is a tender kiss from his end too. They don't rush anywhere.

Devon

Likes that: how he straightens up. If he were human she'd liken it to guys trying to seem taller, trying to seem bigger, trying to stand out, attract her. He's not human. She's seen him do the same thing when he hears an odd noise; she likes that he's sniffing for her, in a way, preparing for her. She likes, too, that he seems a little uncertain of her when he does this, even now. What she might do.

Not sure if it's simple anticipation or not. She doesn't really care.

Devon hears the recognition of her in that sound he makes as she gives him that soft, small kiss. She parts a little, and his lips touch hers, kissing her back again. Devon stays where she is, standing between his feet, touching his chest, kissing him chastely even though she's currently standing naked in front of him in a room rapidly filling with steam.

Her hands slide down while she's kissing her boyfriend, slipping under his shirt, tugging the hem upward.

Rafael

There's an unspoken synchrony. She reaches down. He lifts his arms. She pulls and the shirt comes up, sliding soft over his skin. It pulls free of his head, his thick black hair. His hands, falling, skim and caress her body. He puts his palms on her waist, fingers wrapping around; kisses her between her breasts.

Stands, then. Closing the already-miniscule distance; crowding her a little. Then simply picking her up, hoisting her quick and swift. There's a wall. He puts her back against it, kissing her again.

Devon

Now he's touching her, and that kiss is growing more heated even when it breaks so they can take his shirt completely off. Now he's kissing her chest, her breasts stroking his cheeks as he kisses her skin.

Devon is ready for him to stand when he does; she huffs a breath and steps back, uncrowding herself from him a little even though she doesn't stop their bodies from pressing together. Her breasts. His body. She bites her lip gently.

And he's picking her up, effortless and sudden, pushing her to a wall, and kissing her mouth. She is laughing, though; the kiss tatters apart. She moves her head; tucks it against his neck, wraps her arms around him.

"Want to go slow," she says, muffled on his shoulder. "Can just do it in bed after we shower if you want. Fall asleep like that."

Rafael

That gives him pause. He seems to think about it for a moment. Then he nuzzles her, firmly, almost aggressively. Nips at her shoulder.

"Yeah, sure." He likes the proposition. Lets her back down, her feet on the thin towel that every hotel in the world seems to use as a bathmat. Water is still blasting into the tub. He still thinks the appropriate course of action is shower, then soak, but he doesn't complain. Gives her his hand if she wants something to hold on to, stepping in there.

Devon

Wonders if he's going to be disappointed, frustrated. Nuzzles her though, and nips her, and she wiggles her shoulder away from his teeth. But he lets her down, and she smirks. Reaches for the curtain and pushes it aside. "You... may want to take off your pants before you shower," she advises, stepping into the tub and closing said curtain.

Rafael

She closes the curtain on his smirk. He answers through the thin waterproof barrier: "Thanks."

Few seconds later he opens the curtain again. Steps in, bare now, the water misting his skin. He reaches for the little bottle of shampoo, pours some in his palm.

All told it's a rather efficient, platonic shower. They share space; touch unflinchingly. No shenanigans, though. He finishes before her, ducking under the spray for one more rinse before stepping out. She hears him brushing his teeth.

Devon

He steps in and Devon is soaking wet. She's standing there with her head leaning back, hair saturated now, hanging long and thick down her back. She opens her eyes, tipping her head up again, and shifts aside to let him use the water. Meanwhile she's getting the shampoo. Lathering up her hair, switching places with him.

It is not that platonic of a shower. She slides her wet, naked body against his every time they trade spots. It is not quite flinching, but nor is it chaste. She watches him a little, as she's rinsing conditioner out of her hair, and the clean, clear runoff is making her breasts and her stomach gleam.

But he finishes before her. Steps out to go brush his teeth.

Rafael

It is not chaste.

But he keeps his hands to himself. By the end he keeps his eyes to himself too. Who knew he was so well-behaved. Still half-hard from all the brushing-by, the sliding contact. Nearness of that naked wet body of hers. He concentrates, though: brushes his teeth, scrubs at them really. Spits in the sink and rinses.

"See you in bed," he says. And she can be forgiven for thinking he seems eager to get there.

