World of Darkness World of Darkness: Attrition - Mending [Complete]

[Owns-The-Night]

{Wednesday, 20th August}

He floated on a sea of pain.

Declan had come across that phrase before somewhere: he couldn't remember where. It was one of those funny little combinations of words that people used to try and make poetry out of agony. Declan wasn't the most poetic of souls, Luna knew, but he had a glimmering now of the true meaning of that phrase.

He floated on a sea of pain.

Too many times to count over the last week he had replayed the fight against the Azlu. Seen his errors, seen his pride and power brought low by an ancient foe of his kind. But he also saw the thing's blood and ichor spray across the surface of the road. He heard it's rattling, hoarse screams as his packmates and he savaged it. He saw it turn from him and flee. No, depression was not coming from that direction.

He floated on a sea of pain.

What was paining him most was the ignominy of his paraplegia. He could barely even use the toilet, for Christ's sake! And he was reduced to washing himself with a facecloth, rather than taking a bath or a shower. The others had offered to help him, only to be met with firm refusal, then snarled refusals. He would not suffer them to tend to him beyond visiting to bring him food and check his wounds. He would heal, by Luna, and he needed nothing else from his pack except the security of his den: he could wipe his own ass, thanks.

He floated on a sea...

He had broken into cracked, growling laughter several times over the last week, some dark corner of his soul finding humor in his predicament. Had anyone been around to hear it the laughter would have sounded as though he were on the edge of tears, as though the only way tears could come was from the grim eruptions of grumbling mirth. He found no release in drugs or painkillers, no surcease from the wound that had robbed him of his strength.

He floated on...

And then Luna had turned Her full glory to the world over the weekend, shining down in Her silver magnificence through his window and onto his bed of suffering. He wondered if She wept for him or laughed at him. Maybe even both. Females, even mothers, were mercurial. He had been filled with energy, a restless lust for life. It had been as he had described it to Morgan last night: as though he was the horniest he had ever been and couldn't do a thing about it; as though he was thrown a birthday party and had to watch others eat all the cake. He had quietly howled his misery those nights, wanting to run and hunt and court, and having to stay confined, afraid to let any he did not consider friends see his weakness. He had taken a week off from work: explaining away his injury by a convoluted story involving steel piping and a reversing vehicle. No, no, he would be fine. But he needed to recover, doctors orders. His boss was fairly relaxed about it beyond being anxious that he be ready to start work when the semester started.

...a sea of pain.

Chatting to others online last night had helped some. Talking about his eventual discharge and perhaps going to college had been a pleasant distraction. Hell, even Lucien had come up with a good idea when he wasn't being a smartass: maybe Declan should study Art. And a small part of his soul he felt vaguely ashamed of had been warmed by the concern of Ariel and Morgan. He'd enjoyed the light flirtation, and even the teasing about being given a make-over with ribbons and pink hair dye while helpless to resist had made him laugh.

...floated on a sea...

She was coming over today. Morgan. She had things to discuss: things he wouldn't like. Things involving Trent. Declan's fists gripped the sheets hard, his wound delivering fresh pain as he growled through clenched teeth, letting the fury out of his system before she arrived. Friends first. Friends... Treat her as a packmate. Listen, not judge. Be a friend. He repeated the mantra to himself, over and over. It helped a little, despite the territorial urge he felt to roar out into the world and tear Trent's head off.

He... ...of pain

The rage subsided; he took a deep breath and let it out. He had been lying here for hours since logging out of CalNet, and the sky beyond his window was starting to lighten. He should sleep a little. Get what rest he could.

Closing his eyes, the Uratha known to the spirits as Owns The Night drifted away on a sea of pain.

[Astra D.]

7:00am.

The Whole Foods Market on Wilshire was not the sort of place Morgan would normally be caught dead... particularly standing at the meat counter at 7am, watching their butcher hack into a piece of venison as if he was envisioning his mother-in-law's face. Every bloody thunk of the cleaver was a visceral reminder of why she was there, and the memory (why is there so much blood and oh, god, he can't still be moving why is he still trying to move?!) sent a gut-clenching wave of nausea rippling through her.

"You a vegetarian?" the heavy-set man asked, noticing her discomfort as he paused to draw out a smaller blade.

"No," she managed with a wan smile, forcing down the bile that had risen in her throat. Even now, a week later, she couldn't seem to get rid of the images that had been scorched into her memory by the last few moments of blood-drenched violence a week before. "But I'm seriously considering it."

::**:**:**:**:**:**:**:**:**:**:**:**:**:**:**::

Six hours, forty-five dollars, three pounds of venison, half a dozen cups of vegetables, two shirts, five bowls, one sinkful of dishes, and no less than twenty-three paper towels later, Morgan slouched down into one of the hideous plastic chairs in the Rieber Terrace kitchen. She wasn't keen on cooking, and most of her experience involved a microwave and boiling water, but this was as much an exercise in purging guilt as it was a visit to an injured friend. The more effort she put into it, the better she felt- at least, temporarily. It had to turn out well, and she agonized over the preparation and measurements until one of the other girls took pity on her and explained what the abbreviations meant. As much as she'd hated to admit it, chopping up carrots and potatoes had been almost meditative, and the scent of the fresh herbs she'd splurged on for seasoning (at the recipe website's recommendation, of course) was pleasant enough.

As she ladled the thick, meaty stew into a big plastic bowl, she tried to ignore her trepidation, and then, when that failed, rationalize it away.

He didn't seem angry in the chat room. He probably wanted to be left alone, anyway... seems like the manly thing to do. I doubt it bothered him that I haven't been by, so I'll just go, take him lunch, chat with him for a bit, and go home. Nothing else. It doesn't have to be any more complicated than that. Right?

The bowl (sealed tightly with its bright-colored lid), got shoved into the shopping bag she'd gotten from the market, along with a sack of crusty bread rolls she'd warmed in the oven and wrapped in foil. On her way up to change clothes, she caught sight of the clock on the microwave.

One o'clock... Shit. Hokay, guess I'm going as-is, or this'll be dinner instead of lunch.

That wasn't completely true, in the end. She couldn't resist darting up, sack of goodies in tow, to brush her hair and add a little makeup. The fact that she wouldn't have time to pick out a suitable outfit was lamentable, but at least she was clean... and if two t-shirts had to be sacrificed for the meal, so be it.

Sunglasses, check. Wallet, check. Food, check. Phone, check. Lighter, check. Smokes... check. She patted herself down, checking the fraying pockets of her jeans for all the essentials before sneaking one last look in the mirror. With an unhappy groan, she tore herself away and hoped he wasn't expecting much in the way of glamour.

Within ten minutes, she was jogging down the front steps of the residence hall and headed across campus. It took almost another twenty to get to Declan's front door, which gave her more than enough time to recount, repeatedly exactly why this was a very bad idea. She was still upset with herself for telling him in the chat room that she had some bad news for him, but it was difficult for her not to see the logic in getting it out of the way before he was completely up and around again.

If he doesn't mention Trent, I won't.

Tentatively, she knocked on the front door, and waited.

[Owns-The-Night]

He swam up through searing mists of pain, through nightmare images of giant spiders with Morgan's features sinking fangs into his spine, and came awake with a part-growl, part scream as his back protested an attempt by his body to wake up fighting.

