brood? him?

Devon

Devon is marginally helpful if Rafael decides to tug her boots or anything else off, but mostly she just passes out. Up til now, he's never even had the opportunity to help his girlfriend undress because she's too drunk to help herself; Devon handles her liquor better than he does, usually. Maybe she's still exhausted from the reading this morning. Maybe she's just lost some of her alcohol tolerance. Maybe she had more than he realized.

There are a lot of maybes, but nothing feels right enough to settle the tremor in his bones, the tightness in his heart, the unease crawling over his skin. Something is wrong.

When Rafael sleeps, eventually, even for a short time, he dreams of the Knight of Swords. Not the owl pictured in Devon's tarot deck, though. He sees the knight mounted, armored, charging across a desert, towards the sunrise, the rays glinting sharply off that armor, the drawn sword, the visor drawn down. Even the clouds of sand and dust kicked up by the black horse seem to refract and reflect the sunlight, scattering it in rainbows.

There is a white wolf chasing the black horse, the silver knight. He is so close he can see the saliva dripping from the wolf's fangs.

He is so close he can smell the horse.

He can smell the knight.

He can smell --

something wakes him. When his eyes open, Devon is up. Devon isn't just up, Devon has showered. Her hair is wet and towel-dried, hanging down her back, combed but otherwise untouched. Her face is clean. She isn't applying new makeup, dark and witchy and wicked. She's wearing denim cutoffs, a loose teal t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, and -- of all things -- flipflops. She turns to him when she sees him waking in the mirror, smiling.

"Hey, babe."

Rafael

Wakes hungry. Not the sort of hunger that has him eating four-egg omelets and twenty-ounce steaks, but something deeper, bloodier, more primordial. Hunger: bloodthirst. Sits up as his eyes open, abrupt and wide-awake.

Girl smiles at him through the mirror. Something wild in his eyes as he stares back at her, subsiding with a blink. He frowns. Scrubs a hand over his face, looks out the window.

Somewhere along the way he tugged her boots off. Felt weird pulling off her clothes while she was unconscious, even if they've been lovers for so long. So she woke up in her clothes, and he wakes up in his boxers, and now she's dressed, and he's ...

turning back to her. Yawns, showing teeth, and swings his legs out of bed.

"Having weird dreams," he mutters. "You?"

Devon

"Super weird dreams," she says, but it doesn't sound like it bothers her. She sounds entranced by it. "I can't wait to see what Ursula dreamt," she says, turning back to the mirror, rubbing some lip balm on. "So humid here," she mentions, offhandedly.

And it is. Lake country is nothing like the mountains. The air is different. Devon even looks different. She stands so straight. Not that she slouches usually, but there's something almost regal in her bearing, despite her even-more-casual-than-usual manner of dress.

She leaves the mirror after she's sure her lip balm isn't on her chin or teeth or anything, then comes over to him, smiling still.

There's a hesitation in her eyes. He knows why, when she says: "I... want to go see her alone, today." She knows he won't like it. Not with the way he's been feeling.

Rafael

There it is again. That unconcernedness; the sense that something was off, awry, askew in the air. Wolf frowns at her, picking up his jeans, stepping into them one leg at a time.

"Ursula work with dreams at all? Like you do with cards?"

Hasn't gotten around to her going alone yet.

Devon

Devon shrugs. "Maybe. Don't know. Just curious." She smiles, but it's hesitant again.

She touches his arm, stops him. "Hey. Just because I'm not as worried as you are, doesn't mean you shut me out, yeah?"

There's a line between her brows, her forehead wrinkled. "You trust me, Rafa." She says it like she's trying to get him to remember something. "You believe in me."

Rafael

Truth is he's half turning away when she stops him. And he swings back. Looks at her, eyes troubled, brow furrowed.

Sighs, his shoulders rounding down. Puts his hands on her: palms on her waist, then lifting to her face.

"Yeah," he says. "I do. Just... you've been acting different. Everything's been different, ever since we left home. Things are happening that I don't understand. Scares me."

Devon

That's something; he touches her to be close to her. Even if he's not so good at words, not so good at trusting, not so good at a lot of the things that are necessary in any healthy relationship, he reaches out to her to connect with her. Devon knows that. Devon puts her hands on his face when he lifts it, so that he knows that she understands.

She listens. Her brow doesn't unwrinkle. She wishes she could tell him she feels the same way, that things are weird, that things are off, that he's not in this feeling alone. But she'd be lying to him. Doesn't want to just lie to him.

Her thumb rubs gently over his cheek, roughened a bit from sleep, from the growth across his jaw. She's fond of that, those dark bristles on her thumb's fingerprint, just like she's fond of his really, really, ridiculously pretty face hiding a thoroughly un-pretty sort of man.

"I... don't feel the same way," she says finally, her forehead still furrowed, just like his. "I don't feel different. Just excited to find someone like me, finally."

Devon leans over, kissing his forehead. Then rests her brow to his brow, her eyes closed, her body near to his. "You feel how you feel. Not trying to blow you off. Just... really want to get to know her. Won't be the same if you're brooding in the corner, waiting for something bad to happen. You know?"

Rafael

This physical closeness, tangible affection: it brings him some measure of peace. He settles, bowing his brow to her, exhaling.

Even manages to muster a huff of a laugh. A joke: "Brood? Me?"

Devon

"I know, it would be so out of character for you," she muses back to him, the lightness in her tone the only real indication of her sarcasm.

She rolls her forehead against his, then shifts lower, kissing him gently on the mouth. Her breath smells like mint; his is probably less pleasant, but she doesn't comment. She seldom does.

"Call you for lunch, all right?" she says, like a promise.

Rafael

"Yeah," he agrees. Only a hint of reluctance. "Just you and her right? That weird boyfriend of hers isn't there?"

Devon

Devon smirks a little. "No brooding, no boyfriends, no testosterone-laced weirdness of any kind."

Rafael

Grunts a little, amused. Pulls her back to kiss her again, arms wrapping around her body for a brief moment.

"Text me if you're gonna be back late," he says.

Devon

"Babe, you're so worried," Devon says, while he hugs her and holds her for a moment. She doesn't pull away. She rests her hand on the back of his head and scritches his scalp. "Try to relax, yeah? There's a spa downstairs. Get a massage after breakfast."

She smiles. "Maybe a mud bath."

The smile becomes a grin. "And I'll text you if plans change. Even if you're busy getting your seaweed wrap."

Rafael

Wolf snorts. "Those words don't even make sense."

There's a smirk hiding beneath the grumble, though. And he lets go, letting her put distance between them.

"I'll see you tonight," he adds.

Devon

That makes her laugh. That he doesn't even know what a seaweed wrap is, or a mud bath. That is how unlikely it is that he's going to make use of their fancy hotel's spa while he tries not to stalk his girlfriend and her new friend. Devon doesn't really know what he'll do with his time. She ruffles his hair; he'll figure something out.

She is going to go do magic with Ursula. Or talk about their boyfriends. Probably both. She slips away, smiling at him as she grabs her satchel, slinging it over her shoulder. Her hair isn't even dry yet. She smiles at him, in what she hopes is a reassuring way.

"Just a few hours, babe," she promises. "I'll text you to meet us for lunch or something."

The hotel room door opens. Shuts behind her. Latches. The magnetic lock engages again.