After champagne, the three soon-to-be-packed wolves had retired to share drinks and canapes and discuss potential spiritual patrons...only to discover that their assembled options and preferences were, to put it one way: all over the map.
A recess was called, partly because they had gone through a couple of bottles of champagne by that point (and perhaps a bit more, given the presence of a Fianna in their number) and partly because the three of them all share a significant degree of rage, and no discussion with any passion between them could go without having a touch of tension.
So: a recess. A pause. Until, not too terribly long after, Rafael called them together again. And then there was a somewhat awkward back and forth between the two Silver Fangs on the phone. Avery initially assumed she would host, and Rafael was going along with it. Then Avery was mortified with herself for the assumption and tried to walk it back, hoping that Rafael wouldn't hold it against her for betraying him the honor of hosting. (He didn't really want to host.) After that point she was so worried that he was letting her host only to appease her due to her rank that she all but insisted they meet at his city residence.
Again, in case it wasn't clear: it was an awkward phone call.
--
Now it is the appointed day, and appointed hour, and a midnight-colored Tesla slides silently to the curb. And a moment later, a statuesque blonde with her hair in a perky high ponytail steps out of the car. Perhaps, if she accepted the Fang's offer, Morgan exits the passenger side.
And shortly thereafter, Avery is ringing Rafael's doorbell, happily waiting with
a gift bag.
Rafael van der ValkIf Avery were hosting, the front of the house -- or at least the path -- would be ablaze with lights. There would be a doorman. There would be light champagne and white wine and canapes.
But Avery isn't hosting. The wolf, to his everlasting dismay, is. And so the front of his house is quite dark, and when his doorbell is rung, it's not a doorman but the master of the house himself that yanks it open.
Kinda darkish inside too. Lights on in the kitchen, but not in the high-ceilinged living room. He does flick a switch to light the porch, at least, realizing his guest was standing in darkness. And, when the gift bag is offered, he frowns in consternation. Accepts it hesitantly.
"Was I supposed to get you something?" Maybe it's a holiday he forgot.
Morgan RocheIt's a good thing that nobody tried to call the Fianna to host.
For one thing, she had broken the one and only cellphone she'd ever had the (dis)pleasure of owning. And for another - the redhead currently had no address at which to do aforementioned hosting gig. Although given what Rafael and Avery knew of the nineteen-almost-twenty year old Ahroun - perhaps that was a blessing in disguise.
If left in charge, there's little doubt they'd be spending tonight in a Hotel room with dubious sallow lighting and a suspicious stain on the ceiling in one corner. Maybe it wouldn't bother them though, but the redhead's discomfort would be tantamount at the idea it might - and a sulking Full Moon did nobody any particular favors. Especially one blessed with Stag's might and tendency toward stubborn (so ungodly stubborn) pride.
Still: the Silver Fangs converse. There's a decision made and Avery finds the means to reach out to the clear-eyed warrior. Who gratefully accepts and there we have it. And here, too: Morgan climbing out of the Tesla and peering at Rafael's door; staring down the doorbell with her fingers pressed deep against her thighs to curb the urge to press and hold the buzzer.
He's taking too long, apparently.
(He isn't, she simply doesn't understand the necessity of patience).
--
Avery passes him a giftbag. The Fianna's eyes track its movements with keen interest. "I think it's a hostin' gift. Like bringin' one o'those cakes with a hole in it." She shrugs, the barest smile slipping across her mouth. "My mother used t'make them for gatherings."
Rafael gets a slow blink. "I didn't bring you anythin'." She rocks on her heels a little, the redhead. Her hair has been left out and flows around her shoulders in straight, fiery masses.
Avery WhitechaseThere are things Avery doesn't know that would break her heart if she was disabused of her ignorance: that Rafael feels dismay and consternation to be hosting. That Morgan lives in some grotesque, badly-lit hotel while she and Rafael live in penultimate luxury that they both know damn well they've never earned -- not by standard rules, at least.
Now if Avery knew that Rafael were unhappy to be hosting, not only would she feel heartbroken for insisting, but she'd possibly never, ever make him do it again. She'd apologize and offer to drive them all over to her penthouse this instant: it isn't far, after all, from where it turns out one of her new Ahrouns lives. But she doesn't know that; instead, she's quite dedicated to making amends for her poor manners in assuming that she would host by being the best guest Rafael has ever had.