Devon

At first Devon is a little confused, maybe a little hurt even: she's rubbing her body against him, naked. Wet. Slippery. She's staring at him as water runs down her body. How is he not touching her? Why isn't he telling her how she's making him feel? Why doesn't he show her how she makes him feel? Behind him, finishing up washing up, she hears him brush his teeth and she's kind of sad and at a loss.

It's the See you in bed that she hears, then. He's already on his way out of the bathroom and she rolls her eyes to herself, shaking her head. She told him bed. He thinks: bed. Bed is where sex will happen, now. He is not changeable like she is, he is more linear than she is. He is literal. She told him she wanted to have sex in bed if he wanted. Slow. After they got clean.

So that is what he is on his merry way to do.

Devon, naturally

(because it really is in her nature to be contrary),

decides to make him wait.

--

She takes far longer in the shower than is necessary. She gets out the little razor she asked him to get her from downstairs and carefully shaves her legs, her armpits anew. She rinses her hair in cool water to make it shine. She wrings it out carefully, dries it meticulously with a towel. The door is open a crack to let steam out, but only a crack.

She brushes her teeth. She flosses. She uses mouthwash. She combs her hair and squeezes as much water as possible out of it. Uses the hair dryer a bit, too -- not completely, that would take forever, but enough so she won't leave her pillow wet.

Then she turns off the light in the bathroom, turns off the overhead fan, and walks into the bedroom.

Rafael

Christ she takes forever. Almost forever. Wolf's out there waiting, losing his half-mast, flipping on the TV, eventually settling for watching some shitty made-for-TV movie.

Light clicks off in the bathroom. Then the fan. Then the door opens and he's sitting up in bed, bare back to the headboard. Head rolls against it as he turns to look at her. From across the room she can see his eyes moving down her body, lingeringly.

He clicks the TV off without looking. Reaches over to her side of the bed and flicks the covers back. Bed is where sex will happen, now.

Devon

Dark, in there. No light behind her, and just the dim, fuzzy yellow glow of the nightstand light hitting her. Bright enough to see her, though. See the color and shape of her nipples, the motion of her breasts as she breathes, even subtly, normally, calmly.

He's looking at her when he touches the 'off' button on the remote, and pulls the covers back to welcome her in. Devon steps over, climbing onto the mattress, her knees and hands denting the sheets. She looks at him, on all fours, and then she reaches over, looking at his face, and pulls the covers down, off of his body. Looks away, but only because she has to sweep her long, cool, damp hair off her face with one hand as she leans over his lap.

Devon doesn't care that he's soft, or mostly soft, when she takes him in her mouth. She sort of likes it. Wants to feel him get hard as she licks him like that. Wants to do it slowly.

Rafael

Wolf doesn't grab the covers when she starts pulling them off. Cool clean sheets slide over his skin -- dry now -- and stop somewhere at the level of his thighs. His skin prickles in the air; to her sight. He feels almost a little self conscious.

She leans over him. He knows what she's going for, and anticipation makes him draw a breath. He smells clean, like the spicy gender-neutral hotel soap. He closes his eyes when she takes him in his mouth, a second breath rushing sussurant through his nostrils. Tips his head back against the headboard. Her cool hair, still a little damp, sweeps across his thigh. Then his fingers, when he passes his hand into the thickness, the darkness; holds her hair back for her. Cradles her head.

Devon

This is soft. This is slow, just like she wanted. She doesn't do this very much. To be fair, he doesn't go down on her very much, either. They like to have sex. They like doing it in bed, under the covers, usually in some regular boring old vanilla position. But they like it. It's what they want. Sometimes it's what they need.

Everyone needs this a little bit, too, though. To be tended to. To be pleased, unselfishly, but knowing that the person doing the pleasing likes it. Gets something out of it. Devon does. This is making her wet, right now, sucking on her boyfriend's cock in some road motel after spending a day on his motorcycle. She touches his cock while she gives him this sweet, wet, slow blowjob, moaning a little around him after a while, her other hand briefly reaching between her legs to rub her clit for a few seconds before she puts it down on the mattress again to hold herself up over him.

It's quiet in here, but for the hum of the mechanicals, the not-so-distant sound of planes at the regional airport, the nearby highway, even the people in neighboring rooms watching tv or talking to each other. No one else fucking, at least not right around their room.

