not too high a price.

Calden White

Calden can't quite fathom why she apologizes. Why she would apologize, when she's done nothing wrong. Why she would apologize, when she is perfect to him. She is perfection itself, and not despite her imperfections but because of them. Because of the way she handles them, soldiers through them, holds her head high and refuses to bow to them.

"Shh," he breathes, as she is managing that ragged little half of an explanation. "Shh," as she is kissing his shoulder, his neck, his face, sending a soft little shiver of anticipation and enjoyment through him.

He lifts her a little from that couch while she tells him the most central truth of their relationship. He slumps with her, then, sort of slip-slides down to the floor with her. This would be undignified if he gave a damn, but right now he does not, in fact, give a damn. They stretch out on the floor. On that thick, plush carpet, which is a poor substitute for her bed, but

that bed seems so far away right now.

"I love you," he answers her. No too, no also. He never liked saying that; always sounds so automatic and reciprocal. There is no reciprocality to this; he loves her. She loves him. Each stands alone, regardless of the other.

And his arms wrap around her. And he holds her as close to his body as they can mutually bear. His eyes are closed; he returns some of those kisses lazily, aimlessly.

"Whyever were you apologizing, anyway?" -- that, a little later.

Avery Chase

For some reason, Calden decides the couch is not comfortable and the floor is preferable. Avery gasps as he draws back a bit, wrapping her in his arms, rolling and slumping the both of them to the carpet. She cannot fathom him sometimes. The floor is colder, after all, and not as soft as the couch.

"You're absurd," she tells him, as he's snuggling to her on the ground. Her words are still slurred, her breathing off-kilter, so she doesn't say anything else for a while. She just wraps around him, drowsing on his chest, until he asks her whyever.

She smiles, lazily. "For not stopping. And for not dancing. I just couldn't wait."

In both instances.

Calden White

Declared absurd, Calden's grin quirks slow-loose across his mouth. Without opening his eyes he answers, "I'm not absurd at all. There's more room down here."

Which of course explains why he keeps her so close. Which of course explains why they stay almost as near as humanly possible.

"Mm," it's sort of a nonchalant rumble in his throat, "there's always time for dancing later. Anyway, I do believe I fuck better than I dance."

Avery Chase

'More room' is true, but the couch is hardly cramped. She bought it with your sleeping comfort in mind, Mr. White. Avery just shakes her head, shifting a little, moving about in those warm close arms of his.

She doesn't want to tell him that rolling them to the floor sent one of those errant spikes of surreal anxiety through her, the way that wet clothes draped on a couch might. She doesn't want to tell him because she doesn't want to train him; these things never come in orderly ways. The triggers are almost never the same. She does not want to feel like she is made of broken eggshells, and she does not want him to see her as such.

But she is moving about, despite the absurdity and lightness of the moment, despite the closeness, despite how good the sex was, despite how much she loves him, despite how hard she is trying to just relax on the floor with him. And she is trying. Yet she also knows: the longer she tries, the more effort she expends to Being Okay, the worse it will seem. The more insurmountable it will become. The more the problem will be something greater than a simple: yeah, I didn't want to get on the floor. let's get up.

Avery hugs him, and she kisses his chest, and she slips away from him, drawing her body off of his, rising to her feet, perhaps reminiscent of that first night, when she would leave him so easily, when they didn't dare stay conjoined for too long. He knows her better now. He knows it wasn't necessarily (or only) an indication of lack of connection, lack of consideration, lack of something important between them that romantic partners have. He knows now: sometimes Avery, in the midst of her most loving, most tender moments, just walks away. It is as though there is a cage built in her mind, making escape both impossible and desperately desired, always. He does not have to hold onto her for her to want -- even need -- to run away.

She isn't running away, though. She kisses and hugs him and moves slowly when she lifts her body from his. She even smiles down at him. "We would have to dance more for me to judge that debate fairly," she tells him, stroking the top of her foot against his side before she starts to walk away, toward the bathroom.

