superbowl sunday.

Devon

It's Super Bowl Sunday in a city that hates both teams that are playing. Still: there are the parties and the full-to-bursting bars and the endless crockpots full of melted Velveeta.

One such party is itself full to bursting, but the only Velveeta was snuck in by a certain faerie from Wisconsin. The rest of the food is catered, and there is a great deal of it. There is So Much Beer. There is an open bar. There are heaters out on the courtyard so people can go outside if they wish without freezing. The guests are Silver Fangs and their kin, Fianna and their kin, at least one (aforementioned) faerie, and several others from the sept or so forth.

Avery is on her third glass of wine and is snuggled up to her husband. She is 'watching' the game with him, though mostly she is nuzzling him.

Kenneth and Morgan are, as usual, in some form of competition. At the moment they are playing drunk Ping Pong in the game room, but no screams have erupted, so for now everyone is safe.

Julie is never in one place for very long.

Ursula was invited, as she usually is, but (also as usual) she declined, because one or two werewolves in a room is as much as she can handle.

And Rafael and Devon are here, too. At his alpha's family's house, for a Super Bowl party, even if no one seems to care who is winning.

Rafael

Parties aren't wolf's thing. Football's not his thing. Having a pack isn't even really his thing, or wasn't, though he doesn't much mind now.

So he's there. And he's not snuggling on a couch and he's not playing drunken ping pong and he's not watching the game. No, he's outside, out on a balcony overlooking something fantastic -- some view of the city, perhaps, or the mountains frigid and pale in the waning moon's light. It's quite cold, the depths of winter. He has his motorcycle jacket on, though it's unzipped. He has a beer in hand. He's listening to distant sounds: television, whooping from some corner of the house, voices.

Door sliding open behind him turns his head. Girl has him in profile for a moment, thick dark hair and heavy brow, unshaven jaw. He looks at her with a certain animal curiosity, which is almost languid. Wise men would not approach, but then she's not a wise man. She's a witching woman, and his mate besides.

He pushes up from the balustrade and opens his arm to her. Wordlessly he pulls her against his side, and somehow despite the time outside he's still the warmer one. He takes a sip of beer with his other hand, passes it to her.

Devon

Most people who have gone outside have done so downstairs, in the courtyard. They mill around, drink, talk, laugh. It's easy to hear them even from this balcony, despite being on the other side of the house.

The view from an upstairs balcony in some unused-for-now guest room is not of the mountains but of treetops and, in the distance, the lights of downtown. It's dark already, and the mountains are merely slightly heavier shadows in the distance. They would be easier to see if there had been more snow this winter, or if the moon were not waning.

It is cold out, but not yet frigid. The balcony is empty because most guests don't go wandering through their host's house, but most guests aren't members of the host's pack, bound by blood and spirit and battle. So Rafael goes out there, on his own, because it's already been like two hours of All These People and all this noise.

And Devon finds him.

--

Once upon a time, Rafael went to Boston with Devon for Thanksgiving. Met the people who basically raised her alongside her mother. Met the people who taught her what she is, where she comes from, how to be what she is: both a Fianna, and a witch. It was November, and frigid. And yet she took walks. Took him to the little copse in the graveyard where she used to go to be alone in a way more complete than she could be in her house full of relatives. It was a secret, sacred spot for her, and she let him in.

It was also cold as fuck. She didn't seem to mind too much. Doesn't mind too much here, either. She's in very black, very tight jeans with torn up knees. A pair of low-top Converse that she must have only gotten a few months ago but already look beaten to hell and back. Some t-shirt or tank top under a big flannel shirt she's using as a jacket. Hair was in braids earlier, is loose now. Steps out, smirking at him, holding a glass of something or other. "Found you," she says, and the fact that she is obviously tipsy speaks to just how much she must have had already.

He's already pulling her against his side, hunching over her in a way, making her snort.

"You're so dumb," she tells him, happily. Sips from her own glass, instead.

Rafael

"Found me," he agrees, that growling grumble of his, as though he's not happy she did.

He is happy she found him. She knows that. He kisses the top of her head while she drinks from her glass -- some sweet fruity thing, perhaps, or maybe just straight scotch. Wouldn't put either past her.

"Who's winning?" Could mean the game. Could mean pingpong. Down in the courtyard, a rising gust of laughter. A lot of yelling, cheering. Flip-cup, maybe.