Groaning he forced himself to relax, his mind registering the knock at the door that had woken him. A quick glance at the clock told him the that it was early afternoon. Fuck. Morgan! He placed his hands underneath him and forced himself up, gritting his teeth against the all-too-familiar pain. It seemed less today, though that was probably wishful thinking. Amber had told him that wounds like this took time to heal: he wouldn't have been in any worse shape had someone taken a silver axe to his spine.

His bed was set low to the floor. Normally, this was great for someone that had always felt instinctively uneasy sleeping suspended above the ground. Now, it was a royal pain in the... back. He sweated and growled from the pain as he forced his body to follow his wishes, lifting himself on powerful arms into the wheelchair. Breathing heavily from the agony of his wound more than the exertion, Declan pulled on a robe over his shorts and wheeled out of his bedroom. He stopped at the sight in his bathroom mirror as he passed.

Ugh. An unshaven face glared back at him with red-rimmed eyes that had dimmed to dull grey, retaining but a fraction of their silver fire. Years in the Army had left Declan with grooming habits that were ingrained, and for him to go unshaven for so long..? He looked like what he was: an injured werewolf. A week's growth from a beard that usually needed shaving twice a day had left him decidedly shaggy. His hair was unkempt and dirty, and overall to his sensitive nose he stank, despite his best efforts to wash himself. Hope she doesn't notice too much... She's human, senses-wise. How bad could it be? He groaned a little under his breath. Fucking great. Her last sight of you was naked, screaming, and spitting blood all over Amber after the Gauru wore off, and this sight isn't going to do much to reassure her. This'll be a short visit.

Sighing, he pushed himself over to the door, navigating easily around the mostly-empty lounge. Reaching the door, he leaned forward and opened it, wincing at the fresh pain from his bandaged torso. The door swung open, and he backed away to allow his visitor passage.

It was her. For a moment he forgot the pain, forgot how he looked. His eyes visibly brightened as though the daylight behind her streamed through and lifted the tarnish of agony from them. Despite himself, he smiled.

"Morgan." His voice was low, but welcoming in tone. "Come on in."

[Astra D.]

It was difficult to keep the shock out of her eyes as she stepped over the threshold. The grizzled-looking man in the wheelchair was barely recognizable as UCLA's wolf-inclined groundskeeper, and Morgan was hard-pressed to return the smile convincingly. Still, she made the effort, if only because it was the socially acceptable thing to do. Inwardly, she was reeling from the jarring difference in his appearance; it was an improvement over the last time she'd seen him, but, then, anything would've been. She managed to suppress a shudder as the memory of the last time she'd seen him sprang, unbidden, back into the forefront of her mind.

Say something, Morgan. Even if it's stupid. It's been a week.

"Hey, Big Bad," she smiled, setting the shopping bag down for a moment. "Hope you're hungry. I had to fend off every stray and frosh on campus to get this here." She was a little on the fidgety side, and she knew it, so she did her best to cover her nervousness with activity. Leaning down, she draped her arms around his shoulders and gave him a friendly squeeze. "You ready to eat now, or...?"

[Owns-The-Night]

Even as his arms went up around her in reflex, wanting the contact, Declan tensed under Morgan's hug. His teeth gritted as sparks of agony shot through his lower back and, with difficulty, he resisted the wounded animal urge to snap at her. The young mage meant well, but Morgan's nervousness around him coupled with a subconscious image of him as, well, invincible, had made her incautious to his injury. It wasn't bad compared to his previous pains over the last week, but the smell of her faint perfume and her body reminded him of a time before his current misery. So it was that he clung to her for a brief moment, his face pressed into the junction of her shoulder and neck as he breathed deeply, forcing the anguish back with her presence. The moment passed and, gently lowering his arms, he tilted his head and looked up at her, the shadows of pain under his eyes somehow lightening.

"One good thing about being Uratha. If you're not hungry, you're dead and don't know it yet." He quipped with a wry smile. "You look good." And he meant it. Glamorous, sexy clothes were fun, but this simpler Morgan was an equally welcome sight to the uncomplicated werewolf. She smelled clean, of soap and kitchen scents and faint wisps of perfume. Her skin was as luminescent in daylight as under the moon, and the faint scraps of makeup were to him touches of colour that enhanced, rather than artificed, her natural beauty. He rolled around her a little and pushed the door shut, the sight of the outside starting to pain him as he yearned to run free. Turning, he smiled and sniffed the air in an obvious way, eyes glinting as they cast sideways at the shopping bag.

"What's on the menu?"

[Astra D.]

The compliment was a little surprising, if not unwelcome, and her smile softened somewhat, holding more of girlish shyness in its faint curve than anything else. Even in old jeans and a tank top splattered with flecks of paint, he thought she looked good; her green eyes were all gratitude and surprised pleasure as she slid her arms from around him and seized up the bag. He sounded like himself, at least, and that was a blessing that made it a little bit easier for Morgan to reconcile this Declan with the one she'd met at the party. She couldn't fail to notice the changes of course, not with the way she made little mental studies of people so she could draw them later, but an unshaven jaw and uncombed hair were nothing in comparison to the sight of him in a wheelchair. He seemed smaller, somehow, less vibrant than he had before, and it made her chest ache to think of it.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she retorted with a grin that wavered only slightly, and danced back just out of reach as the bag swayed from her hand. Try to stay upbeat. ...And for Christ's sake, don't stare at the wheelchair. This is only temporary. "I cooked, but I figured you could eat pretty much anything, so the toxicity shouldn't be a problem," the raven-haired girl teased playfully as she sashayed into the kitchen and began unpacking on the table. The place was as immaculate as she'd remembered, she noted curiously, and wondered if someone had been keeping house for him.

That Amber woman, maybe.

That thought was a sobering one, but she shook it off. Friends, she reminded herself. It doesn't matter who plays house with him.

A lumpy, foil-wrapped package came first, followed by a sizable plastic bowl with a hideous aqua-green lid. She tore open the former with the typical metallic, crinkling sound, freeing up the homey, fragrant scent of warm bread before turning to glance at the cupboards, and then back at him. "Bowls?" He pointed, and she pulled two from the cabinet as he rolled in behind her. The sight of her, dark-haired and tattooed, was amusingly incongruous with the scene, but she didn't seem to notice. Instead, she pried the plastic lid off the stew and carefully tilted the container to pour it into the bowls she'd retrieved. "Hope you like it," she said candidly. "I figured you could use something besides delivery pizza or Chinese, so I picked up a few things. Venison, carrots, potatoes, celery... That kind of stuff."

[Owns-The-Night]

He admired the sight of her walk as she flirtingly led him into the kitchen. The jeans fit well over her backside, and the tank-top followed the curve of her waist. And as he watched that lithe form stretch and bend as she pulled bowls and spoons from cabinet and drawers, he felt a pleasant tightness in his groin... and nearly fell over backwards in his chair as the realisation of it hit him.

Whoa! He glanced down at himself to check that he was right (he was, his nerves seemed to be healing as Amber predicted), then hastily arranged the robe for decency's sake. Thankfully, Morgan hadn't noticed, and by the time she was handing him a bowl he was presentable.

