hell_in_highheels | [oom] Coming Home

He can hold his form into the sunlight, if he's awake to do so. He wasn't, this morning, instead curled up in his den with Damocles keeping their heat under the blanket.

The sun's up quite a ways when he steps out of the forest, arrowing for the Caribbean inlet. There's still blood in patches over his skin, places where he and Damocles missed cleaning last night. The clothes he's in are clean, though, if wrinkled. His shirt's on inside out and his jacket's hanging over one arm. The wind picks up, bringing her scent to him, and his head snaps up as he thrusts his nose into the breeze.

River! Damocles and he exclaim at once. The Doberman trots in her direction, Ryan not far behind. Both their mouths hang open in identical canine grins.

Edited 2009-03-12 06:46 (UTC)

She's tucked up under her shawl, but she manages to slip a hand out to wave to them, grinning broadly, relief and joy all mingled up in one.

He has clothes on. For some reason she didn't expect that. Then again, she's not quite sure what she had expected. Last month, he came home as if he'd just returned from the bar. She hadn't pressed.

As he gets closer, she can see the blood on his face and for a moment, she thinks he might be injured. No. His gait is easy and relaxed. Something (someone?) else's blood, then.

The sight can't wipe the smile from her face. She's seen worse.

Of course he's wearing clothes. It's cold out and he hasn't got any fur worth speaking of in this form. Hence why he was headed for the inlet. It's the warmest place to get clean out here.

Richard meets her with a kiss that hints of petrol. It quickly turns into a nuzzle as he rubs his stubbled chin against hers, happily pulling her into a hug. Damocles bounces around them, knowing better than to jump on anyone, though he keeps trying to push between their legs.

I didn't bring you anything, Richard admits as the dog worms his way in, earning a pat from the alpha.

She leans into him, rubbing her cheek and chin against his, grinning. "Missed you," she whispers, her tone fierce to match her scent.

relief gratitude joy desire longing loveneedwantyou

Her hand strays down to touch Damocles' head, needing to touch him as well.

Missed you, too. Richard moves to nuzzle the other side of her face. My mate.

What about me? Did you miss me, River? Damocles interrupts, trying to lean against both of them at once.

After a month together, she knows by now that he forgets sometimes. She grins, nuzzling back, whispering, "English, love?"

She leans into both of them, glad beyond the telling of it.

Oh. Right.

"Missed you," he says, voice a bit rough. He'll remember English next moon. Maybe.

He rests his head on her shoulder. "Dam missed you, too."

Well, then he'd best teach her more canine by next month then.

Her scent spikes with giddy joy at the sound of his voice. "Missed you both, like hell."

She manages to wriggle out of her shawl, wrapping him him up in it, and her arms, as best she can. She strokes his hair, oblivious to the patches of blood.

"Come on. Time to go home."

Edited 2009-03-16 05:11 (UTC)

He grins, having completely forgotten about the blood himself. Mates are distracting like that.

"Yes," he agrees, nudging Damocles out from between their legs so they can walk. He curls his right arm around her waist, keeping her close as they move.

"You've eaten?" He asks, concerned, sniffing for any food smells.

She shakes her head, leaning against him. She had a bite of toast with her tea last night, only because Bar insisted. She doesn't tend to eat when he's gone.

She leans against him as they walk, closing her eyes and breathing in the vivid scents that cling to him. The wolf scent is very much his own scent, only stronger, more potent. She inhales deeply, revelling in it. There is forest and earth, and the sharp tang of blood and sweat.

For a moment, she is terribly frustrated. She wishes she had his senses, could read the story of his absence in the information clinging to his clothes and skin.

He gladly supports her, happy that she's there to meet him. He keeps craning his neck to sniff her hair, just as curious about what she's been up to these past three nights.

He frowns at the frustrated scent, though, completely clueless about what's brought it on. "Is everything okay?"

The bright ribbon of joy returns and she nuzzles against him. Her words are slow and measured as she speaks.

"Before you, I had always relied heavily on language, written and spoken, and before you, it was always more than adequate. Now, knowing that you have your nose in my hair and you can probably smell the Persian rugs, and possibly the fireplace, and the hardwood, and the leather couches, as well as possibly a hint of Deitmar, who stopped by to say hello, I find my language to be incredibly inadequate. And there's information on you in the form of scents that I," she presses her nose into the side of his neck, drawing a deep breath, "can only guess at. Information that will fade once you've had a shower, lost forever."

Edited 2009-03-16 05:57 (UTC)

That's a lot of English thrown at him and he's silent while he parses through it and all the information in it and figuring out what the important part is. It's not the things in their room, he'll see them for himself soon enough. And it's not that Deitmar visited, though he'd like very much to know how they got along.