Devon

So a few years ago that way he has of talking was not something she could see through. He always came across as aggressive, uncomfortable, angry to see her, almost hateful. That eased up when he stopped trying to pretend that he didn't like her, didn't want her, wasn't fond of her. He still growls and grumbles and comes across as abrasive. But after a few years, Devon gets it. Hears the growl and recognizes it as something else entirely. Realizes that the aggression is like a wall, a protective circle, and that she is no longer outside of it.

"Morgan," she says, because she wasn't watching the game, either. She has never cared for football. She cares for the Pats even less now that they are, in her words, sucking Trump's cock. So she was in the game room with other twenty-somethings, and can safely report that shockingly, the Ahroun is beating the Theurge at Ping Pong, which has devolved into a drinking game for everyone watching and also for the contestants, which is why points are now awarded by which body part on one's opponent the ping pong ball hits.

She drinks. Finishes her glass, sets it down on the balustrade. "You wanna Irish goodbye outta here?"

Rafael

"Yeah." Doesn't really have to think about it. Except: "Gonna wave at Avery though."

Imagine that. Actually being a little social. Or maybe just socialized -- polite enough to let his hostess and alpha know he was gtfo'ing. He takes a last swig of beer, planting the empty bottle atop the balustrate, beside girl's glass, where the cleaning crew will find it later.

Arm drops from around her, long enough for him to zip his jacket together. Didn't ride tonight. Just wears it because it fits and it feels natural and he likes it more than most his other jackets. His arm drapes her shoulders again. They go inside, sudden warmth beating back the cold; find her coat if she has one.

True to his word he lets Avery see them leaving. Calden's maybe the only person out of the whole gathering paying much attention to the game, if only because he, like much of the western world, wants to see the Patriots lose. The Fianna kinsman doesn't notice them, but perhaps the Fang does -- and when she does, wolf lifts a hand in silent goodbye. And thanks, maybe.

Then it's through the halls, out the door. A last peal of laughter follows them as the front door shuts. Wolf's car is parked in the circle drive. Boring set of four wheels for when it's too icy for two. Lights flash as the doors unlock. He gets behind the wheel. It's icy in the car, leather cold on their asses.

Music, when the engine starts. Something girl put on earlier on the way here. Wolf's heavy hand on the back of her seat as he backs out. He doesn't live too far from here. All the elites cluster on the hilltops, or something.

Devon

"That's not an Irish goodbye then," his Irish-Brazilian girlfriend tells him, with grave disappointment as she walks away from her empty glass and heads inside, shaking her head.

Doesn't stop him from waving at Avery, but she does duck out ahead of him to go ask for the valet to bring the car. He may rapidly regret his decision to forego a traditional Irish goodbye, because Avery sweeps away from her husband and comes over to him and keeps talking to him for at least five minutes. She is bright-eyed and drunk and happy, insisting on hugging him, telling him she's so so so thankful that he came, it's so meaningful to her, and he should never ever feel hesitant to excuse himself when he's ready to because she of all people understands.

So, when he finally extricates himself from his alpha and comes outside, the car is waiting and Devon smirks at him again, raising her eyebrows with an unspoken told you.

--

They are in the car then. Devon slips into the passenger seat without anyone discussing it, because, well: she is drunk. And this isn't her car, it's his. She slouches, but she manages to get her belt fastened without help, so that's something.

Music in the car is something sort of trancy, the lyrics: -keep you close, you are the last of your kind picking up where they left off. Devon has her phone out as he's driving away from Avery's family's house, all tall trees and huge yards and winding roads leading out past gates that have little signs warning of the exclusivity of the neighborhood. It's not far from here: up University, head northwest from there. They can even circumvent downtown if they want.

"How are things going with everyone, anyway?" she asks, when they've gotten to that first light at Alameda.

Rafael

They do circumvent downtown. Traffic's minimal on a sunday night with the superbowl still going, but wolf doesn't even want to deal with the possibility. They skirt the buildings, the skyscrapers. Her music plays. They pause at a stoplight, and he looks at her.

"Who, the pack?" He shrugs. "Good. For a while when everyone was crammed together think we got a little sick of each other. Now it's better with everyone split up. All the redheads together." He means Morgan, Julie and Kenneth. "Avery and her family. You and me.

"You see Ursula a lot?"

Devon

A little nod: that's how he's encouraged to go on, that she does indeed mean his pack.