"Venison? It's been a dog's age since I had any." He looked at the bowl as though she had passed him the Holy Grail, then back up at her. This time, there was very little wan or pained about his smile. He raised the bowl slightly and took a sniff. Yup... fresh venison... vegetables... and-

"Herbs. Fresh ones." He grinned up at her. "You cooked this? I thought you said you were bad at cookin'." He wheeled himself left to the table's edge, placing the bowl there, then locked his chair in place and picked up a roll, nodding for her to take a seat nearby. "No sense letting anythin' get colder." He said, some of his old assurance returning to the werewolf's low voice.

[Astra D.]

She shrugged, failing miserably at passing off her broad grin as nonchalance. In point of fact, she was inordinately pleased that he'd noticed little details like that, especially when it brought that tiny little measure of life back into his voice. That, she decided, was worth this entire ill-conceived visit.

"No, I am a terrible cook," she admitted with a laugh as she slid into a chair next to him. "I'm just very good at using the internet. They had this great recipe for venison stew, so I figured, why not, right? Seemed like a good choice with the veggies, even if you are a confirmed carnivore." The light, playful note in her voice came with surprising ease, as the simple, homespun magic of a shared meal did its job well and thoroughly. "It smells great, but for all I know it tastes like kerosene, so take it easy."

Smiling, she tugged absently at the strap of her shirt before grabbing a warm roll from the pile. The movement caught the Rahu's attention, prolonging one of his surreptitious glances at her bare shoulder and drawing his gaze to an imperfection near the exposed collarbone. Like ivory on alabaster, the scar was a pale, slightly raised mark that curved in a near-circle; a second, similar arc marred the skin on the same side of her back, just above the shoulder blade.

She continued to chatter on for a few moments about the recipe she'd found, cutting up the larger chunks of potato with the edge of her spoon and waving her free hand now and again to emphasize what she'd said.

[Owns-The-Night]

The words were making sense, but Declan was only partly listening. The roll was half torn in two but forgotten, his eyes widening as the appearance of the scars registered with him.

Luna! For so it was. Gleaming softly on Morgan's luminous skin were two exact replicas for the Uratha glyph representing their Mother and Lover: The Moon. His jaw slackened slightly. Morgan noticed his expression and fell silent, looking at him askance, her green eyes slightly nervous.

He reached over to her slowly, wincing absently at the twinge in his back but paying it little heed as one calloused fingertip gently traced around the scar-glyph. His silver eyes studied the design before they glanced up at her face, full of wonderment as they met her jade gaze. In a voice thickened by some indefinable emotion he asked:

"Where... did you get these?"

[Astra D.]

The intensity of his stare was unnerving, and the brush of his finger- gentle as it was- over the raised, acutely sensitive scar tissue moreso. She flinched slightly, withdrawing a fraction of an inch before she caught herself. To Morgan, those two little scars were all but taboo in terms of intimacy, but the reflexive urge to cringe away from the brief whisper of contact faded as she wondered instead about the sudden shift in his mood. Her expression darkened slightly, eyes dropping to the contents of her bowl when he asked about their origin.

For months now, Reva and Gabe had been urging her to talk about what happened. They didn't care if she told them, a guidance counselor on campus, or one of the priests in the nearby Catholic church, but telling the story meant sharing it, trying to make someone else understand even as she was forced to remember the accident herself. An involuntary shiver raced down her spine, and she shook her head. If he wanted to know about the scars so damned badly, she'd tell him, but there was no reason to tell him everything, not yet. Her voice was quiet when she spoke, and tinged with sorrow and regret that went well beyond the normal trials and tribulations of a student's life.

"Just before I got these." A slim finger tapped the three black dots beneath her eye. "Jessie, Tristan, and Amanda." Leaning back in her chair, she dragged her eyes back up to his face, and all trace of life and warmth fled as her attention turned inward. "We were driving... on Spring Break. There was an accident, and-" Her breath hitched slightly, and she struggled for a moment to compose herself. "And while we were rolling, something broke free, or came through the glass." Uncertainly, she shook her head. "It went through my shoulder, shattered the bone, and that's where it punched through. You probably heard about the wreck, I guess," she finished morosely.

[Owns-The-Night]

He nodded, his expression showing that yes, he had heard about that wreck. He realised her distress and shifted his hand from the scars to her mostly-bare shoulder. He let his fingers rest there a moment in wordless sympathy, then withdrew them.

"I'm sorry." he told her quietly. "Didn't mean to bring up bad stuff, or freak you out by goin' weird." Yeah, real smooth asswipe. he told himself savagely. "It's just... Those marks mean something to me... to us." The way he said that last left no mistake in Morgan's mind as to which "us" he meant.

Morgan's gaze turned a little quizzical at that, and Declan shrugged. "We have a written language, an old one. Any Uratha can read it easy, because the glyphs that make it up aren't just physical, but also somehow spiritual. One glyph can mean a host of things, but some glyphs mean only one thing."

By way of demonstration, he pulled aside the left flap of his robe, letting her see clearly the dark raised scar high on his left pectoral. "This is my name. Just a few glyphs that mean lots of things each, but combine them in a certain way and with someone who can read them, like us and spirits, it makes my spirit name. That's like... the name that lives on after I do, with all my deeds attached to it. I was given this scar at my initiation. Hurt like hell at the time, too, seein' as they used silver. But it's my identity now. Who I really am. Owns-The-Night." He sat up straighter, looking her in the eye as he spoke. And as he recited his name, the wounded Uratha seemed to take a curious strength from it, a pride that lifted his spirits and made the silver flame quicken in his eyes. His voice was quiet and low, but somewhere in the depths of his chest was the proud growl of a Hunter and Warrior born.

The moment passed, and Declan's posture relaxed slightly as he self-consciously covered the glyph. His gaze released Morgan's as he did so, and he smiled a little sheepishly as he looked down at his bowl, taking a spoonful of the stew and chewing the flavorful meat with relish.

"So..." he said into the slightly spellbound silence. "Um... That glyph you wear, or the scar that looks like a glyph, has a meanin' too." He looked sideways at her, gauging her reaction.

[Astra D.]

"I'd wondered about that," Morgan replied thoughtfully, inclining her head toward the now-concealed glyph. "I've seen it a couple of times, but since you've had ink done, too, I figured it was just a brand of some kind. That kind of stuff is getting pretty popular again: scarification, big plugs in the ear lobes, dreadlocks... That whole, 'urban tribal' look." Resting her chin on her hand, she tilted her head slightly to regard him, green eyes dark with somber introspection. "I guess you don't really fit that profile, though, do you? 'Owns-The-Night,'" she repeated slowly. "Yeah, I believe that."

Hell, I'd believe pretty much anything at this point. I watched people turn into big, furry monsters that make Lon Chaney, Jr. look like a Spaniel puppy. I watched a guy who got an insanely huge spider leg through his spine keep trying to kill it anyway, and then haul himself up onto the back of a wolf to get carried off. Yeah. I'd believe it. If he says the owns the night, then I'm not going to argue with him.

"So," she continued, finally looking away to maneuver a few pieces of the stewed vegetables onto her spoon. They seemed to have established a pattern, an underlying theme that bid them exchange knowledge for knowledge, information for information, and she felt compelled to follow it despite her misgivings. It wasn't that she wanted to tell him, she reflected, not yet and perhaps not completely, but that it seemed appropriate. As much as she preferred keeping the odds stacked in her favor, it seemed a little unfair with Declan, as if their serendipitous meeting had set the tone for all their interactions thereafter. "I know what this means to me. It means that I lost three of my best friends, almost died, and Awakened in a few minutes..." He frowned at that, an unspoken question in his eyes, and wryly she added, "Yeah, apparently a metal spear to the chest was what it took to get me to quit pretending I hadn't been dreaming my way to my tower for days already. But, I'm curious. What does it mean to you guys?"