Calden White

His smile widens when she hugs him. And when she kisses his chest. It doesn't fade -- not entirely -- when she sits up. His eyes do open, though. And there is just a hint of question in them as she stands, as he watches her from the floor.

His hand traces the turn of her heel as she strokes his side. He lets her go easily, not trying to hold her, as she walks away. Behind her, Calden sits up. An errant hair of hers, golden and fine, slips from his shoulder and catches on his chest.

Luck or some unspoken astuteness keeps him from following her immediately. Alone, she walks into the en suite with its mirrors and its counters and its tub and its shower. Alone she turns on the lights or leaves them off; alone she sees herself reflected, golden and glorious and -- let's just admit it -- fucking gorgeous as she opens the shower door and turns on the water.

Calden comes into sight as she's waiting for the water to warm. It doesn't take long; the plumbing in her penthouse is as prime as anything else. Still, it's enough time for her lover to pad into sight, all husky and robust and ruddy-tanned and space-occupying. He smiles at her, a little crooked and loose, when he sees her. Without a word -- they have been together ten months, after all, and certain liberties are now taken without explanation -- he disappears into the little room where the toilet is, taps the door shut without latching it.

When he's done he remembers to lower the toilet seat. That's a feat, considering he lives in a house with nothing but men and brothers and cousins and dads and more men. On his way out he washes his hands at the sink, then lowers himself to sit on the edge of the tub.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

Calden White

[remove bit about liberties and stuff!]

Avery Chase

He could follow her. Get up off the floor, trail after her, kiss her shoulder. Right now, that would be all right. But he doesn't know that. He doesn't know if that will only make her flinch away from him, or if something is going on under that beautiful golden skin of hers that he cannot see and she cannot explain. Calden waits a little while, there on the floor, his skin cooling. In the bathroom, there is a quiet flush in her little water-closet, audible only because the rest of the penthouse is so silent. And then there is water running, not in the sink but in the enormous shower with its multiple showerheads.

He comes in, and the glass is yet unfogged and clear. She doesn't see him at first, her eyes closed as water runs down her hair, soaking it til it darkens with the water, flattens against her scalp. She lets it warm her shoulders, her neck, soothing briefly tightened muscles from even the gentlest exertion. That was a quick, hungry fuck. It was not one of their more langorous rounds. She does hear him when he pads in, or senses him somehow. She listens to the quiet slide of the little door in front of the toilet, her eyes closed, listens as there's a quiet flush. It makes no drastic change in her water temperature because of something called a thermostatic mixing valve. She feels, momentarily, a strange intimacy that is not entirely different from the way Calden felt when he unzipped her dress and found her in lingerie meant for practicality and comfort, not allure.

Her eyes do open, looking at him through the glass as he washes his hands, naked, at one of the sinks. He doesn't come to join her. She stands under the water, reaching up to work it under her hair and against her scalp, as he sits.

As he thanks her.

She totally can't hear him. She takes her head out of the water, looking at him through the glass. "What?"

Calden White

That makes him smile. A quick-spreading expression that warms his whole face. It's a smile with laughter under its surface, but also endearment. He repeats himself a little louder:

"Thank you."

He is sitting there at the edge of the tub. He is relaxed, one knee bent and the other straight, his toes fanning and flexing idly as he talks to her. His back is an easy curve that recalls the way he sometimes sits a saddle.

"For ... " he doesn't have an easy explanation ready; a good definition, or even words for what he's trying to say. "I don't know. I thought I felt you tense a little out there. But we're still here. And... I was glad. And grateful."

Avery Chase

He thanks her. She is about to ask him whatever for when he decides to tell her, unprompted. There isn't much to say, though, because he doesn't strictly know what he's thanking her for. The glass is fogging up between them. What he says makes her brows constrict.

"Darling --" she begins, then stops.

The shower door opens, and Avery holds out her hand to him, waiting for him to take it, to be drawn inside.