And the faerie who tags along with their pack, sometimes, when they think she might not get immediately killed. She's stronger than a mortal, but still so much more fragile, and that isn't just her body: Kenneth explained what faeries are to Avery, what they represent, how assaulted they are by the banality and degredation of the world, and the alpha effectively put an embargo on Julie accompanying them into any situation where the Weaver would be at its strongest or the Wyrm at its most insidiously cruel, for fear of the faerie's mind breaking or soul wasting away.

But Devon has been paying some attention: Rafael was alone, and then he was with a teenage Fianna and a Silver Fang Philodox who both share his need for some degree of solitude. But then there was Kenneth, who has no such need. And then Julie, who is rather extremely opposite. It's one thing to let her live with him, and then to have a couple of packmates. Now he's got more people, and sometimes they even expect him to do things like attend Super Bowl parties like he actually wants to be around them.

"I noticed," she says, of the way he got sick of having everyone crammed in his second bedroom and on his couch. Well: he says they got sick of each other. It was most noticeable in him. He mentions the redheads going together and all the rest, and she realizes: Avery's whole family is blond. And then she and Rafael both have dark, near-black hair. She huffs a little laugh at that quirk.

"Yeah. She comes by the shops I read at a lot. I think she's going to get a job at this place that makes botanics. Tinctures and teas and all. She's good at that." Of course she is. Flowers spring up in her footsteps if she walks barefoot and isn't consciously stopping it. Dead plants come back to life if she breathes on them.

"And there's the full moons and sabbats and esbats, oh my." She cocks a half-grin at him. "She comes over sometimes, too. Usually when you're not around." A faint wince at that, though it isn't like he doesn't get why.

Rafael

"I don't mind," he says, catching the wince. "Kinda prefer it."

Light goes green. His eyes are back on the road. He drives.

"Not that I don't like her. Just not much of a socializer."

Devon

"I know," she says. To the first part.

Then he speaks again. Devon, without really meaning to, repeats herself:

"I know, babe."

Rafael

It's the repetition that catches his attention, brings his eyes back to her.

Quiet: "It bother you?"

Devon

She looks at him, blinks once. Doesn't answer right away, but that just means she's thinking about it. Used to be she'd answer right away, usually to deflect or defend. Used to be that if one of them was quiet too long in a conversation, it left her with jangling nerves and an unsettled mistrust of everything else he might say later on.

It's moments like this that reflect how long it's been, now. He notices something and instead of letting it pass by, he asks. She hears the question and takes a moment to think it over.

"You know it does," she says, though not without gentleness. "A bit. But it's you. Hasn't changed. Don't expect it to. Love you all the same."

There is more, and she isn't concealing it, but she stops there. Gives him room to hear that. Say something else, if he wishes to. Ask what else there is, if he'd like. Leave it alone for now, if he needs to.

Rafael

Some part of him wishes she'd said otherwise. Hell. Most of him wishes that. Only part that doesn't is the part that doesn't want her to lie to him. Ever.

So he's quiet a while too. Drives streets that have grown familiar, makes turns that come easy as breathing. They're nearly home before he answers.

"I do try. For you. Just never going to be someone who likes hanging out with other people."

Devon

The breath she takes could end up being a sigh, even a frustrated-sounding one, but there's something about the tone that's different. "I know, babe," she says, for the third time.

Rafael

At that, he looks over. Reaches over after a moment, his big hand covering hers in her lap. Thumb rubs over knuckles; fingers curl into palm. He takes a breath too, not quite a sigh, but -- something of the same family, too.

"Liked being there tonight," he offers. "Always like being with you." Beat. Hint of humor: "You know. Right?"

Devon

She looks at him again when he reaches for her. They're on his street now. She's got this smile, her brow furrowed, her lips together, while he makes his offering. And he's telling her that he does like being with her, and she huffs a bit, and is about to say --

but he says it, this time.

"Right," she says, with a nod. "I'm not worried about that. Haven't been for a long time."

Rafael

He laughs under his breath. Pulling into the drive now; opening the garage door. Pulling in.

Engine off. Garage door closing. Quiet now. He unbuckles, looks over at her. Reaches over without a word, hand on her cheek.

"Come here," he says, quiet.

Devon

There's a brief lull, while they're pulling into the garage and parking next to her car. And then the car turns off. Devon starts to unbuckle her belt when Rafael gets all affectionate, touching her cheek. There's something off about it, he can tell almost instantly: she's on some other page, and not from the alcohol. It isn't that she recoils from him, nothing that dramatic. She just looks surprised for a moment, before she tips her head to the side. "I wanna go in," she says quietly, rather than coming here, going to him across the center console.