Knowing my luck, it'll be 'Eat the Mage.'

[Owns-The-Night]

Declan took another spoonful of stew, which was really damn good despite Morgan's protestations. He swallowed it down with only a cursory chew, then gave Morgan a somber look of his own, tinged with a strange sparkle in the depths of his silver-grey irises. She lost friends, and it still hurts her. Bound to. Damn, no wonder she went to pieces last week: losing friends in a car accident is bad enough, but seeing one speared by a fucking Azlu has got to be a contender.

"It's one of the few that means only one thing, even when mixed with others. It stands alone. It's the symbol that means 'Luna'." He smiled then as he tilted his head at her, the look in his eyes somewhere between amusement and... she wasn't sure what. But it was a different type of look than the young woman had received from men before. It wasn't soft, but it was gentle. It was wild, untamed, and yet somehow inviting and warming to her. She had seen something like it the night they had met, when he had offered to walk her home after... the incident at the party. His voice was low as he spoke.

"Y'know, I told you last night that you were like the moon. I always thought of you that way since that party and the walk after. Not just because you're, well, you have an effect on me like the moon does." He grinned a trifle shyly, then cleared his throat and continued. "But because you seem changeable... Wild in your own way. I think that's what made me take a second look at you at the party. Well, that and the vinyl skirt." He deadpanned.

[Astra D.]

Something about the look he gave her made for a very uncomfortable twist in her stomach. It wasn't something she could immediately classify, but just the sight of it awakened a dull, hollow ache inside her. It reminded her that something indefinable and precious was missing in the haphazard way she approached life and love and... well, everything. It reminded her of something she had lost, something so far gone that she couldn't remember now what it was called, and she fumbled for a roll, tearing it open as she begged silently for a distraction.

Blessedly, he'd kept talking, and the completely sober expression he assumed, combined with the decidedly cheeky comment, was enough to crack through the surface of her seriousness. It figured, of course, that she'd come to visit and he'd be the one cheering her up, instead. It was impossible to completely mask the twitch of her lips as a grin threatened to spill forth into laughter, and finally she gave up trying at all. Okay, okay. That wasn't bad. The sound filled the tidy kitchen, and any attempt she made to lift the spoon to her mouth met with utter failure as it just dissolved into more giggles. When she had, at last, managed to compose herself enough to be capable of coherent speech, she shot him a mirthful, vaguely accusatory look and tapped his shoulder in a light backhand. It was the sort of playful, teasing gesture shared among friends, or those on mutual short-lists of "cool people" at the very least.

"Yeah, I do have a tendency to be moody, I guess. I like to consider it a characteristic of my 'artistic temperament.'" The last she intoned loftily, plucking out the soft, fluffy insides of her bread. "But, really, it's just me, no occult significance or anything." She shrugged. "At least, not that I know of. Product of my environment, and all that. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at a scar the same way again, though, now that you've mentioned it." The wry little twist of her mouth diminished somewhat. Good job. This is important to him, and now he's going to think you're making light of it. Way to go, Westbrook. Way. To. Go. "Sorry, I know it looks like something more, to you, but to me it's just a scar, sort of a reminder etched into my skin. I guess that's really the only thing mystical about it to me. Hell, for all I know, maybe it's just a quirk of Fate."

[Owns-The-Night]

Her laughter had been infectious, and Declan's widening wolfish grin had been both a symptom of that infectiousness and a cause of further giggles from the lovely young woman. They shared that moment there in the sunny kitchen, and it was worth any amount of pain or heartache as they both tried to get control of their mirth. Finally, they both calmed enough to continue, and he smiled as she described her "artistic temperament" in that mock-lofty tone and ate some more stew while watching her. Her eyes, the lines of her face, and the curve of her lips called his gaze back again and again. Her words, however, made him thoughtful.

"Maybe I am readin' too much into it." he admitted between bites of bread. "But any Uratha you told that tale to would consider it good mojo, or some shit like that. Maybe we're just superstitious, but when you get down to it, we live with one foot in a world where symbolism is reality. The Shadow realms thrive on symbolism. A battlefield here will be a hellish place there, places like concentration camps will be nastier still, and so on. So we have to be alert to this kinda stuff and not just pass it off as coincidence. That's a good way to get killed or fail the Duty in a big way." He smiled at her. "So what a Herd, or a Sleeper might pass off as coincidence might need to be taken more seriously by folks like you and me. At least, that's my read on it."

"So as far as I'm concerned, you're even more good luck than you were before. In fact, I'm going to have to keep you here." He deadpanned again, only half-joking.

[Astra D.]

For a moment, she almost took him seriously. His facial expressions were so intense, sometimes, she could hardly tell if he was kidding or not. She decided to err on the side of teasing, and hope that's not what he actually intended. "Keep me here?" She grinned and shook her head, tossing her dark hair back over her shoulder. The shorter layers promptly slid back again, half-veiling her eyes in shadow. "You know, most people keep a four-leaf clover, or a coin, or a rabbit's foot, or something. I'm not exactly going to fit on your keychain."

Friends. That's it, and he's screwing with you about shacking up. ...Unless he's serious, in which case, it'd be time to go. But he's not serious, so it's fine. He's not serious, and neither am I, and neither are we. Not that there is a we, but... Oh, hell. Just go on with the conversation. And absolutely no mention of Trent. None. Let him fill up first, and maybe he won't be hungry enough to eat me later, when he's pissed.

Morgan shook off the thought and gave the kitchen a deliberate once-over as she chewed the fluffy bits of still-warm roll. "I dunno. This place is somewhat lacking in piles of clothes, half-finished paintings, and magazines and underwear strewn about. Just doesn't quite feel like home, you know? Though, I have to admit," she added slyly, studying him out of the corner of her eye, "your housekeeper must love you. How do you keep her busy?"

[Owns-The-Night]

He frowned and shrugged, ignoring the stab of pain from his back reflexively, though the faintest tic of a wince marred his expression.

"Ah... well the others have been coming by. Y'know, to change my dressings and clean up a bit. Bringin' me food, too, though not like this." He smiled at her slightly, the smell of the stew lifting him from the humiliation of his perceived dependancy. "Mainly, uh, Elle, cos Ariel's busy and all with her day job, but she comes around too. I think Elle's worried I'll go nuts alone." He tried to play that off with a wry smile as though he thought it funny and annoying, but the Rahu was not great at dissembling. Though his poker face could be like a vault door, Declan was not very skilled at projecting false emotion. And though he snarled and grumbled somewhat at Amber's "fussing", the truth was that his friend was mostly just present, watching TV or listening to music with him, talking if he felt like it. Ariel's visits were welcome too. He hadn't realised before how empty his life had been without friends, and Owns-The-Night was rapidly coming to realise the truth of his existence: without a Pack, the Wolf's soul was empty.