As a result, she is ever so excited about the present she got for him.
--
Avery is dressed in a pair of slim, dark jeans tucked into a pair of caramel-colored riding boots. Her sweater has a wide round collar and is a soft pink knit. On her hand, as ever: her wedding ring. On her wrist, a white gold version of the classic Tiffany's bracelet, heart charm and all. Around her neck, a little trinket of a necklace, some gift from her husband or father or a gift to herself, just a tiny diamond in a round setting. In her earlobes: small hoops. Also white gold. Sometimes she's glad that she doesn't wear silver (for obvious reasons): white gold is so much nicer. It's a good excuse to buy it.
The bag is of high quality, made of some kind of heavy, thick paper with a silky texture. Its contents are heavy, too. And his quetion is silly, but she just laughs as she hands it over to him. "Of course not!"
See: Morgan gets it. And she says as much, tapping a finger in the air in the Fianna's direction. "See, Morgan gets it. But it's not a cake. Ooh, I should order us a cake!" she says, suddenly full of ideas about bundt delivery.
They have not been invited in yet.
Rafael van der Valk"No need," he mutters in Morgan's general direction, re: gift. Steps aside while simultaneously looking into the bag, opening it by the handles. "Thanks."
And cake:
"I got cheesecake in the fridge, I think."
Wolf's townhouse is large, but not extravagant. Four bedrooms in all -- one downstairs where the maid sleeps, one upstairs where the wolf sleeps, one to serve as a never-used study and one to serve as a sometimes-used guest room. The yard is small but neat, and there's a big shade-tree in the back. Vaulted ceilings in the living room; an upstairs hallway that overlooks the open space. Big, modern, open-plan kitchen. A lot of stone and steel in the fixtures, the decor.
Wolf shuts the door behind them as they enter. Avery looks glorious and golden and gorgeous as ever. Her two dour Ahrouns, perhaps somewhat less so; not for lack of natural blessings but simply because they're dour Ahrouns. The wolf, for one, is wearing what appears to be an identical getup as he wore last time: jeans, a t-shirt. Wait, no. Tonight it's navy-blue.
"Um. You guys want a tour too?" He's taking his cues from Avery, seems like. "Morgan's been here but don't think she's been upstairs."
Morgan RocheThe Fianna is dressed in a faded grey shirt with the Wonder Woman logo on it paired with her favorite (potentially her only) jeans and sneakers. There's a cheap looking bracelet of stones around one wrist that she picks at every so often and rattles out.
No make up, though. Morgan's relative youth made it unnecessary, anyway and her pale skin and smattering of freckles didn't present any particular requirement for lavishings of foundation or bronzer. She was not by appearance an altogether hopeless case but she carried herself with the magnitude of a warrior born and bred. Her eyes traveled the room and made quick study of the windows; the potential exits; weapons that could be pried loose in desperate need.
In short: her femininity wasn't missing, it was merely banked; embers capable of being stirred with need.
-
The Ahroun has indeed been here once before. She'd been leaning heavily into Rafael's door, then. Hammering on it and leaving a bloody smear there. It had been refuge, plain and simple, then. Aid from a fellow Ahroun - this time, it's as a (potential) packmate.
He has cheesecake in the fridge, he thinks. The redhead starts to make a beeline for where memory informs her his kitchen is located, then pauses mid-step at the offer of a tour. Courtesy would suggest she accept one before helping herself to the other: "I remember t'soup your guest made." Her freckled brow creases briefly. "Is she still here?"
The way she frames it, it sounds almost as if Morgan expects to see the young woman appear with a miraculous bowl of it, steaming and ready to eat.
Avery WhitechaseInside the gift bag, nestled in tissue paper, is a tall, slender bottle of some clear liquid. That is all he can tell before he really opens his present.
"I adore cheesecake," Avery says, though one might imagine she would say this regardless of what Rafael offers. Possibly. He steps aside, which apparently is Rafael for 'please, do come in', so Avery does come in. She steps through the doorway and glances around, but not nosily. "You have a lovely home," she says, which is what you're supposed to say, but she seems sincere. Morgan is already on her way to the cheesecake.
However, this too: she doesn't pick out anything specific to make a comment on. None of the art in here suggests it was personally picked out by Rafael. Why bother complimenting it, when she suspects it isn't important to him?
