intermission.

Avery Chase

It is winter, a time for dark colors and heavy fabrics, and Avery is no exception. However, even though her dress is well-lined with satin and the deep blue fabric wraps around her to a jeweled accent along her left side, even though the hemline is well past the knee and the sleeves are long, the neckline is made artful by the upper curves of her breasts, the dark and narrow shadow between them. Her necklace is almost a torque, the tips of the fine metal decorations hanging just over her cleavage. Her hair is down, curled a bit, easily tousled by the sometimes gusting wind. Her heels are a soft gray. Her arm, throughout the ballet, rests between her side and his, his heavy arm around her, her cheek on his shoulder.

They have seen each other even less lately. The holidays have been so busy. They went out for New Year's Eve together, since they missed Christmas. The gala was 1920s-style, everyone in white tie and gowns or sinfully short fringes, feathered headbands, glittering jewels both real and fake everywhere. By the end of the night, Avery was pouring champagne into Calden's mouth, and licking it off his throat and jaw, panting his name as he shared those mouthfuls of bursting stars with her.

Tonight is much more low-key. She smiles at the dancers, holding his hand atop-between their legs, her feet crossed at the ankle, her eyelashes falling peacefully now and again not out of sleepiness but contentment. She is content with him. She is looking forward to more time with him. Less time so busy with winter, less time with so many problems at the ranch that he can't come down even on his normal schedule, so many galas and parties and charity events and patrolling and guarding at Cold Crescent that even her seemingly boundless energy is too exhausted to take her up to see him. It's been two weeks since she's seen him.

Her hand holds his quite tightly, in fact, at times. Except when they applaud.

Calden White

They missed Christmas. They missed Thanksgiving too. It's not that Calden is unaware of these things, or entirely uncaring. He has a quiet astuteness about him. He notices. He cares. He just: understands, too. He knows how far she had to come to even be here with him. To even say: yes, I want this. yes, I love you. yes. He has a notion of how much farther she would have to go before she could even suggest joint holidays. Families mingling.

All the unstated consequences of that path.

So: holidays apart, with their own families. New Year's Eve together. A decadent retro-Gatsby gala that started out civil and charming; ended quite debauched. Avery pouring champagne into Calden's mouth, kisses dripping with liquor. Fireworks on the rooftop, and the very first liplock of the new year endless, endless, with her arms looped around his neck and his arms around her waist, until he lifted her off the toes and swung her gently around, laughing.

Much later that night, she rested her head on his shoulder as he rested in her bed. Half-asleep, he traced patterns on her lower back. She kissed him over his heart, and as the east turned pale with sunrise, they slept.

--

Tonight Calden wears a suit. He looks good in a suit; very dashing. You almost can't tell he's a cowboy. They were a little late coming in. He picked her up at her house and drove here and gave the keys to a valet, and then she picked up her skirts and he held her hand and they both kicked up their heels a bit to trot into the theatre just as the lights dimmed.

They have good seats. Either one of them could afford a box, and to Avery it likely wouldn't even be an expense, but they eschew that for the more intimate connection of the center orchestra seats.

It's been two weeks. They don't speak during the production -- heavens no -- but they hold hands, and her hand is quite tight on his, and sometimes he looks over at her

just to smile.

--

The curtain falls on intermission. They draw their knees in as their neighbors move out. Comfortable where he is, loathe to leave for the moment, Calden squeezes Avery's hand.

"This is nice," he says. "I can't remember the last time I've come down to Denver for a show."

Avery Chase

She did not lift up her skirts, sir. This dress skims her body, ending calf-length, hugging her curves. Thank you, thank you, very much. This isn't the opera, after all, at which point a suit and a calf-length dress would simply not do, even in Colorado -- not for Avery.

Or perhaps she would go in denim. Just because she can. Just on a whim.

Avery does not want to leave during intermission. She still has a pleasant buzz from the wine they had with dinner, and she does not want a new glass from the theater bar, hastily sipping before rushing back in to see the performance continued. So they stay, warm together in the heavily cushioned seats, quiet for a little while until the noise of the house waking briefly has gentled a bit. Avery smiles.

"Neither can I," she murmurs, but not sadly.

Calden White

Sometimes they hold hands very delicately. Very lady-and-knight: her fingers slipped over his index and the edge of his hand, tucked into his palm. His thumb resting ever so gently atop. Right now, they hold hands like lovers. Palm to palm, fingers entwined. He looks at their linked hands, his thumb rubbing gently over the side of her finger. He smiles too, hearing it in her voice.