And what of Morgan? He looked over at her and felt his heart jump slightly as he considered that. She wasn't Pack, but she was a friend. Maybe more. That is, if she wanted to be. He ignored phantom tingling sensations in his feet, weird pins-and-needles that came and went. He had something to say to his friend.

"So..." he looked at her gravely. "About last week. I want to say sorry for draggin' you through that. The demon wasn't as expected: that was a near-Queen, not just any Azlu. We're all damn lucky to be alive, with just the four of us against it. That was the first hunt I've led, and I fucked it up pretty bad. The others are Uratha, and that's the sort of thing we have to deal with. But you? You lost good friends in a bad accident not so long ago, and then you see... well, what you saw. I'm sorry." He looked away from her, down into his bowl, his shame palpable.

[Astra D.]

Dumbstruck, Morgan could only blink for a moment, her pretty features frozen in a mask of incredulity.

He thinks...

"You think... you... should apologize? No, no." Emphatically, she shook her head, eyebrows arrowing together into a worried frown. "Don't. Don't say you're sorry, not for that. What (happens to me) happened to me before you met me is out of your control, and what happened with, er... McArthur... was totally unexpected. I mean, unless there was some way for you to know how potent she was going be, what were you going to do differently? Look." Sliding down off the chair, she hunkered down next to him, balancing on her heels. "Don't worry about what I saw. I'm not going to lie and say I'm cool with it, but, hell, Declan." She laughed quietly, a hint of awe in her eyes as she looked up at him. "After all that, you're still here. You're still, fucking, here. She's not. Batshit crazy as that was, and I won't deny that I figured I'd probably pass out... You're still here. All of us are. You and Amber almost got yourselves killed trying to protect each other and keep that thing from killing the rest of us, the little mundane peons wandering around with their eyes closed. So don't say you're sorry, okay? Just..." Her lips pressed together in a faint, quirky little smile. "Just say, 'You're welcome.'"

[Owns-The-Night]

Declan looked up at her and smiled slightly, his mood rising immediately from the plunge it had taken only a minute before. She smelled so damn good, and not in the way Herd usually did to Uratha. He was glad of that; perhaps his feelings altered his perception of her scent, or maybe she smelled different. He suspected the former: after all, Amber and Ariel didn't smell like rivals to him anymore, now that they had hunted and shed blood together. Maybe there was a similar sympathy resonating between this young woman and him. Whatever the reason, her words and presence lifted him from the bleakness he felt under his heart. She was right: he had kicked ass, after all. And the Azlu would take awhile to reform, and even longer before it was back up to it's former glory. He would be alert to that now. No longer would he slack on his patrols of the campus.

"You're welc-" he started to say with a hint of a grin, but then the phone rang. Cursing under his breath, he nodded to Morgan apologetically and yanked his chair around, wheeling over to the handset on the kitchen counter. With a slight grunt of effort and pain, he reached and grabbed it. "Yeah. Declan here." She noticed the difference in his voice when talking to others. It was harder, somehow. More terse, as though he were tolerating their intrusion. She remembered on the night of the Azlu, how he had been quiet and comfortable with her right in this kitchen, but had slipped into a different mold when it had come time to go on the hunt. Hunt. she thought with a strange shiver. She had hunted with a pack of fucking werewolves, fer-crying-out-loud! Well, they said college was a place for some of the wildest experiences, but somehow that one hadn't made it onto the student blogs.

"You what?!" Declan's near-snarl of disbelief and nascent rage jerked Morgan from her reverie as she stood up from where she had hunkered. That hadn't sounded good. Declan's back was to her, but she could see his shoulders bunching up under the robe as his head lowered. Uh-oh... For a brief moment she pondered the likelihood of someone else telling him about Trent, and considered running; then she chided herself. This is something else. Something to do with him.

"Fuck your goddamn fuckin' employment policy, you fat piece of two-bit knuckle-shufflin' fear-stinkin' MEAT!!"

The last three words had been in a full-throated snarl of absolute primal outrage that nearly pressed the panic-button in Morgan's hindbrain as Declan twisted in his chair and threw the phone full force against the nearest wall. Plastic and circuitry shattered like a bomb-blast and Declan hunched over, breathing heavily as he felt a warm trickle start up under his bandages.

((OOC: Here's the sound link for those with BB Code troubles: http://www.sounddogs.com/previews/2185/mp3/101245_SOUNDDOGS_AN.mp3 ))

[Astra D.]

The sound of the phone exploding against the kitchen wall immediately invoked a mad desire to run in Morgan's Awakened-but-still-decidedly-mortal heart; the awful, rattling growl that, even now, still echoed in the heavy rasp of his breath demanded something else altogether of the small portion of her brain that recognized predators instinctively.

Run! Don't run. Don't move. Be small, be still! Make no sound.

Consciously, Morgan could sense the conflicting urges in the tension of her legs, the frenzied staccato of her heartbeat, but shock had rendered her all but paralyzed as she watched him through wide, nervous eyes bright with fear. Unconsciously, she pressed herself as far back against the table as she could go without either climbing on top of it or hiding underneath it. The sound of her breath was a faint, rapid counterpoint to his in the otherwise silent room. She didn't run away, or couldn't, but neither could she summon up the courage to speak and attract his attention. Instead, she watched the flex of muscle in his shoulders and the rise and fall of his chest, and quietly gauged the distance between her current position and the door.

[Owns-The-Night]

The fury ebbed, leaving behind a dull ache in his mind that matched the pain of his re-opened wound. He straightened up, looking away from Morgan as a sense of how he had acted seeped through his rage. Without looking round, he could smell her fear of him, and felt deep shame once more. He forced himself to relax, shoulders bunching and un-bunching under the robe as he asserted conscious control over his animal instincts. When he next spoke, his voice was quiet, the growl smoothed out somewhat.

"I'm sorry. That was my boss. That fat..." He choked off a snarl and counted to five before continuing. "That... guy has been lookin' to get rid of me since his boss took me on a few months ago. He's got his excuse now. I'm sidelined, so he can legally find someone else to replace me, especially as I have no doctor's note." He didn't notice his toes flexing, he was concentrating too much on not scaring Morgan again, not appearing a beast to her. Counting slowly to ten, he turned around, looking at her face. "I've been fired. He's giving me two weeks to find another place to live, but that's all." He seemed angry yet resigned now as he looked into her eyes, but her gaze was drawn to a slow-growing patch of crimson along the bottom of the white bandage over his stomach.

[Astra D.]

"Wait..." she began slowly, some of her fear ebbing away into confusion. What just happened here? This guy, Declan's boss, was actually going to fire him for having a spinal injury? One he happened to get in the process of completely kicking ass against some psycho spider-spirit-thing that was pretending to be a professor and eating students, and... And, not only that, but kick him out of his house, just like that?

"What? Two weeks?! No." Morgan shook her head sharply, as confusion then gave way to something with a trifle more backbone. "Not just no, but hell no." She pushed herself off the table, pacing agitatedly back and forth across the kitchen floor. The heavy thunk of her boots was solid and rhythmic in its cadence, evoking thoughts of drums pounding for the war council of some ancient chiefs. "You have rights, y'know," she said pointedly. "Did you have any vacation time saved? Sick leave? And, unless it's university-owned housing, he can't make you leave. Even if he does, an eviction notice is supposed to be 30 days, not two weeks, and I doubt he's actually got the authority to evict you even if it is university housing, which means you can appeal it to the person who does. This is such utter bullshit!" Green fire snapped angrily in her eyes as she spun around, one hand on her hip and the other gesticulating emphatically. "Who is this guy? Where can I-"

Oh, shit!

