After the most exciting full moon in her memory, they'd taken their breakfast from the bar in white to-go bags, eaten it standing around the counter in the kitchen, laughing as they speculated where the massive boar head was going to end up mounted.  There'd been some affectionate nuzzling in the shower, and he'd had less than honourable intentions when he carried her to the bed, but fatigue had taken its toll on both of them.  They'd barely touched cheek to pillow when they were both out like a light.  Even Dam curled up on the foot of the bed and dozed off.

When she woke, the late afternoon sun slanted through the windows.  She reached a hand up to caress his cheek.

"Oh mighty hunter," she whispers.  "Wakey wakey."

She stayed up too late, staring at the autopsy photos, trying to correlate the forensics with the reports that kept trickling in. She's trying to imagine just what purpose someone had for treating the corpse with such careless disregard.

What did it taste like, I wonder? What did it smell like, the broken bones seeping their marrow on the carpet of leaves, the trickles of blood mixing with the dark loam of the forest floor.  Heart and lungs, liver and kidneys. What would it feel like to tear  flesh from such a small body? 

She shakes her head, trying to clear the morbid thought from her mind.  It's nonsense.  It's rubbish, is what it is.  She can't think rationally when she gets this way.  This is what she  gets for going to bed hungry, she thinks.  Ryan has already gone to bed, and doesn't even awake when she joins him, simply slips an arm around her and pulls her close. 

~~~

The scene before her eyes is black and white.  Even with her enhanced night vision, the old growth forest is darkest here.  It's beautiful and serene, and she can smell the blood on the wind.  Something is wounded, something is running from her, and she's chasing it, chasing the intense wash of fear and pain. 

Run, little one.  Run and let me hear the pounding of your heart.  Let me feel the heat of your exertion.  I'm coming for you and there's nothing you can do to stop me.  Run.  Run like the devil is on your heels, because I am.  I'm coming for you.

The figure of a man hurls himself through the undergrowth, and she bats at him with one clawed hand, revelling in the sound that's torn from his throat.  Bone crunches beneath her hand and she's crashing into the back of him, her muzzle clamping down and giving one good hard shake to snap the neck.  Blood washes her mouth and she knows the taste.  She knows what horrific thing she has done before she even rolls the body over to look down into his face.

A heart-rending human scream, rage and sorrow and grief, boils up from within her.  His eyes look up at her from her fresh killed prey.  Richard's green eyes, now gone glassy and cold, stare up at her from his lifeless face. 

She screams again. 

And again. 

And again.

She doesn't need to turn the lights on to move about the flat in the dark now.  The starlight through the windows is plenty of light, though everything is tinted a shade that is somewhere between gold and green.  She can't quite tell which.

For some reason, she feels the need to check the front door, the kitchen, the office, the long line of windows in the living room, the bathroom, the front door again.  Scenting the air for any disturbances.  No, everything smells right.  Damocles is asleep on his rug, Richard is snoring softly in the other room.  He heard her awaken and mumbled something in canine about letting her patrol.

Is that what she's doing?  Patrolling?

She tried to sit at her desk and write for a bit, but the urge to move overwhelmed this late night ritual.  She thinks she should go and check the bar as well, the hall and the stairs, the Library. 

The realisation dawns slowly. It's her territory.  She's patrolling her territory.

She stands in the door between the living room and the bedroom, and watches him sleep.  He's dreaming again, restless, hunted.  She goes and sits on the bed next to him, resting her hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him some how.  But the dreams don't give up their hold easily.  She hopes the comfort of her scent can penetrate the fog of the nightmare.  Some nights it works.  Some nights he is the one that ends up pacing the floor in front of the windows.

If it goes on much longer,  she might wake him and suggest a midnight run.   A run sounds good right now.  Something to get the energy of the waning moon out of her blood. 

Damocles joins her eventually, inquiring as to why she's awake.  She doesn't have a good answer for him, so she pets his face and tells him it'll be all right.  He's more comfort than he knows, she thinks.  Always so happy to see her.  And now, chattering away at her all the time, now that she can understand him.  Damocles bumps her and tells her to go back to sleep, that he's here and if those demon rabbits come back, he'll run them off.  And then he promptly falls back asleep at the foot of the bed, sprawling across the warm spot she left behind.

She stands and watches them sleeping.  She loves them both so much it scares her sometimes. 

So she stands watch over them, drawing their scent into her with a deep breath and letting it out again in a low sigh.