"Well, we should do it more often, Miss Chase," he says. "Patronize the arts and all." He lifts her hand to his mouth; with the kiss, some of the veil of humor drops away. His eyes are warm when he looks at her.

"Are they keeping you busy? Cold Crescent, I mean."

Avery Chase

She huffs a soft laugh against his sleeve. "I didn't say that I couldn't remember the last time I'd been to a show, silly," she clarifies, lifting her head to look at him as he draws her hand to his mouth. Because, after all: they couldn't remember the last time he'd come down for one.

"That," she says, "and the holiday season. "It's a very busy time for my father and I."

Calden White

Calden laughs quietly as she clarifies. "Ah," he says. "My mistake. How dare I accuse you of not patronizing the arts."

Again, the humor tapers to a natural close. Holidays are a busy time, she says. He looks at her with a touch of curiosity. "Friends and family to keep in touch with? How did you spend the holidays? I don't think I've asked."

Avery Chase

Avery smiles. Patron of the arts is, after all, one of the highlights of her CV. She is an excellent patron. She is the sort of person you want at your gala, your opening, your launch, your ballet, your gallery, your opera, your party. She keeps these programs going. She looks beautiful doing it. Her story is glorious: the loving, beloved, beautiful daughter of a gorgeous widower, the woman who could be vapid and vain and shallow but is quick-witted and has the executive leadership skills of a Fortune 500 CEO. The woman who could get away with murder and devotes herself to philanthrophy instead.

They love her.

"Of course," she murmurs, of friends and family, of her activities that he never inquired about. She gives a soft shrug. "We traveled a bit, to see my grandparents. My mother's father and his clan for Thanksgiving, my father's mother and her brood for Christmas." Her mother's mother, her father's father -- these grandparents are dead. Like her mother is dead. They likely did not live to see their grandchildren, as Avery's mother did not live to see hers. "We stayed here otherwise. There are so many events this time of year. So many things going on. There are financials to go over and all the shopping, not to mention the endless rounds of parties. With patrols hand in hand with that, I feel like I seldom slept for all of December."

Calden White

The endless rounds of parties, she says. He laughs to himself. It's a strange concept: social obligations based in age-old alliances between families, organizations, corporations, clans. A social life that approaches a second job. The career of a social butterfly.

"Your father's father, and your mother's mother?" Calden does hear the omissions there; this question is gentle. "Garou?"

Avery Chase

Avery nods. "Partnerships between kin are frowned upon among my family's circles within the tribe," she explains, without angst or condescension. "And partnerships with mortals are tacitly forbidden."

Calden White

By chance or by design, her answer steers away from the more painful angles of the truth. Dead grandparents. Dead mother. Wolves. Short lives.

He follows her conversational bent, though. He doesn't want to discuss it either. It's not something that can be changed; they have the time they make. "It's a nice policy to have, as least in terms of increasing the chance of a Garou child. But I think most families in the Nation -- and maybe even in your Tribe -- don't have the luxury of mating every kin to a Garou. It's just the numbers."

A small hesitation.

"What does your family think about us?"

Avery Chase

Dead grandparents, dead mother, dead wolves. Short, brutal lives. Growing up with a beautiful young man, your best friend, who you both knew you could never be with, only to have fate -- all, blessed, cruel fate -- intervene one awful evening, sending a bullet through her heart and changing what she was, what was acceptable, opening up this grand door --

before watching him slam it shut again.

So many sharp angles to the truth. She handles them gracefully. She is, after all, a Philodox.

--

"Oh, darling," she murmurs, sliding her arm around the crook of his elbow, "I don't want to talk about babies and mateship and --"

what they think about us

Avery pauses, looking at him, her arm hugging his, her breath not quite caught but still. Just for a moment. She tips her head. "I have not hidden my relationship with you," she says quietly, after that long moment passes. "But I have not invited them to voice their thoughts on it."

Perhaps then, more than any other moment, it is cast starkly as a shadow play: Avery may or may not be the only wolf among her grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, family. She may not even be the eldest. But she is still a wolf. And she is a Fostern. And she does not know or does not speak of their suspected opinions because she has not given them the floor.

Calden White

It's in that moment -- not a caught moment, but a still one -- that Calden glances at her again. She answers. He thinks a moment, then smiles.