His robe had fallen half-open, exposing most of his chest and part of his abdomen; the sparks dimmed somewhat as the stark contrast of scarlet blood on white bandages caught her eye.

"Oh, shit, Dec, you're bleeding again," she murmured, a rising note of panic in her voice. It was spreading so fast (so much blood, how can he still be alive?!), blooming like a deadly flower over his stomach, that she could hardly believe it. The sudden realization that he was really, actually bleeding in the here-and-now snapped her out of her reverie, and she looked up at him with an altogether different type of fear. "Bandages. Have you got any more?"

[Owns-The-Night]

"Fuck." The word was spoken, not out of surprise or shock, but in more of a here we go again tone of relaxed concern. He nodded at Morgan, looking a little pale as the bleeding caused a tickling ache in his guts. "In the bedroom. There's a full medic's kit that Amber put together." He prodded the dressing carefully. "Shit. Looks like I popped a stitch or two."

He smiled crookedly at Morgan. "If you bring the kit here, I can take care of it."

[Astra D.]

"Looks like I popped a stitch or two." Fucking hell! How can he be so nonchalant about it?

Then she remembered how much worse the wound had been, the way he'd screamed when they'd moved him to his bed and how pathetically limp his legs had gone. She remembered the ragged edges of the twin gashes on his back and belly and the sickeningly lurid, glistening hue of meat and bone, and forced herself to swallow the bile that rose up in her throat at the memory.

"Yeah," she nodded weakly, blanching slightly as the blood imparted a slick, wet sheen where the center of the wound would be. "One sec." Without any further delay or hesitation, she turned and headed around the corner into the werewolf's bedroom, ignoring the piles of military texts, books, and magazines that littered nearly every stationary surface. She resolutely avoided looking at the bed, refusing to surrender to a fresh wave of whimper-inducing memories of the last time she'd seen it, when he'd finally roared out in agony and fallen still. Fortunately, the large backpack wasn't difficult to find, and she blinked in surprise at its weight as she hefted it over her shoulder.

"Geez," she muttered, jogging back into the kitchen where the wounded man waited. "What kind of bandages did she get you? Lead-lined ones? Oof." Grumbling, she set the bag on the floor, complaining in an attempt to stave off thoughts of just how bad he'd looked.

[Owns-The-Night]

Declan grinned at the girl. He hadn't forgotten the way faint blooms of color had come to her cheeks when she was ranting about Fuckwad firing him and the injustice of it. The fire in her eyes was still there as she plonked the field medic bag down nearby.

"Okay, open 'er up and unpack the bandaging and pads. Pass me the snippers, then do me a favor and thread a needle, ok?" He directed her in a firm but gentle tone as he started to unwrap the bandaging. He needed to keep her focused, so he talked as the fabric peeled away leaving the large sterile dressing stuck to his lower torso. "Don't worry about the house and job thing, okay? I'm pretty sure I'll be okay. There's always something to do to get by."

He took the scissors off her with a reassuring wink and carefully peeled the now-soaked pad off the wound and grunted as he looked down at it. It was a twisted, partly-healed scar which ran from two inches below his sternum to his navel. Stitching criss-crossed the wound neatly, holding the edges together and letting Declan's body do the work of healing. The otherworldly nature of the Azlu's bone blades meant that the Uratha healing abilities were all but diminished against it. Still, at least he would eventually mend. The blood was already starting to clot from the re-opened bottom edge of the wound. He gently cut loose the dangling stitches and pulled them free, then set the scissors aside on the counter, looking over at Morgan.

"Okay, ready for that needle now."

[Astra D.]

Exasperation was writ plain across her face as she knelt down by his chair, fiddling with the oddly-curved surgical needle and thread. His efforts were working: the simple directions kept her hands busy, while the conversation prevented her from thinking too far ahead, or too deeply. It wasn't a complicated psychological exercise, but a very effective one, nonetheless, and Morgan was only too willing to be distracted.

"Don't tell me not to worry," she mumbled, knotting the thread and passing the needle to him. "Well, I guess you can tell me not to, but I'm going to do it anyway. Friends worry. What this guy's pulling isn't right, Declan. Maybe I'll go talk to him, see if something can be arranged, buy you some more time, at least."

It was a sincere offer, made out of concern and even compassion, but she acknowledged that her method of "talking to" this guy would vary wildly from Declan's. For starters, it'd mean a lot less clothes, but she considered the odds, and gave the idea a mental shrug.

Hey, if it works, it's worth it.

[Owns-The-Night]

He took the needle with a grateful nod and faint smile, asking her to pass the bottle of sterile solution. Without much heed, he shrugged out of his robe while she rummaged for the squeezable plastic bottle and tossed the garment down next to his chair. Naked but for a pair of shorts, the werewolf took the bottle and sluiced the bottom edge of his wound with the solution. Skills that seemed long ago practiced and never used were coming back to him as he dabbed the excess fluid up with the old padding before dropping that on top of the pile of bandages.

"Put that in the yellow trashcan, would ya? That stuff's all gettin' incinerated: can't leave weirdos stuff to fish out of my regular trash." Morgan made a slight face as she gingerly scooped up the bandages, wadding them around the bloody gauze padding, but didn't look disgusted or complain. Declan smiled a little as, with her back turned, he pinched together the skin around the loose edge of the wound and started sewing. The pain was relatively minor, and only a few stitches were needed with the curved needle. By the time Morgan turned back around, he was mostly done. As she watched, he tied and snipped off the end of the thread, then nodded to himself, satisfied.

"There." He looked up at her and grinned, a faint sheen of sweat on his face and torso telling a tale of pain that was at odds with his expression. "Need your help for the next bit, but it ain't too bad." Having her pass him a clean gauze pad, he pressed it over the wound and leaned forward a little as she helped him wrap the pad into place with a fresh bandage. As her nimble fingers tied the fabric off and she stepped back, Declan smiled up at her, his color already better as his inhuman vitality started to reassert itself.

"Thanks, 'Little Red'." He grinned at her, playing off her name for him. He started to reach for her hand, then noticed the blood on his own. "Uh, yeah. I'll be right back. Need to clean up." He turned and wheeled out of the kitchen, heading for the bathroom.

[Astra D.]

When he had gone, Morgan stood alone in the empty kitchen. She glanced around for a moment, lips pursed as she rocked back and forth on her heels and swung her arms in idle uncertainty. None of this fit into her typical list of activities: no loud music, no revealing clothing, no drinking, no dancing, no painting, and no drugs... except for the ones she wasn't particularly keen on telling Declan about, but even that was past-tense. She still wasn't sure how, or even if she was going to bring up the teensy little matters of Trent's overzealous S&M visit, or the chemical ingestion that followed, and the episode with the phone wasn't doing much to convince her it was a good idea.

"So," she announced to no one in particular. "Guess I'll clean up, too."

The bits and pieces of the shattered handset went into the wastebasket, and she busied herself with clearing away the dishes from the table. As the sink was filling (she reasoned there wasn't much point in running the dishwasher for just a couple of bowls and spoons), the remnants of the meal found their way into the refrigerator, and Morgan once again found freedom from too much contemplation in "busy work."