"Fuck," she whispers, sliding her mouth off of him for a few seconds to breathe a little more deeply, to stroke him with her hand. "Fuck, I love your cock," and her breath is on it, and then she's on it again too, moaning a little louder this time, no longer holding him with her hand. One holds her own body up, pressed into the mattress. The other is between her legs again, rubbing at her pussy while her head bobs over his lap.

Rafael

Quiet while she does this. Quiet, like he doesn't quite know how to react or what to say; this rare pleasure they give each other. She doesn't suck him off very much. He almost never remembers to lick her. They're so vanilla sometimes, just sex under the covers, but god: they do like it like that.

So: quiet. And thrummingly, electrically aware, his fingers gripping ever so slightly against her scalp, a tension in the marrow of his bones. A couple times he sucks a breath through his teeth. When she whispers, he opens his eyes, looks down. Sees her touching herself so he leans over, his hand running down her back. He cups her ass, rubs, slips his fingers along her slit.

Then he gathers her up. His hand on her cheek, his hand -- slightly wet -- on her arm, pulling her up. He kisses her silently and fiercely, pulling her onto his lap; shifts suddenly and seismically under her to scoot down the bed a little, make room.

"Here," he mutters, by which he means: he wants her to sink down on his lap, sink down on his cock, ride him. That's what he means, but it's that one syllable that makes it out.

Devon

After a while it's hard to know, other than by how hard his cock is, if he even likes this. So she doesn't do it for very long. It may even be part of why she doesn't do it that often; sometimes it seems more for her than him. Feels that way, maybe.

Not that she cares, when he touches her. She moans around him as his fingers join hers. She guides them a little to where she wants him to rub, stroke, but even that doesn't last very long. He's sitting up, tugging on her, and she's letting go of him, climbing up his body, straddling his waist as he kisses her. Bending over him, her hand on his jaw, kissing him just as ferociously, hungrily. He doesn't mind her reddened mouth; she doesn't mind his slick hand.

Here, he says, hands on her hips, trying to move her against his cock. She finds him, rubs herself against him a little, smirking into kissing him. Teases him like that for a while, winding her hips, rubbing her pussy along his erection like she doesn't know what he means when she damn well does. Not forever, though; she's tired, and she wants to sleep, and she's horny, and she wants to fuck, and she's in love with him, and

so.

So she pushes herself up a bit, hands on his chest, and then one hand on his chest and one hand between their bodies, taking hold of him, guiding him to her, and into her. Both hands on him again, then, while she sinks down, rolls herself down gently, slowly, gasping softly as her body takes him in, adapts to him all over again. Familiarity is supposed to make you bored, isn't it? It's not supposed to fill you with this bone-deep sense of recognition and comfort and eager anticipation for what you know it's going to feel like in two minutes, in five, in ten.

Devon leans over him again. Kisses him while she holds him, not really fucking him yet, not really moving that much other than these soft, slow rolls of her hips, getting used to having him inside of her.

Rafael

He likes it. Sure she can tell when he pulls her up, when she climbs onto him, when he kisses her with mute, furious passion before she even puts her hands on him. But she does put her hands on him, and his on hers: they grip at each other, slow but hungry, bringing their bodies perfectly, perfectly together.
He holds her by the waist as she sinks onto him. They are paused for a moment, a precipice before the rush -- and he whispers, a touch out of breath:

"Hey." His eyes are open and he's looking at her, complex, twisting. Says it like it's something new, or at least something vitally important: "I love you."

There is no way for her to tell that this is a sequel, a continuation to their strange and uncomfortable conversation in the parking lot of the diner. He certainly doesn't have the words to explain it. But maybe she knows anyway. Or maybe she doesn't. That's okay too. He wraps his strong arms around her; cradles her on his lap. She starts to move and hears him sigh. Feels him biting at her shoulder, gentle, almost delicate.

Devon

There is no way for her to tell, or understand. She doesn't know anyway that right now, when they're making love and he tells her that he loves her, that it is related to anything else. That he might be trying to make up for an inadequate response, an uncomforting squeeze on her shoulder. She has no way of knowing, and does not know.

It doesn't really matter. She kisses him and moves on him, slowly like she promised or decreed earlier, before that shower where she rubbed her soft body against his harder one, her fair body against his darker one. Her hands smooth up his chest and cup his face in her hands, keeping him there to kiss her, and keep kissing her.