"Perhaps another time," she says, of the tour. "You said you had something you wanted to discuss with us, regarding a totem for our nascent pack."
Rafael van der Valk"Was my mom's," he says automatically of the home, which perhaps implies a closer relationship than actually exists. While the redhead beelines for the cheesecake -- which is indeed there, wedged into the freezer between a sack of dollar burritos and an enormous chunk of prime rib -- the wolf pulls the bottle out of the bag to inspect it.
"She is," in answer to Morgan, absently, while he's studying his gift. Then, raising his head, and more focused: "She's got her own place now too." Lest they think his girlfriend a total mooch, and all.
He follows them toward the kitchen. Sits at the breakfast bar, watching Morgan pull the cheesecake out. "Thought we should nail it down. Had an experience recently. Got called into Boar's realm. To prove myself, I guess. Kinda liked him.
"Cool if you guys don't, though. Some bird-of-prey totem works for me too. -- The knives are over on your left. Forks in the next drawer over. Plates up in the cupboard."
Morgan RocheThe Fianna has a small forkful of cheesecake en route to her mouth when Rafael mentions being called into Boar's realm to prove himself. She frowns and lowers it back to the plate and her eyes are steady and searching as they rove over the other Ahroun's features.
"I know of a pack o'Stag who follow him back at my former Sept." A tick of Morgan's eyes to Avery. "They seem t'get along pretty well with him." She takes her mouthful of cheesecake back up, chews it thoughtfully before spearing another piece, settling a hip against the counter. "Other than m'tribe's own, I don't know tha' much of the others.
Though I know I've heard talk o'Merlin." The redhead's eyebrows drag together thoughtfully. "If you want m'option, I'd say you cannot do better than Stag but - " A tiny shrug. "I'm hardly the one t'ask since he's my own bloodline's. I'd happily swear an oath t'another."
Another forkful of the dessert. "As long as none o'them require something I cannot give freely."
Avery WhitechaseHer eyes flick over to Rafael when he mentions his mother. Truth be told, she knows very little of him, or his life. Or Morgan, or her life. This was also true of Javed: she did not know much of him, or his history. He knew nothing of her that she did not choose to share for some reason for another. And that was all right,
for a while.
But Avery does not pry. Not right now. She does not query about the girl, the soup -- could be a servant, for all she knows, but when Rafael notes that 'she's got her own place', she doubts that is what is being discussed. She follows Rafael towards the kitchen, flicking her gaze to him again when he says he 'had an experience'. They drift closer together, the three of them. She rests her hands on the short edge of the breakfast bar. Rafael stands to one side. Morgan, coming over with the cheesecake, stands on the other.
Feels right.
--
Boar. Her head tips. Her eyebrows lift a little. She turns to look at Morgan, then, who speaks well of the relationship between Boar and Stag. Who speaks of Merlin. And of course: Stag. Avery's mouth curls in a small, restrained smile. Her fingertips, toped with French-manicured nails, tap softly and silently on the countertop.
"Boar is... a totem of War," she says, musingly, if a bit... anxiously. "Though I suppose that is the equally if not more important question: what sort of pack do we wish to be? What impact do we wish to have?" She looks between them for a moment, as though they -- and they alone -- hold the answer.
Avery WhitechaseThe bottle that Rafael pulls out, incidentally, looks almost like a wine bottle: clear, though, straight-edged. Its label is deceptively simple, but happens to detail every step of the creation of its contents. The label says Siembra Azul and below that, a couple of lines, it says blanco. It is not the only thing in the bag, however; the bag still sits heavily. But when he pulls it out, Avery does glance at him, smiling.
Rafael van der ValkHe's still toying with that bottle, turning it over in his hands, studying it. The label is in Spanish. Well, maybe Portuguese. He doesn't know. He thinks he'll go ask the girl, but then his new Alpha's looking at him -- at his new packmate too -- like they've got an answer she wants.
Wolf looks caught in a headlight. He straightens, setting the bottle down. "Don't know anything but war," he says. "Could learn though, I guess." Beat. "I like Boar. But honest truth is I can't really see you following him. Even if you mated with a Fianna and joined a pack with another, plus me.
"He's very ...hearty."
Morgan RocheMorgan sets her plate down - a sign of some sobriety of thought, perhaps. She hoists herself up onto a barstool and dangles her feet there for a minute; one of her shoelaces is nearly untied, the lace hanging far down on one side. There's a healing bruise on one of her calves; the scar across the pale creature's collarbone seems to stand out even more starkly under the kitchen lights.