Rafael

Eyebrows flick together. He drops his hand, opens the door.

"Wasn't going to try to fuck in the car," he says, getting out. "Just wanted to kiss you."

Devon

[perc + empafee! spec does not apply]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 3, 6, 6, 6, 8) ( success x 4 )

Rafael

[IT PRETTY SIMPUL: RAFA FEELING REJEKTD. and also kinda ashamed, liek mebbe she tink he sum sort ub horndog.]

Devon

He lets go of her, takes the door handle, and gets out, muttering what he does. She sits there a half-beat after him, taken aback, confused: "I didn't think that," she says, but by the time she gets to the end of the sentence she's getting out, too, grabbing her satchel and shouldering it. The door to the house is on the passenger side, so she meets him at the headlight, her brow furrowed, her eyes on him as he's stalking around the car.

Not that he's stomping, or skulking. It's just that the way he moves is hard to describe in other ways than stalking. Like he's hunting. Like he always has been.

Her hand comes out, low at their sides, to touchg briefly against his hand. Doesn't try to take his, not really. It's not in either of them to, even after three years, be completely over their respective personality quirks. It's still easy for both of them to feel defensive, withdrawn, rejected. She doesn't try to take his hand because there's a part of her that thinks he'll pull his away. At the same time: she doesn't force him to hold her hand because she knows right now he may not want it. But the backs of her fingers do bump up against his. Just in case.

"Just didn't feel like kissing right then," she says quietly, like she's trying not to be heard by parents waiting inside, even though they finally live alone again. Ursula lives with Naomi now. Kenneth, Morgan, and Julie have a place together that, if everyone is being honest, is bankrolled by the Chase family because werewolves and compulsive liars have trouble holding on to jobs even on their best days.

So now the house in the Highlands is back to the way it was, a return to the way its inhabitants need it to be: quiet. Mostly empty. Each with their own space, no matter how often they choose to share that space with one another.

"Kinda makes it hard to tell you what I want if you react like this," she adds, even quieter. This time it's not like a conspiracy. It's like the words are hard, and she's trying to soften them by literally making them... soft. "It's alright. We're alright."

Rafael

It's true. He does stalk. He does pace, and prowl, and move in ways that regular human beings do not. It's something about the balance, the taut and tight-held power. The flash of his eyes when he looks her way, even when he does not mean his gaze to be fierce.

It's the same for her, though. She doesn't mean for her eyes to crackle with wild magic. But they do. She does. Her fingers brush his and some of that spark leaps across, her to him. His fingers stir. After a beat they snag hers, lightly, back to back. A point of contact.

"Just felt ... like you think I'm dumb and horny." Stupid way to put it, but he's at a loss for better terms. "Know you don't." Shrug, heavy shoulders lifting and falling. Echoes, "It's alright."

Devon

Her eyebrows lift a tad. Her voice is serious, though: "I have never, not even once, thought of you like that." This, regarding 'dumb and horny'. And she says it even though he claims to know she doesn't. Sometimes it helps to hear it anyway.

Their hands are touching now, fingers interlaced. She swings them a bit. Doesn't take her eyes off his. "Maybe we can talk about what I was thinking?"

Rafael

Sometimes it helps to hear it.

She can tell he hears it. Wouldn't look at her like that if he didn't: intense, eyes locked to hers, every bit as serious as she is.

Eventually, something in him unwinds. Corner of his mouth edges up a little. His hand on hers becomes firmer, fingers intertwining. "Yeah?" There's room for humor again, however slight. "Not even that very first time we met?"

Devon

It's true, too. Even when she thought he was a prick. Even when she thought, painfully, that he didn't love her, didn't respect her, maybe didn't even like her. Even when she's been angry at him or wary of him or uncertain about what they are to each other, she's never thought he was just some big, dumb, horny douchebag. The way she says it is so firm, too: like he's not to be afraid of that anymore, yeah? None of that, now.

Their hand-holding gets a bit more real. Hers turns; their palms touch now. She raises her eyebrows higher at his question.

"Thought you were horny," she admits, as she starts to step forward, heading for the door, "but not dumb."

Rafael

"Well," admission of his own as he follows her through the door into the house, "right about that."