They can still hear the highway, and the airport, and someone else's television, and the drip of water in the bathroom sink. Her hands slip into his still-damp hair. "I love you too," she whispers, after a long stretch of softly panting silence, her lips leaving his for just a moment. "I'm yours," she whispers, too, but this one without really thinking. Without really knowing she's saying it.

Rafael

His teeth seize her at that, harder, like he can't help himself. And he can't. He growls. He turns her under, then, a quick powerful swivel, the hotel bedsprings bouncing. His elbows on the sheets, he pushes himself up over her; strokes back that thick wet hair of hers.

They're fucking like this again. Under covers, in bed, male on top; classic. Maybe it's unimaginative, but it's also unimaginably close; intense. And tender. He wants to turn the light out but it's so far away, and so he leaves it on, and so he can see the color of her eyes, the threads of blue amidst the blue, and if he had more words to his name he could name them: cerulean and cobalt, azure and aquamarine.

He doesn't have more words. Her eyes are blue, but the blue is so blue that he thinks, looking at her, he's never really known blue before.

--

It is slow. He keeps to that promise, that decree. He stays very close to her, their arms wrapped around each other; sometimes there's something almost protective in the way he makes love to her. Covers her and shelters her, hides her away under his body, the blankets; fucks her like that, secretly and claimingly; growls as he comes into her almost as a warning, almost to ward off ... anyone, everyone. She's his, after all. That's what she said. He believes her.

When it's over there's a light sweat on his body, and his breath rushes clear down to his diaphragm on each inhale. It takes his hand two blind bats to get the light off. Then they're left in the darkness, waiting for rhythms to return to baseline. After a while it's too hot to stay together, so he rolls off onto his side, then turns on his back. They touch, arms and shoulders and legs. He finds her hand somewhere and threads his fingers through hers, flops their conjoined hands over his stomach where they rise and fall, rise and fall with his breathing.

Devon

On some level Devon knew he would. When she heard herself saying such a scary, strange thing, she knew how he would respond to it. One moment she can feel his breath against her lips, only briefly parted from the kisses she was giving him before she said anything, and then he is growling, biting her shoulder, holding her against him and rolling her onto her back. She tenses slightly, expecting him to start pounding at her, ferocious and animal and uninvited, but he doesn't.

He lays on top of her, and sees that thrumming tension that was not there three seconds ago but is there now: perhaps he remembers that he can be so frightening. Perhaps he remembers that she's never said anything like that before, and that having said it she is close to panic. Or tears.

His hands are in her hair, pushing it back. He's looking into her eyes, arms wrapped around her, and maybe he asks her if she's okay. And she's not. She's not okay, and wants to tell him she's not okay, but she has not ever and does not now suddenly find words to explain to him how she's not okay, or why. But it's soft, that grunted little question, and she closes her eyes and puts her hands on his face, kissing him because she can't answer.

"Don't bite me anymore," she whispers, and maybe she means just now, tonight, or maybe she means ever, at all. He can ask later; she wraps her legs around him as she kisses him. And he fucks her, slowly, closely, their bodies wrapped around one another. He fucks her protectively, because she is his, and because he can feel something in her that's as frightened as a bird held between one's palms, its small heart fluttering as rapid as its wings.

Fucks her slow and heavy until she's trembling again and not from fear, until she's sweating, until she's angling her hips just so, until neither of them can go on being so slow, neither of them can stand it. She pants and she comes, deep inside and quietly for once, clutching at his back, holding onto him as she loses herself. She can hear him growling beneath the haze of her orgasm, and doesn't understand it.

She does not speak the language of wolves.

--

It's over and he turns off the light, even his arm exhausted in the attempt. She is lying on her back, her hand on her belly as he rolls off of her, slides out of her. She stares at the emptiness that was the ceiling a moment ago. Light from outside creeps through the heavily-drawn curtains, impossible to completely block out. It limns her with silver, but the silver is diffuse and shadowy, raw and untempered. She does not say that was intense. She says nothing at all.

He reaches for her hand and weaves them together; Devon closes her eyes and lets him have her hand, her arm. She waits for the air to cool her off a bit, listening to the silence. It's heavier than his body. After a while she squeezes his hand, and then slips hers away, rolling onto her side, her back to him,as though settling in for the night to sleep. It won't take her long; it was a long, long day.