She crosses her arms over her chest and draws her chin down.
Taps one of her heels back against the legs of the stool, the lace adding a quiet plastic tempo to the movement where it swings to and fro. "Protect and strengthen t'city. That's what I think we need t'be. Maybe - " a hedging little breath. She ticks her eyes at both her packmates, sucks on the inside of her cheek in consideration. "Guardians. There ain't - leaders here. No borders bein' maintained. Too easy f'r anythin' to be creepin' around, causing trouble.
Way I see it, Rhya," she tacks the title on as a small afterthought when she looks back at Avery again. "Any totem who helps us t'fight. To be strong and resilient is the way. 'm a Ahroun." She finishes with a note of quiet, honest pride. "I know war." A nod to Rafael. "I know how to keep fightin' when I should jus' quit. You put a totem behind me that keeps me fightin', I'll keep out what needs it."
Avery WhitechaseFor her part, Avery remains standing. To be fair, she looks like she is presiding, though not in judgement. In something more like mediation, though not between the two of them.
Perhaps a better word for what she is doing is simply: listening.
--
Rafael knows only war, but he could learn. He likes Boar but struggles to imagine Avery under his banner. Or tusks.
Morgan thinks they should protect the city, strengthen it. She is in favor of any totem who gives them the strength for that fight.
Avery considers these things.
--
Her pale eyes rest on Rafael for a moment. "One could think you're asking me to show you how hearty I really am," she says, just teasingly enough to be light, just seriously enough to suggest that she might enjoy tussling. Or perhaps simply: exerting dominance in one of those brutal, physical ways iconic of their species. But her eyes twinkle, all the same.
She thinks a bit, and then -- almost with deliberation -- leans against the counter. This is not easy for her. To relax. To try and settle. To be less... unassailable. At least with them. Her brow furrows, and she looks at the cheesecake in the middle of the table while she talks, as though that will help her focus, rather than remaining as politic and careful as she can.
"I have always been drawn more to spirits of Respect, and they to me," she admits. "My previous pack followed Falcon, and at the time, I believe the patronage served the pack well. Forgotten Questions was strong and stable; Cold Crescent was too, at first. I led well. In fact, it was the lack of leadership quality in my packmate that led to our eventual -- if amenable -- dissolution."
Avery breathes in deeply, exhales thoughtfully.
"I too, for obvious reasons, am drawn to totems of the air. Merlin, for his agility and courage in battle, as well as the desire to see his children strike intelligently -- not just with brute force and wild abandon. But I am no battle strategist, and that is not where my strengths inherently lie. When it comes to war, I... cannot say that I plan carefully. I have only my honor to guide me, there."
For no obvious reason, she straightens again, stepping away from the bar. She seems almost to be talking to herself. "I have heard stories of Quetzal, a totem native to Central and South America, whose beauty and pride do not sway him from the purity of noble intent. But his territory is far south of here, and must be protected; would we deny our guardianship of our own homes to go to his, perhaps unwelcome by our people and kind there, leaving Denver that much more vulnerable?" Her brow wrinkles. "Of course not," she answers herself, and turns a slight circle.
She is thinking aloud. Her husband has seen this, but only when she's doing things like planning for a difficult conversation with another wolf, or when she was working on very important tasks like seating arrangements and invitation wording. Even Avery suspects that both of her new packmates are internal processors: think, then speak. Or think, then act, with speaking the least important one. Avery is not. Avery has had to train herself to process things silently and internally for the sake of her role in the nation.
A pretense which, because she so wants this to work, she is choosing to drop. To try dropping. For now. Around the two of them, at least.
"I of course have a fondness for Stag and all his brood. The Fianna have always been generous, loyal, and stalwart allies of my own tribe. I married one, for god's sake. But he is -- though fierce in battle when he must fight -- not a warrior. He is of nature. He is certainly a protector, but I wonder if all three of us wouldn't be influenced by his patronage to start breeding before any of us is quite prepared. Stag does love Fianna babies," she murmurs, and then
suddenly,
momentarily,
realizes she is speaking aloud. Blinks, and glances at Rafael and Morgan for a second, her cheeks coloring slightly,
BUT SHE SOLDIERS ON,
ducking her head and turning another round, making small laps in Rafael's kitchen. "I should advise that we all choose a totem whose strengths are counter to our own, supplement our own, but Morgan is right about what sort of goals we should have as a pack. Though to be fair, I don't want to be a guardian of anything but my own territory and the caern itself, for now. I don't think we can do what is needed for the true sept if we deny the need for strategy and leadership and focus only on strength in war. We are all strong in war; we have that in spades."