[Owns-The-Night]

He rolled back into the room, having washed and freshened himself up, and sat there at the doorway watching her intently as she worked. His silvery gaze followed the lines of Morgan's shoulders as she worked, noting the edges of the winged tattoo peeking out from under the tank top and the latin words across the base of her neck. Aris Volat Propriis... hmm. Wonder what that means. He had a translated copy of Tacitus' works in his bedroom. That, and the occasional latin quote as chapter headings in various books on military history, was the extent of his knowledge of Latin. He made a mental note to find out what the words adorning Morgan's shoulders meant, though.

He remained motionless, in the manner of an animal intent on watching, as his eyes followed the curve of her back and hips as she moved. He remembered the feel of those curves under his hands through her vinyl skirt. A rush of heat ran through him, accompanied by a strange twitching tingle from his legs. He felt his toes gripping and unclenching on the footrests of the wheelchair, cold metal edges under his feet. He was tempted to try and stand, but reasoned that there was no need to force the issue, at least while Morgan was here. If I'm wrong and the healing ain't complete, I'd damage myself more, in addition to ending up face down on the kitchen floor in front of her. That wouldn't be a smart move. She's already played nurse enough today. Fuck, that's uncomfortable.

That was the prickling pins-and-needles sensation that was starting up in his lower back again. It had come and gone over the last week, but was particularly strong today. It gave him hope, even as it made him shift in his chair a little. The creak was the first sound he'd made louder than the noise of dishes being washed since he'd come back into the kitchen. He decided to stop watching the girl and move forwards.

"Hey. Want a hand?" he smiled as he rolled up next to her.

[Astra D.]

"Oh, hey," she said, turning with a smile that, while sincere, still etched faint lines of worry at the corners of her eyes and lips. "No, I'm good. Just rinsing up." As if to verify her statement, she wiggled a pair of soapy spoons back and forth over the sink, running them quickly under the brisk-running tap before setting them on a dish towel to dry alongside the bowls. "Um, I went ahead and put the leftovers in the fridge, in case you get hungry later. There's still quite a bit left, so...."

So? That's it? Come on, Morgan. Pick a topic. This is nothing compared to giant wolves tearing monsters apart, or trying to unravel the threads of Destiny. What's the hold up? she berated herself mentally. Playing nursemaid and spending quiet afternoons in discussion were unfamiliar territory for her, but, she reminded herself, Declan was a friend. She'd almost convinced herself he'd have done the same for her, until she realized abruptly that he wouldn't have had the chance: she wouldn't have made it.

"So," she forged ahead, ignoring the little tingle of discomfort that squirmed in her chest. She really hoped this sort of action-packed melodrama wasn't going to be a characteristic of their future interactions... at least, not action of the Azlu variety. There were so many alternatives that were so much more fun. "If you want, you and Amber can split it the next time she comes by."

[Owns-The-Night]

Declan smiled at that, then winked. "You kiddin'? Amber's a solid friend and a great pack-mate, but she can forage for herself: that stew's all mine!" He chuckled and backed his chair up a bit to give Morgan room. "Seriously, I doubt it'll have a chance to get shared. Uratha healin' makes us hungrier than normal. And 'normal's' about twice as hungry as a regular guy or gal." He obviously felt better, and looked better too come to think of it. His colour, under the short beard he was currently stuck with, was returning slowly but surely, and he had made some effort to comb his hair, though in it's unwashed state it was still far from presentable.

He considered her for a long moment as she finished up. She seemed nervous. Hard to blame her, he thought as he decided what to talk about next. His mind treacherously zeroed in on the topics of Lucien Hunt, Sarah the vampire, Trent and Crimson. All the things that she had intimated to him in the chatroom last night, in fact. He didn't want to talk about anything serious. Didn't want to ruin any chance of seeing her smile more before she left. A delaying tactic struck him.

"Hey, somethin' occured to me I betcha didn't know." he grinned as he wheeled the chair around to the other side of the table from her. Locking it in place, he leaned his well-muscled forearms on the tabletop. From here she couldn't see his belly wound, or his wheelchair. He looked as though he were sitting down without a shirt on. "The Uratha healin' trick has some nice benefits on the side, too. Like keepin' us fightin' fit for about a century or more. Plus we wear the years well. A werewolf in their sixties'll look like they're in their thirties. Apparently there's Uratha who've reached a hundred an' ten years old. Mind you, they didn't die in bed." He winked mischievously at the young woman. "Well, not their own beds, anyhow."

[Astra D.]

There was no hesitation whatsoever as Morgan slid into a chair opposite him, avidly listening to his description of yet another unique facet of the mysterious gem that was Uratha physiology. In the back of her mind, she heaved a great mental sigh of relief at yet another delay of the conversation she knew to be inevitable. Not for the first time that day she kicked herself for having mentioned anything of claret-colored drugs or possessive boyfriends, but somehow it had slipped out, whether because she'd been tired and not thinking clearly, or because maybe, some tiny, infinitesimally small part of her wanted to tell someone.

Obviously, it must've been the former.

"So, you could theoretically live for more than a century, and not look a day over 50 or so? Man... Talk about your good genes. If you could bottle that and sell it, you'd make a mint," she quipped lightly, though the soft whistle that issued forth from her lips said it far more eloquently and succinctly: That is pretty damned impressive. "Do you ever get sick? I mean, your metabolism's got to be insane if you really need that much food, and heal so quickly, but have you ever had the flu? Allergies? From the way you've been describing it to me, none of you guys have any flaws at all."

[Owns-The-Night]

"Well, we have the big allergy." Declan smiled slightly at that as he looked over at Morgan. "Other than that, well, we have to steer clear of some things. Like caffeine and chocolate. We can eat it two-legged, but if we change shape it might give us a seizure. And there's drugs of all kinds. Not a good idea seein' as our biologies switch from human to wolf and in between. I don't know all the side-effects, but it's best for one of our kind to just stick to booze in order to see the world different." He chuckled.

"As for other flaws... Well, not so much physical ones." He pondered, not wanting to bring up the "Primal-Rage-that-destroys-all-in-it's-path-thing" yet. Then a thought occured to him. "There is one big flaw. We can't mate. With each other, I mean. It's a big bad taboo. Makes monster children that haunt the spirit realms." He shrugged. "Dunno why that is, really. You'd think that Uratha would be perfect for each other. But it's not to be."

[Astra D.]

Before her brain had time to actually process what he'd said, her mouth was already working, and her eyebrows were knitting together into the perplexed frown that was becoming such a familiar sight to the injured Rahu.

"Wait, but I thought..." She leaned forward slightly, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin atop folded hands. "You and Amber." Not 'Elle,' she reminded herself. "I thought you two were... together. Y'know, sticking with your own kind, and all that, but... no?" She tripped over her words well and thoroughly, clearly struggling to make sense of what he'd said when it obviously was rather the opposite of what she'd believed.

The soldier-turned-supernatural-predator blinked at her ill-phrased query, but then the sound of a quiet chuckle rumbled good-naturedly in his chest; it was less an outright laugh and more a simple expression of mirth that caused the muscles in his shoulders to twitch slightly. He shook his head, his bemused grin slightly lopsided as Morgan's look of confusion only deepened.