Rafael

But she doesn't slide into sleep.

She doesn't, because he holds her back. She turns onto her side. He lifts his head -- perhaps she can sense it; perhaps she only hears motion.

He turns. Rolls onto his side, smoothly. All that strength; he's never exhausted for long, is he? He moves closer, wraps his arm slowly and tenderly around her waist.

"Don't be afraid," he mutters, and this might mean nothing at all or it might mean something. What he says next puts it into context; it's something he only has the courage to say at night, in the dark. "I'm yours too."

Devon

Bed rustles. Moves under them. It's a cheap mattress, and they can feel every move the other makes. It's like sleeping on that futon of hers at Naomi's, really. Nothing like the beds he has at his houses. Nothing so large, either; they take up most of the available real estate on this queen.

Her eyes are open again as he comes closer, follows her, wraps his arm carefully around her.

Tells her not to be scared.

Tells her that he's hers, too.

Can hear her breathing flicker a little, feel her take a deeper pull of air than before. Holds it for a long moment in her chest before she lets it slowly out.

"Since when?" she whispers. It could sound sarcastic, or glib; it doesn't. She isn't.

Rafael

"Mm?"

It's a milder, muffled version of one of those what?s that escape him so regularly. He thinks for a while.

"Don't know. Since the first time you slept in my bed maybe."

Devon

She huffs a breath outward. Twists under his encircling arm to look up at him past her shoulder. "What?" she murmurs, bemused. Perhaps she thinks he's teasing her. Or not giving her a straight answer.

Looks at him, though, and doesn't think he's teasing her. Her brow wrinkles, though it isn't dismay that causes the furrow. "Babe, that was the... very first night."

Rafael

That makes him a touch defensive -- though that's not the right word. Just guarded. Afraid that she's about to mock him, though he knows she won't.

She faces him. But he lays back, facing the ceiling again, little more than shadows and silhouettes in the dark. "Yeah," he says. "I don't know. Don't really fuck around."

Devon

"Don't --" she says, aching, vulnerability cutting through her voice like a raw wound, a stripe of pain. It's when he lays back. Pulls away. "Don't," she whispers, a second time, begging him to come back, though all she says is that one word.

Silence. And then:

"Know you couldn't then. But... can you tell me now how you felt about me then? What... you were thinking, when it came to me?"

Rafael

A beat. Then the bedsheets rustle and he turns on his side again, close to her. Not pulled-back. Not gone-away.

"Don't really remember," he says. "Confused, mostly. Thought I liked you one minute and the next you were driving me nuts. Wasn't sure what your deal was."

Couple seconds go by.

"Jealous too," he adds, quieter. "Not ... not the way you think. Not jealous of some other guy. Mostly. Maybe that once when you were dancing around in your underwear, but mostly not like that. Was jealous of you, because you obviously didn't come from money and riches either, but you always got into the events and the parties. No one looked at you sideways, or if they did you didn't care. No one tried to kick you out before they realized who you were. You just seemed so different, so bold about it.

"And didn't want to lose you. That day in the alley, I knew that. Not just lose you because you got hurt, but -- didn't want to lose track of you either. Have you disappear, hop on a bus and move on or something. 'Cause I know I'd never find you again. How could I? Can't track you down by scent.

"Maybe that's why I like it when you live with me. Because I feel like you won't disappear."

Devon

So he comes back. She settles again, resting her arm against his when he puts it around her again. She isn't looking at him. Maybe that makes it easier to talk to her. Maybe the dark makes it easier, too.

He mentions being jealous of her that night at the Halloween party, before she'd invited him to fuck her. Mentions being jealous of her at parties, also before that. Before she really hated him and wanted him to just go away and never be seen or heard from again, which was all before she got attacked in an alleyway and nearly killed.

What he says is a revelation, though: that he barely knew her, barely had her name, and didn't want to lose her for some reason. He was such a prick. Had no right, at that point, to want to not lose her. To hope that she wouldn't go away, to hope he'd see her again. She's confused, and it doesn't make sense to her, how he could feel any of these things. Think any of these things. She barely knew him at all. Didn't feel like she was his or that she wanted him to be hers that first night they spent together. She didn't feel like she didn't want to lose him: kinda the opposite, right around then. Makes her feel kinda bad. Makes her feel at a loss.