And she paces the floor, eyes on the bank of windows and the dark Scottish landscape beyond.

Oh, River is not a morning person, but this prank requires some dedication and preparation.  She has her sonic screwdriver set to wake her an hour before the alarm, and she'd packed the blanket and the picnic basket the afternoon before while he was out running.

The matter of the prank itself is a simple few moments with the screwdriver on the red setting.  Quick.  Harmless.  And best of all, reversible. 

She still expects to get a bit of a hiding for it, but he did throw down the gauntlet.  Her cheeks ache from grinning at the very thought of the look on his face when he figures out just what she'd done.

Prank accomplished, she slips into her boots and shushes Damocles, swearing him to silence.  Rather, bribing him with future promises of bacon.  She leaves the note on the pillow and catches herself just before she kisses him on the cheek.  If he wakes, the surprise will be ruined before she can make her escape. 

Dear Richard~

Have been kidnapped by rabbits.  They said something about their pelts being used for "unseemly" purposes. Their leader says, if you ever want to see me again, come alone.

(crudely drawn map of the lake side and the meadow with an X)

Love,
~River

She watches as he gets dressed to go running. 

A sleepy hand steals out to the night stand to thread a finger through the chain of his dog tags.   They jangle together quietly in her hands. Two round discs, one on a long chain, the other threaded through a smaller chain hanging off the main necklace.   In the light of the lamp, she finds the clasp of the smaller chain and undoes it, closing it again once it's free.

He bends his head to give her a kiss good bye, and she slips the long chain with its solitary dog tag around his neck.  It's quiet without its mate to jangle against.  He looks down at it and back at her, puzzled.

She holds up her hand, the liberated tag looped over her index finger.  She closes her fingers around it and smiles at him drowsily as she pulls her hand back beneath the covers.

He grins down at her, shaking his head.  He presses another kiss to her forehead before he goes.

She falls asleep, the metal warming quickly against her skin.

~ mated ~

What is the distance between one's old life and one's new life?  In truth, two days.  Four weeks is the distance between galaxies, she thinks.  She thinks of her life before Milliways and it seems a thing that happened to someone else. 

She is so wrapped up in the wonder of it all, it takes her a week to notice that her door is back.  She rises early and there is a delicious soreness in her muscles from their exertions.  She lays in bed and reads while he runs, shifting over onto his side of the bed, stealing the last of his warmth from the sheets. 

She asks Bar for an orchid, something with a gentle fragrance that won't assault his sensibilities.  She brings it home (home) and asks his opinion.   He starts out scenting the orchid and ends up with his nose buried in her hair, nuzzling the nape of her neck.  She laughs, begging him to let her find a place for it.  He takes it from her and sets it on the windowsill before sweeping her into his arms.  It's still there, and quite content.

She wears turtle necks all the time now. 
At night, she sleeps with her head resting on his shoulder, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist.  Drifting up through the layers of consciousness, she listens to the even sound of his breath against her ear.  Even in his sleep, his fingertips draw lazy circles on her stomach, testing the limits of her restraint.  Some nights, she breaks far too easily, and he complains not in the least.

She wants to watch the sun setting on the lake.  He tells her he'll meet her in a few minutes, and she precedes him out the back door of the bar.  She is standing on the lakeshore, her hands rubbing her upper arms against the chill when he wraps the grey shawl around her shoulders.  It isn't as warm as he is, but it does quite nicely nonetheless.

She peppers him with questions constantly, and he answers them as best he can, turning them back to her on occasion, and she also answers, as best she can.  They talk about a thousand and one things, and each question leads to another and another.  They spend days learning about one another.

She hasn't told him about @ yet.  She thinks when the time is right, she'll know.  She doesn't want to abuse his trust, but neither does she want him to think she's only with him while she's waiting for someone else.  Because that is the farthest thing from the truth.   She is with him.  There is nothing else  in her world that she knows to be true anymore but that one simple fact.   She belongs to him.  And he belongs to her.  

The rest will sort itself out, one way or another.

[from here]

River arrives in the bar just before seven in the evening, and secures a table for two in a cozy corner of the bar.  She's dressed casually, wearing her favourite Irish sweater, jeans and her tan field boots.  But she has to confess, she's spent a bit more time with her hair and her face.

For as interesting as Richard is, he is also a good looking man.

She orders a glass of pinot noir, and waits, watching the faces in the crowd.  When she sees him, she smiles broadly and holds up a hand.