Calden White

Her fingers are wet when his entangle with them. Her grip is strong, though, and their hands do not slip. He stands as he is reaching for her; she draws him into that glassy chamber with its showerheads and its steam and its fog and its --

-- her. With her. He goes with her, more than willing. He closes the door behind him and wraps his arms around her, loosely but familiarly, stepping into her. She's cleaner than he is. He's still sweaty from sex, filthy from loving her; he still smells like the love they made and the way they came together.

And he kisses her between those tugged-together eyebrows, laughing quietly. He likes that her eyebrows are so vividly dark, and her eyes so blue. He wonders if he's told her that before. Perhaps not. It's silly, but he tries not to praise her beauty overmuch. It's not that he's afraid she'll become vain. He knows she won't.

He doesn't want her to think he loves her for her beauty, is all. He doesn't want her to think that his adoration is rooted in or limited to her excellent bone structure, her lovely mouth, her magnificent tits -- all that.

"Here I was hoping to wallow in my own filth a little longer," he quips.

Avery Chase

Her fingers curl over his. She draws her arm back, drawing him in, sharing that large but still-smaller-than-others space with him. She can't always do this. She can't always share a small space with him, or with anyone. Even her penthouse, enormous as it is, multi-bedroomed, is sometimes too small for her. But she loves him, so dearly, and so she draws him in. She isn't much cleaner, having only let the water run over her, but she leans into his filth and warmth anyway.

One hand reaches out to turn on a dial that gives the other showerhead flow, drenching his back, keeping him warm. She smiles as he kisses her, as he quips. She tells him:

"I tensed a little," which is an admission, "but not very much." Her brows are still tugged together. "Do you think, when you sense it, that I am going to go away forever?"

Calden White

There is vulnerability in that question. It is not evident, and perhaps it is almost counter-intuitive, but it is there. He senses that, too, and his arms shift. He holds her a little closer.

"No," he replies softly. "I know you won't."

Water flows. Warmth drenches his back; water swirls around their feet, a thousand tiny eddies that disappear down the drain. He is quiet a while, holding her as she holds him; leaning gently into her. He feels secure here, and pleasantly insulated from the rest of the world. He feels quiet and settled and still, his mind oddly unburdened despite what they speak of.

--

"Sometimes I am afraid, though," he admits, quieter still. "I'm afraid of not knowing how long you might go away. Or whether you'll let me follow. Sometimes I think about the future, and then ... I'm afraid you'll be gone longer and longer.

"Sometimes I worry that if you go away from me, I might lose you before you can come back." His chest rises, falls; a sigh. "It's just me thinking too much, though."

Avery Chase

The first thing, and one of the most important things, is that he tells her right away that no, he knows she won't go away forever. And yes: she is a bit vulnerable when she asks. It's not that she's hurt; it's that she knows what she is. She knows what is wrong with her, and they can deny all they want that something is wrong with her, but it won't change anything. She is what she is -- glorious and powerful and vital -- in part because of the purity of her blood,

but that all comes at a cost.

Avery just stands in the water with him, as it drenches both their backs, one from either side. She rests her head on his chest, letting her thoughts unfurl, trying to find a way to tell him that even if he's not, she's afraid that one day she'll be gone forever.

--

Before she finds those words, though, Calden gets there. He confesses what he does: the fear that comes with loving her, of knowing her madness but not when it will erupt or what form it will take or how strong the wave will be.

Her hand opens over his mid-back. "My darling... all I want in the world is to tell you that fears such as that are unfounded."

Avery stops there.

She does not need to say but I can't.

Calden White

"I know," almost as soon as she stops. As though he is afraid of what she might say next. The truth she doesn't need to say, and he doesn't want to hear. Her hand opens on his back. His arms tighten around her, until his hands wrap around her shoulders, her side. He hugs her very, very close for a little while.

Then, relenting. Sighing again, words borne on the back of that exhale, "I love you, Avery Chase. I do. And I like to believe I've never fooled myself about what it means to love you.