Mark it: this is the first time she speaks with her hands. Waves one in the air, indicating all three of them.
"Boar is fierce, but usually defensive. Not at all like Bull." She pauses, thinking, pacing. "There is Wyvern. Protector of caerns, harbinger of approaching danger, creature... almost of the Wyld. He would all but demand we regularly patrol the caern and do all we can to strengthen its defenses, even including calling others to its aid." She bites her lower lip, thinking. Then she comes back over to the counter, resting her hands on the surface.
She looks at Rafael. "You need to learn more than war," she tells him, bluntly, having decided this sometime during her monologue with herself. "Not 'I guess'. Commit to it. I have seen you out of battle more than I have seen you in it, but I have heard stories of your courage and your fierceness. Of course you will continue to excel in this area, and grow ever stronger, as you must -- and as we need you to, if our people are to survive. But if you do not push yourself to grow beyond the boundaries of war, then I suspect you will not survive. And I dearly wish for you to live a long, savage life," she adds, her brow wrinkling, her tone dropping from that of a teacher, a Philodox, to someone genuinely concerned.
Then she looks to Morgan. "You spoke specifically of strengthening the city. When you speak of borders, I think of pack territories. Protectorates. And you are right: there are no areas of town where the dark things bumping in the night fear to tread for risk of losing their throats to our claws. There are no safe havens, not for our people and not for any people who have not fallen to the Wyrm. But my wish for you is to learn when to quit. And there is a time. There is a place for that. It is rare for our kind, but I do hope that one day you will see one of those moments and have the wisdom to know it for what it is." A faint smile. "I have no fear at all that you will give up in battle."
There is an ache in that smile. It goes unexplained.
Finally, though -- finally! -- she exhales, looking at the cheesecake again.
"I will gladly follow Boar," she tells them, her hands at rest, and her feet, and her mind. "He is strong, and if you both agree that such strength is what is needed for what we are to be, I will not blindly deny your wisdom. I would prefer Merlin, however, if only because his strength is well-tempered by a call to make sound, strategic decisions, which I believe would aid all three of us in unique ways."
Rafael van der ValkAvery's right. He's not a talker. He is, against all stereotype, something of a thinker: brow often furrowed, mouth often set. He's thinking now, silent, processing internally. Very briefly, the corners of his mouth quirk: when he is told, flat-out, that he needs to be more than war. More than a fighter, a hunter, a warrior. There's more to life than that -- at least, a life that doesn't end prematurely.
And when Morgan is spoken to, the wolf's eyes rest on her. Know when to quit, Avery says. Wolf nods a little at that, as though in agreement.
--
Then, when Avery is finished, a short silence. He consults a while with himself. He raises his head, sets the bottle down.
"I can handle Merlin," he says. "How 'bout you, Morgan?"
Morgan RocheThere is a fine little grimace that knits into being across Morgan's mouth; creates a furrow of her brows when Avery tells her she must know when to quit. It reminds the Ahroun starkly, in the moment, of her Grandfather. Of her brother, too. His arms crossed over his chest; his eyes narrowed on her; speaking with the confidence of an experienced Spirit Talker.
Telling her she was impetuous.
Gruffly reminding her that her ridicule for obedience had taken a Cub's life from him.
Time has passed since and the Ahroun is older, perhaps wisdom has come to her since in one shape or another; begun to curl around her; to temper her anger; to direct its fury. But she will carry the blight of that death with her always - remember the Cub's name; his blood on her hands.
Time has passed since and she does not erupt at Avery the way she had, once. Merely frowns and then lets her pale eyes wander for a moment. Nods, with a brief little exhale. How 'bout you, Morgan?
"I can work wit' Merlin." She reaches for her plate, scoops the rest of the cheesecake up, lifts her shoulders suddenly as if pleased with the decision being concluded. Studies them both in turn with a hint of a smile quirking the edges of her mouth; her blue eyes glinting. "I can't believe m'first real pack is with two Silver Fangs. I always figured I'd fall in with m'own."