"Amber? Nah. Sure, we tease each other a bit, but that's all. Part of our nature, I guess."

"Oh," was all she could initially say in the wake of his revelation, nodding quietly.

She wondered if this would change anything, now that she had confirmation that the woman who was apparently perfect for him was completely off-limits. That still didn't completely make sense, but who was she to question it? After all, only a few moments ago, she'd believed completely that werewolves preferred to only mate with their own kind, and apparently the logical approach was not the correct one. Or maybe, she thought, she just wasn't looking at it from the right perspective.

Switching gears, she asked, "Why not? I mean, I'll be honest. I figured you guys would rather shack up with each other, because it sort of made sense. Why doesn't it work, and what's up with these monster-babies?"

[Owns-The-Night]

"Well, as near as I can understand it," Declan said, tilting his head to one side as he looked at her. "We're all... well, brother's and sisters in spirit. And the monster baby is a Ghost Child. It's like a demon wolf thing that can't be aborted in any way, and is born into the spirit realms. Y'see we're all Father Wolf's children, so me and Amber are more brother and sister than male and female to each other, if you get my drift." He shrugged again and smiled at her.

"It's another part of our Oath. Uratha Safal Thil Lu'u: the Uratha Shall Cleave To The Human. We can't breed with wolves: that's like bestiality or some shit anyway, cos they can't think like we can. And we can't mate with each other. So we have to seek out human partners." His gaze was level with hers, the silver in his eyes glinting in the sunlight from the kitchen window. The gaze was direct, but not imposing. More... inviting.

[Astra D.]

"Wow. Incest, bestiality, and demon-wolf babies born in the spirit world. No wonder you guys all seem to have anger management issues. You've gotta do a full background check before you can even get laid." She shook her head, a strange commingling of pity and humor in her eyes. She didn't even attempt to ask about the strange, inhuman syllables he uttered, and didn't even consider trying to repeat it. The translation was simple enough, however, and Morgan nodded again as he explained the puppies and the bees. Mingled in with the description, however, were three words that gave her pause:

Breed. Mate. Partner.

Oh, hell. Please, please, please tell me that's not what he's thinking. How the hell do you give an "I like you, but I'm not looking for a serious relationship- would you mind if we still had sex?" speech to a guy who can turn into a wolf the size of a horse?

The answer was fairly obvious, when she thought about it: You don't.

She didn't.

"Thank you for telling me all of this, by the way. You've been a lot more open about all this supernatural stuff than I thought anyone would be, and it's always good to learn more about your friends. Maybe," she added, an impish grin playing about the corners of her lips, "I'll even remember it."

[Owns-The-Night]

Okay, that was kind of... sudden. He hadn't meant to come on so strong, it was just that talking about the subject had kicked off certain instincts in the Uratha. He saw something flicker behind her eyes, and felt it best to explain himself.

"Um. Yeah, that might be a good plan. To remember it, I mean." He smiled, his eyes flickering down, then back up at her. "Look... I didn't mean that... I mean that... Ah, fuck." He placed his head in his palm for a moment, a very human gesture. Speaking into his palm, more to himself than her "I am so bad at this..."

He recovered and looked back up at her. "Thing is, I'm not looking for a brood mare, or even a wife. I'm twenty-six, fer cryin' out loud." He forced a smile. "Sometimes the thought appeals to the wolf part of me: y'know, the whole procreate-to-survive thing. But mainly, I'm a normal- well, mostly normal guy in that regard. As far as I know, anyway." His eyebrows knitted in a faintly worried expression. "Believe me, my lack of experience is nothin' to do with lack of interest. It's just..." He looked away from her as he collected his thoughts. "It's just that most women don't do a damn thing for me. Maybe because they were too busy bein' scared or weirded out to get horny. Never met one I did much for either. Maybe you're different because you're a mage." He looked her in the eyes again, his own gaze calm as he smiled, a slight twisting of his lips. "Or maybe it was just that night, and you're all better now."

He shrugged, as though it wouldn't matter, really it wouldn't. But whereas his demeanour was uncrackable in the face of danger or physical threat, his poker face was lousy when it came to interpersonal issues.

"Anyhow, we got other things to talk about than makin' out." He grinned tightly at her, his hands clasped together in front of him on the tabletop.

[Astra D.]

The thin, taut line that was once a pair of full, ruby-stained lips twitched slightly, nearly vanishing altogether as the corners of her eyes crinkled in dismay. Morgan had been dreading this conversation, and suddenly he seemed a little too eager to get to it. It was hard to tell if he was upset, or just confused, but judging by the grim set of his jaw, she would've laid odds on the former.

"Okay, well. I guess I can start one of two ways. I can just lay the cards on the table all at once, or I can deal them out one at a time."

She drew in a long, calming breath, preparing herself for either possibility.

[Owns-The-Night]

Declan mulled that over for a moment, watching Morgan carefully. "I get the feelin' this is goin' to be bad, both from last night's chat and from your look right now." He took a deep breath, ignoring the pulling sensation in his belly, then sighed, looking calm and relaxed. He smiled at Morgan, then gestured to the counter next to the back door. "If you need to, sit over there and have the door open. I might bark, but I won't bite. You've got troubles, and we're friends. That's all that matters to me. Hit me with the lot."

[Astra D.]

Surprisingly, Morgan neither opened the door nor moved to the counter, though she did slide her chair back a few inches. The former was a show of good faith, a sign that she had at least that much confidence (ill-placed or no) in his self-control, while the latter was simple, grim practicality; if he smashed the table, she didn't want her legs under it.

"All right, here goes. I'm just going to (pray for a swift death?) go ahead, lay it out, let you (vent) have your say, and see where to go from there." (Probably home, and quickly.)

She paused, knowing he was going to be pissed. She even figured, planning for the worst, that he'd do a lot of yelling, banging his fists on things, and possibly throwing more small and breakable objects at the wall because inanimate objects were a safer focus for aggression. It was possible, too, he'd just be quietly furious, grinding his teeth and spitting his words out in an effort to keep from injuring himself further by flying into a rage. She'd seen all varieties of anger, but she didn't yet know enough about werewolves to make an educated guess which, if either of her assumptions, would be correct. Either way, the young Mage-girl acknowledged, their budding friendship was about to be sorely tested.

She exhaled audibly, her narrow shoulders dropping as she willed herself to relax, despite the impossibility of it. To her credit, she managed to avoid looking quite as nervous as she felt. In fact, as she resolutely lifted her head to address him, she looked less like a girl worried about getting an earful, and more like a dethroned monarch in common clothes, awaiting execution... not so much afraid, as resigned.

"After you walked me home from the party, I went to bed. Couple of hours later, there's a knock at the door. I actually thought it was you for some reason, being half-asleep. Not so much. Turned out to be Trent." Green eyes watched him speculatively, gauging his reaction as she continued matter-of-factly. He was straight with her, so she didn't plan on dissembling. "He didn't have much to say. When he was finished with the belt, and finished fucking me, I spent the rest of the night blasted out of my mind on the Crimson he dosed me with, but," she added quickly, "I didn't come to tell you all this to make you hate Trent. The truth is, I didn't really say 'no,' and if you and I are going to be friends, or anything like it, you deserve to know what my life can be like. I'm pretty sure it's not going to make sense to you, and I don't think there's an easy way to explain it, but there it is."