"Whatever you can give me, for however long you can give it -- I'll accept it gladly and ask for nothing more."

Avery Chase

Longer and longer absences. Longer and longer periods of time when she cannot bear to see him. Longer and longer periods of time,

during which he might lose her. And she hears that to mean: I might stop loving you before you can come back. And it breaks her heart to hear it. She keeps turning her face into his chest, holding him, being held by him, until she sniffs, and he is speaking, he is saying he loves her he loves her he does he knows what that means but he does and she

is weeping.

Calden White

Amidst the steam and the shower it's hard to tell, at first, that that new moisture on his chest is saltwater. When she sniffs, though, and when her shoulders draw in -- when she starts to weep, it becomes impossible to miss.

And then his arms are shifting, holding her closer still, though such a thing hardly seems possible now. He kisses her temple, and kisses her hair, and strokes his hand over her back and between her shoulderblades.

"Shh," he whispers; like and unlike the way he shushed her in the immediate aftermath of their lovemaking. "Oh, love. Shhh. Why are you crying?"

Avery Chase

Avery remembers what it was like to be mortal. She remembers with perfect clarity what it was like to be kin. She was not verging on immortal; dead was dead to her. Scars were easy to come by. Fear was easier to feel. When Calden wraps his arms around her -- and his arms are thick, heavy things with a rich and unique scent -- she feels safe. She feels protected. She feels grateful that he never touches her scar, his brow furrowing and his fingers gentle, his experience of her body even for one moment narrowing down to that one experience of her own death. She feels, too,

so very sad.

"I don't want to go away so long that I lose you," she says, through her tears, sniffing again, shuddering, crying. It won't stop coming.

Calden White

Calden's brow beetles. Sharp ache twists through him, and all at once he is not merely embracing her but sweeping her up, lifting her, setting her back to the smooth tile and facing her. His hands lift to cup her face. Very tenderly, he sweeps away her tears, though his wet hands leave wetness of their own.

"Avery," he says softly, "you'll never be away so long that you'll lose me. I'd wait for you, no matter how long you're gone from me. I'd never stop waiting for you. That wasn't what I meant."

A pause, painful.

"What I meant was," he adds, as gently as he can, "I'm afraid of the day when you won't come back to me. Not because you don't want to, but because you ... can't."

Avery Chase

Avery's feet lift off the floor of the shower. Her heels first, followed by her arches, then the balls of her feet, her toes. She breathes in with it, as he turns her, pressing her to water-warmed tile and holding her, touching her face. Water pours down over both of them, running all over.

He tells her she won't lose him, and on some level, she can't believe him, even though she wants to. He's Fianna. He wasn't raised with this -- slightly mad parents, slightly mad servants, deeply mad ancestors or Garou family members. He didn't grow up knowing that he would marry and mate into such things, that mateships had to be arranged and organized based with those factors in mind, not just the presence of absence of love, passion, affection. He has not watched a grandparent or parent descend swiftly into greater and greater insanity, embarrassing and shameful and frightening and horrible. He can't really know what it will be like, enough to make this kind of promise.

So she weeps, but she tries not to, because she wants to believe him, and she wants him to believe that she believes him.

She tries, in essence, to be brave.

"Even if I can't," she tells him, "I'll still love you."

Calden White

"I know," he whispers. And he bows his head to her shoulder, kisses her tenderly and warmly and fervently there. "I know, Avery."

His arms wrap around her again. He holds her like that, there under the steady wash of the dual showerheads, there in the steam and the heat, his eyes closed, his embrace tight.

Avery Chase

All she can do is curl against him. Her legs are wrapped loosely around him but her arms stay tucked between her breasts and his chest. She feels vulnerable, small; this revered, reverent Fostern Philodox of the tribe of kings. It happens: even the best of us are not always at their best. She closes her eyes and lets him hold her, crying a few more hot tears against him while he keeps her near.

She tries to believe it. He will still love her. He will always love her. He will love her even when she is gone for weeks at a time, or months,

or years.