After a long moment: "You could ask?"

She laughs, pulling him closer, if that's possible. The bar is only a few steps away now.

"So, dear, how was your time at the office?"

It takes him a moment, but he grins at the joke.

"Wet. The snow's melting." He thinks a moment. "The rabbits'll be reproducing soon."

Ooo, a contraction. English must be finding it's way back to his default language.

"Spring," she muses quietly. "What does spring smell like, I wonder."

Her steps grow a little quicker as she takes his hand and leads him through the bar. Bar takes pity on them and the room is in the same place it was when she left this morning.

"New. And green. Fresh. Sharp. Tender. Damp," Richard lists carefully, trying to find words in English that even come close to the ones that canine has. It's slow going but it's also a good mental exercise for him.

He fishes the keys to their room out on their way to the door. With familiarity bred from over two years, he fits them to the lock and bumps the door open.

And stares. After a moment, he slips from her side and prowls a bit cautiously into the room. He's looking everywhere, sniffing madly, and Damocles is doing much the same. The place smells like River and leather and wood and wool and River and a bit of Deitmar.

But he's finding very little of his own scent.

"It's...big," he says, crossing to the new larger window.
Must. Not. Mark. Territory.

The bedding is his, and his clothes are neatly hung in the wardrobe or folded in the dresser. His figurine is on his bedside table, along with the clock and lamp. His papers are in one of the two desks, and his entertainment center is ensconced in one of the book shelves in the office space.

Damocles's rug is at the foot of their bed, but his toys are in a basket on the hearth. His food and water dish are in the small dining room.

Her heart is in her throat. She stands and waits, watching him intently as he prowls.

Richard heads left, first, Damocles at his heels and they find the office area with its many bookshelves. There's little hints of him, here, and he untenses a bit. Then he circles back to the right side of the room, disappearing through the door to the bedroom.

Okay. Okay, this room smells like him. Some primal portion of his brain is greatly reassured to know that the place is still his. His. He takes the door to the bathroom and through that back to the main room. The caution's gone when River sees him again. He prowls past her once more to the small kitchen and opens the fridge.

It's going to be tempting having all that food so close.

Finally he heads back to River, pulling her into the room and shutting the door. He pulls her back so he can rest a head on her shoulder, pushing her hair to one side while they look at the room together. He lets out a noisy breath.

"Okay."

Relief concern worry relief, all woven together in her scent.

She leans back against him, interlacing her fingers with his. She nuzzles against him, revelling in the strength of his body against hers.

"Love you."

He grins at her, nuzzling reassuringly and holding her tightly. "Love you."

Damocles is still exploring, going through his basket and making sure every single toy is there.

Richard lets out another sigh, an obviously contented one this time. "Breakfast?" He queries. "Or sex?"

"Shower," she murmurs, turning in his arms. "Come with me, wolf."

Without letting go of his hand, she leaves her shawl hanging over a kitchen chair, and toes her boots off by the front door, waiting for him to do the same with his.

She draws him through into the bathroom, tugging her sweater and blouse off over her head in one move. Her hands make quick work of his own shirts, tossing them in the hamper. She meets his gaze with a playful smirk and says aloud, to no one in particular, "Shower, hot, both."

He can hear one shower head come on, followed quickly by another. She slips out of her skirts as the steam rises.

"Go on. There's room for both of us."

He missed the voice automation in his earlier exploration of the bathroom. He'd ask now, but he's rather distracted at the moment.

Mates are good at that.

Richard's out of the rest of his clothes in one fell swoop and has them kicked in the general direction of the hamper. He's silent while he complies with her request, slipping in among the streams of water but dodging any that might hit his head.

He wants to watch her get in.

River is comfortable in her own skin, welcoming the heat of the water with a shiver of pleasure. Her eyes are bright, fixed on his face as she reaches for him.

Her hands smooth over his chest, sliding over his skin to rinse away the remains of the moon and his other self. The patches of dried blood are disturbing, but only in the context of the bathroom. She holds an image of him, standing at the edge of the forest in twilight, and it soothes the incongruity in her mind.

She can't help herself. She leans in to lick at the water beading on his sternum.

The blood starts to flake at first, then run as the steam and water rehydrates it. Richard doesn't catch more than a whiff of it before the water's washed it away. The werewolf gives a contented little mreh as River laps at the water that's collected at the top of his breastbone.

He runs his hands over her skin possessively, appreciating her smoothness and the sensitivity the water lends his hands.

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