The smile softens just so: "Let's do this." Firm. Final, that.
Rafael van der Valk"Heh," wolf snorts that laugh, "always figured I wouldn't fall in with anyone at all."
Avery WhitechaseAvery blinks. And then, again doing what she normally would not: "Oh,"
a beat,
"I really rather expected both of you to argue, there," she confesses, and laughs brightly. Lifts her hands up and presses them together. "Lovely. Oh, you're both so lovely. Thank you so much. Rafael -- Rafael for god's sake I'm about to lose my mind, would you please open the rest of your gift."
Another beat.
"Please."
Rafael van der ValkThis time he almost guffaws. And, yes: dumps whatever else is in that bag out into his hand.
Also, offhand: "Morgan, where the hell are you staying? Didn't you wear that getup last time?"
...as if he's one to talk.
Morgan Roche"I changed my shirt!" She says hotly, plucking at the corner of it and adjusting the shoulder as if somehow it would repair the fact it was creased and torn in places. Then, pushing the crumbs of the cheesecake around her plate adds quieter: "Been stayin' in a hotel. S'not so bad really, I jus' find the ones that don't care how old I am as long as I pay in cash."
That may make them wince. Inwardly, it makes Morgan want to, but there's a trace of pride too, to the way her chin lifts and she carefully sets the plate down as if to prove her capability by not breaking or clattering it. "I was stayin' with family. One o'my Kin but he's - " A twinge of clear regret there.
Maybe an ache of her own, a trace of very human, teenage vulnerability. "He's gone. So - it's not s'bad."
Avery WhitechaseAvery nearly shrieks at the way Rafael 'dumps' his present out. Thank god it's all wrapped up. There is, for one thing, a pretty bamboo tray with four shallow circles carved into it, and in front of each of those circles, a little divet about the size of a thumb-print. But also, wrapped -- thankfully -- in tissue paper, are shot glasses. Thick, heavy, straight-sided shot glasses... made out of Himalayan pink salt. To go, obviously, with the tequila. The circles in the tray are for the glasses. And:
"Those little depressions there," Avery interjects, "they're for slices of lime. For serving!"
She smiles. She wants to see him smile. She wants to see that he likes it. That it is a good gift. Or rather, just as important: if he doesn't like it. If he doesn't really care about it. If it was not a good gift, which only means that presenting him with a good gift later will be that much more of a challenge.
She likes gifts. She also likes challenges.
"Thank you so much for hosting us this evening," she tells him, as he examines his host's gift. Which is not a bundt cake, sadly.
--
But then Rafael asks a very rude question regarding Morgan's outfit. Avery's eyebrows lift. "She did," she tells Rafael, when it comes to Morgan's shirt. He just can't tell because he doesn't know a thing about fashion. Look at what he's wearing. "One could say you're wearing the same thing, too, but no one prodded you about your sartorial expression."
So prim. So cheeky.
Then: hotel. s'not so bad. don't care how old I am. pay in cash.
Avery's head whips around so fast you'd think it would snap off. She looks at Morgan with sharp, bright eyes. Her head tips, her tone almost warning.
"Oh, that will not do," she says, so firm it almost sounds like anger. Not at Morgan. Not at Morgan, who speaks of her kin. Kin gone now. Avery presses her lips together, exhales, and does not pry. Not right now. "I respectfully disagree with you, Morgan," she adds, a trifle clipped. "You can't be gouged from what money you have by staying in a hotel. Please: stay with my kin, for at least a while, until I secure some sort of residence or... clubhouse, so to speak, just for the three of us. You'll be left to your own devices as much as you wish, but I do beg of you to avail yourself of my resources so long as you should need to."
Avery Whitechase[fuck.]
Avery WhitechaseAvery nearly shrieks at the way Rafael 'dumps' his present out. Thank god it's all wrapped up. There is, for one thing, a pretty bamboo tray with four shallow circles carved into it, and in front of each of those circles, a little divet about the size of a thumb-print. But also, wrapped -- thankfully -- in tissue paper, are shot glasses. Thick, heavy, straight-sided shot glasses... made out of Himalayan pink salt. To go, obviously, with the tequila. The circles in the tray are for the glasses. And:
"Those little depressions there," Avery interjects, "they're for slices of lime. For serving!"