But that is all a very long time from now.

--

Eventually, Calden lets her ease down. She assures him she'll be all right, which is a far cry from being all right. She washes with him, and for longer periods they just hold each other under the water. They stroke each other's backs, and he sways with her a bit,

until they are sort of dancing there, in her shower, without any music at all.

--

It's loud when she dries her hair, combs it straight and unadorned. They bundle up in robes and ignore the littered clothing everywhere, snuggling in her bed together while they read -- he the book he has left here, she something new from the last time he saw her. Her head is on his shoulder until she is yawning, folding her book closed, telling him she thinks she'd like to go to sleep now. Of course he can stay up and keep reading, the light won't bother her.

He does or he doesn't. He helps her out of her robe, though, tossing it aside to the foot of the bed as she slinks down between those perfect sheets. She turns her back to him for now if he reads, her butt pressed tenderly and with some familiarity against the outside of his thigh, his hand stroking her arm or her hair while she dozes and he reads. Or he puts his book aside and lays down with her, turning the lights off and opening his arm and his side for her to turn to him, smiling, tucking herself close and using his shoulder, bicep, chest as a pillow, her hand covering his heart.

Calden White

That's a luxury Calden doesn't have at home: to leave clothes where they lay, and to expect them to be picked up at some point and laundered and dried and folded and put away again. He can, of course, leave his clothes where they lay. He has. It's just that in the morning they're his to pick up. He has a cleaning service that comes by once every two weeks to dust and vacuum, but no one cooks for him; no one cleans the detritus of his daily life. He likes it that way. He likes self-sufficiency and honest work.

He likes it too, though, to lay abed with his lady and not worry about things like water-spots on the shower faucet and old clothes on the floor. To not worry about what to make for breakfast in the morning, and whether or not there's still gas in the car, and

all those mundane little details that they would have to attend to if they were, in fact, living together. Living together alone, by themselves, crafting a little life of their own.

--

The truth is he doesn't know if that will ever happen. If that's in the stars for them. If she'll be able to bear his nearness; if she won't run away from him. If she won't die at some point, all too soon. If he won't be called by his tribe, or she by hers, or any of the ten thousand what-ifs that would, if he allowed them to, keep him awake at night.

He doesn't stay awake at night worrying. There's no point. His life, more than most men's, is dictated by things entirely out of his control. A sudden flood, a long winter; a monster in the night, tearing the hood off his car. He learns, as a man in his shoes must, to roll with the punches and adapt. To be grateful for what he has, and not to long overmuch for what he does not. To not worry overmuch about losing that which he cannot imagine living without.

--

They retire to bed. Her hair is dry and straight and silky-soft when she leans her head against his shoulder. They read: he has a book he left here, nonfiction, something endearingly dull. Possibly cattle-related. She has a novel, and it is new. She closes her book first, tells him he can stay up, and he kisses her and smiles and tells her he'll just finish this chapter.

He helps her out of her robe. He's shed his long ago, before he climbed into bed. She turns her back to him, her bottom against his thigh, and his hand strokes her skin lazily, thoughtlessly, familiarly as he finishes that last chapter. The pages turn softly; it's a sound somehow familiar to him, reminding him of being young, being small, listening to his older brothers turning the pages of their high school textbooks, listening to his mother turn the pages of her mystery novels.

Eventually he sets the book aside. And he stretches out his arm to turn the last of the lights off. She turns around as darkness falls, and he opens his arm to her after all. She snuggles against his side, his shoulder, his chest.

Her hand covers his heart. He smiles a little, unseen. He feels close to her, protected and protective. Briefly he imagines the future, the distances, the endless weeks or months that might go by before he sees her again. It is heartbreaking, but he faces it bravely, himself; he thinks to himself that that bridge will be crossed when he reaches it,

and when he does, perhaps it won't seem so insurmountable after all. And certainly, it will not be too high a price to pay for the privilege of loving her.