"Well," he says, "I'm sure there might be unkind thoughts somewhere in your family. But at least your father and brother don't seem to mind. You don't mind. That's what matters most, at least in this city."

The seats around them are empty. There are people chatting in the aisles; people running to the restrooms, people going to the bar for a quick drink. People relaxing in their seats, too, even as they are. Calden stretches a bit, then lays his arms over the backs of the chairs to either side. Her chair; the chair of their neighbor to the left.

"Let's not talk about mateships and babies," he concedes. "Though I'll tell you right now, I was a very cute baby."

Avery Chase

"You don't know them," she teases him, of their 'unkind thoughts'. That actually seems to get under her skin a bit: he's never met her grandparents, her aunts and uncles and cousins. He doesn't know. And they can judge, they can worry, without being unkind. How dare he. Her teasing is, thus, a bit tense, but not angry.

She rubs her brow tenderly against his shoulder. He reclines, relaxes, and he agrees: no talk of mateships and babies. Though he was a cute one. She just shrugs, an unimpressed look on her face. "However long ago that was," she says archly.

Calden White

"Wow," Calden says. "Wow. I think we need to cut short the evening, Miss Chase, because I need an ambulance to take me to the burn unit."

Avery Chase

She laughs, brightly enough to catch some attention their way, sparkling and twinkling in the dim but not dark theater. She laughs, not loudly enough to irritate; people see how she leans into him, how he smiles at her, and they smile too. Their delight is infectious. There is something about them that is more than human, more than earthly, and they are each, in their own way, a bit entrancing to mortals.

"Shh," she says, laying a finger over his lips for a moment, but removing it before he can do something silly like kiss her or bite her there. "I'm sure you were so cute you were positively edible, and I bet you were chubby and drooly and terribly pleased with yourself whenever you found your own toes."

Avery leans to him, kssing his cheek. "I was probably cuter," she whispers, right against his skin.

The lights dim and renew, dim and renew.

Calden White

Avery would have to remove that finger quickly if she didn't want it nipped. Or kissed. Or possibly sucked on. His lips are parting already, almost instantly. She withdraws. He glances at the tip of her finger, disappointed.

Then her. He smiles as she kisses his cheek. Bends his head a little to that whisper. Anyone watching them now could only dream of the sweet nothings she must be murmuring to him. The promises, the temptations, the pretty little requests.

But no. They are actually: competing over who was cuter as a baby. He draws back; smirks as the lights signal the impending resumption of the show. "You didn't even exist when I was a cute baby. You were minus ten years old. So your argument, miss, is perfectly invalid."

Avery Chase

The ultimate truth is that she was in the Homelands when he was a baby. She was still alive. Or rather: another version of her was. A different Silver Fang, choosing to reincarnate instead of becoming an ancestor spirit. Perhaps she did not even know death was coming for her. Perhaps she had been dead for decades and chose then to be born anew in this woman, this Fang, this half-moon.

They don't tease each other about the truth. Only the lies: that he 'was' cute. That he is so old. That she didn't exist once upon a time, minus-ten years old.

"We were not comparing based on timelines, but on measure of beauty, which is equally if not more subjective than time," she rebutts, smirking at him as people begin pouring back into the theater. She takes her chance and leans over, kissing him softly, right on his mouth, before they have to part, to let other guests return to their seats.

Calden White

Calden closes his eyes for that kiss. He smiles into it, and smiles through it, and smiles even when she draws away. His lips tingle where she kissed him.

Sometimes, especially around the full moon and around her own waxing half moon when her supernaturality is closest to the surface, the very touch of her leaves his skin electric and hyperaware. Sometimes he remembers, so starkly, that she is not human, would never be human; that she is half-animal, half-spirit, a royal wolf from a royal tribe. Sometimes making love to her feels a little like touching the divine. The heart of the wild itself.

Tonight, though, they are merely a handsome couple on a classy sort of date. "I'll agree to a draw," he offers as they settle into their seats; as the lights dim for the final time and the audience hushes, "at least until we produce pictorial proof before a panel of unbiased judges. And Patches does not count."

Avery Chase

"You only say that because Patches would choose me," Avery says with a sigh, resettling into her chair, lowering her voice. She smiles. She is holding his hand again. When did that happen?

It doesn't matter.

Calden White

"Oh, absolutely. That dog loves you."

And so: the lights dim. He squeezes her hand and turns his eyes to the stage. And the curtain rises.