She smiles. She wants to see him smile. She wants to see that he likes it. That it is a good gift. Or rather, just as important: if he doesn't like it. If he doesn't really care about it. If it was not a good gift, which only means that presenting him with a good gift later will be that much more of a challenge.
She likes gifts. She also likes challenges.
"Thank you so much for hosting us this evening," she tells him, as he examines his host's gift. Which is not a bundt cake, sadly.
--
But then Rafael asks a very rude question regarding Morgan's outfit. Avery's eyebrows lift. "She did," she tells Rafael, when it comes to Morgan's shirt. He just can't tell because he doesn't know a thing about fashion. Look at what he's wearing. "One could say you're wearing the same thing, too, but no one prodded you about your sartorial expression."
So prim. So cheeky.
Then: hotel. s'not so bad. don't care how old I am. pay in cash.
Avery's head whips around so fast you'd think it would snap off. She looks at Morgan with sharp, bright eyes. Her head tips, her tone almost warning.
"Oh, that will not do," she says, so firm it almost sounds like anger. Not at Morgan. Not at Morgan, who speaks of her kin. Kin gone now. Avery presses her lips together, exhales, and does not pry. Not right now. "I respectfully disagree with you, Morgan," she adds, a trifle clipped. "You can't be gouged from what money you have by staying in a hotel. Please: stay with my kin, for at least a while, until I secure some sort of residence or... clubhouse, so to speak, just for the three of us."
Rafael van der ValkWell; Avery gets her wish. Wolf's mouth quirks. It's small, but it counts: a little smile lurking at the corner while he sets out the coasters and then places the shotglasses on top.
"I get it." It's a tease, so deadpan it takes a moment to read it as such. "You wanted a drink. That's why you were so dead-set on me opening it."
So: he peels the foil off the bottle, breaks it open, and pours. Still doesn't know what the hell it is, other than alcohol. It's such a clear, crystalline liquid. He thinks it might be some form of Spanish vodka, but then he didn't think such a thing existed. Nevermind: he pours. One, two, three shots.
"I changed my shirt too," he points out. "You could probably stay here too. I just gotta check with Devon."
Rafael van der Valk[not coasters! tray!]
Morgan RocheIt's a strange feeling - being looked out for. It's clear that Morgan isn't quite sure what to make of the offers. Her face goes slightly red and she doesn't exactly drop her chin and look abashed but rather - thoughtful, through her embarrassment at being given consideration. She fiddles with her bracelet for a moment and then - "I don't want t'intrude." She says that with rough finality.
"But," a sharp hiss out. "Maybe it would be better if I was stayin' with Kin, at the very least." A twitch of her mouth. "Easier t'explain torn clothing and blood stains to one of our own, after all."
There's this little silence, then. While Rafael pours out the shots. This, Morgan watches with keen focus. She'll accept hers with bone deep appreciation. Will clink her glass too, against theirs if a toast seems the fitting way to honor a pledge to bind themselves to Merlin.
And each other.
"If your Kin dinnae mind it," this to Avery. "I can accept tha' offer."
Avery WhitechaseAvery would argue that it's not true, but a moment later she would have called for something to toast with, so... well. Good thing they just happen to have shot glasses and tequila ready to go. Good thing Rafael, though he was teasing her, doesn't seem to really think that she was angling for a drink, doesn't think she would really be that coy, that cunning, that manipulative. She would hate it if he thought that of her. She would hate it if anyone really thought that of her.
He pours.
Avery, for her part, wants to fiercely insist but... instead... lowers her tone. Says more quietly: "It would be no intrusion, Morgan. It would be my sincere and profound pleasure to know that you were, at least for a period of time you were comfortable with, sleeping within my territory and looked after by my kin. And besides that, you would not believe how well our man Colin handles bloodstains. He once cleaned out a skull for me, it was impeccable work."
Aside: "Thank you, my dear," to Rafael, when he gives her a shot of tequila. She waits for Morgan to have hers, and then lifts her glass: "To Merlin. And to... our pack, which will probably need to have another committee meeting to decide on what we'll call ourselves."
And with a tap of the salt cups to those of her packmates, Avery deos the shot. They don't even have lime slices for it. Oh, well.
Rafael van der Valk"That's horrific," he opines: the skull. "Had no idea you had it in you. If she starts boiling the heads of her enemies again, Morgan, you can crash here."
And taps his glass. "To Merlin. And us."
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