"You found me at the graveyard," she says softly, reminding him. Couldn't find her by scent. But that was after over a year of knowing her. Of getting to understand her. Of feeling her out, knowing her spirit a little more. Found her, even without a trace of her to track.

Devon's hand strokes his hand a little atop the sheets where they rest.

"I really love you," she whispers. Here and now. Not a year and a half ago, not when he was rather purposefully being mean to her, even cruel. Not when he hid his own thoughts so well that she never knew what was going on, what he would mean to her, how badly he could hurt her if she ever gave him any of herself. Not the time when she couldn't stand his silence anymore and just fucking left him because of it. Not standing in the Amazon, trying to tell him why it was so hard -- so, so hard -- for her to trust him.

Just here. Now. She really loves him.

"It's hard," Devon goes on, still soft, like they're going to wake someone else up in the room if they raise their voices to a normal level. "Sometimes it's not, but... other times, I just swing back and forth. Scared one minute that you're going to leave me. Scared the next that you'll never let me go." She's wincing, painfully, curling up a little tighter. "Feel bad about it. Don't know how to fix it. Been like this since... we started, really."

Rafael

"Yeah. I did."

Find her, that is. At the graveyard. Following nothing more than a whisper of suggestion from his subconscious, or maybe his spirit -- depends what you believe. It brings him a little comfort. So does her hand, stroking his. He understands that; the physical act of nurturing, closeness, caring.

A silence answers the rest of it, though. It goes on a while, even when she curls on herself, tensing. He has to unpack it, parse it into small chunks that he can mull over, turn over, understand.

Eventually -- "You think about leaving?" A beat later he adds, "Me?" -- because that's what he means, isn't it? Not simply leaving, but leaving him. That's what matters to him.

"Or just... need to have the option open?"

Devon

You think about leaving?

"No."

-- Me?

"No," she says again, an echo of herself, like that cursed nymph. And her hand touches his, slips under and around his, cradles them together. "Never do, not anymore. Don't want that," she adds, to underline it a third time, to seal it. Three times three. These things are known as magical for a reason.

Rafael asks about options and she shakes her head against the pillow. Exhales softly through her nose. "I don't know," she says. "I think it just scares me. Don't like the feeling of being owned. Get scared of belonging to someone who doesn't understand me. Really don't like thinking that I might belong to someone, love them so much I can't leave, and them be able to leave me."

She closes her eyes, holding his hand a little more tightly. "Don't want to be my mum, yeah?"

Rafael

Three times she promises. No, no, never. There's magic in that, even if wolf doesn't quite understand it. He believes her. Squeezes her hand where it holds his, their arms around her middle.

"You're not your mom," he murmurs. "No more than I'm mine."

Her hand squeezes his back. Holds tighter. He exhales, pressing lips to the back of her shoulder; can feel beneath thin skin and sleek flesh the transverse process of her scapula there, the point at which the muscles of the wing would anchor.

She is not winged, though. Wild and fragile as a bird, he thinks of her sometimes, but she is not truly.

"Get it though," he adds. "Why you're scared."

Devon

Well that's not strictly true. She's quite a bit like her mum. But then, in some ways: maybe Rafael is like his, too. Not that he can know. Or compare. Thinking of it, and hurting like she always hurts when she thinks of it, Devon squeezes his hand again. She nestles closer to him, his chest warm against her back. His lips on her shoulder, his brow close to the back of her neck. She is getting warm, and sleepy, relaxed from the shower and from the sex and from how long a day it's been, how late it is, how dark, how much she loves him. How he holds her so near.

"Don't want to lose you, babe," she murmurs, which isn't really all of it. There's more in there about being understood, more about how much he is or isn't like her father than whether she is or isn't like her mother. There's more, and she circles it, and she doesn't want to voice it and maybe fight about it. She's

afraid of losing him,

after all.

"Want to sleep," she whispers, also, curling up tight in his arms, turning over, tucking herself against his chest, her hair thick and dark and cool under his jaw.

Rafael

Wolf rolls onto his back as girl turns toward him; his arm pulls her close against the expanse of his chest, solidity of his side. He breathes in. He breathes out. Slow relaxation unfurls through his limbs, and he closes his eyes.

No real goodnight beyond that. A little later he's asleep, steadily breathing.