valentine's.

Avery Chase

On at least a couple of occasions, Calden has been out to Avery's estate. This is the first piece of property she and her family purchased in Denver. It is the largest. It is where her father and brother make their home, and it is the actual address where Avery legally holds residence and receives mail. It is where he picked her up to go to the gala where Avery captured the fascination and loyalty of a room simply by standing up. It is also where they stopped, briefly, on the way to some other location while Calden was Super Drunk and kept trying to take his shirt off.

He has not been given a proper tour, or even been a proper guest. He has not been taken down to the room with the pool table and air hockey, or strolled the grounds, or looked down on the main hall from Avery's palatial bedroom. He has not been treated to anyone playing the piano for him in one of the parlors. But he's been here before.

--

On Valentine's Day, at the appointed hour, his truck makes its way not to the north gate into the courtyard flanked by garages, but to the east gate, where trees march to either side of him all the way up the red-brick drive. Through their winter-barren branches and trunks he can see a sculpted lawn, but the drive itself leads him toward a man who is waiting for him on the driver's side of the open way. That man is young, and Calden has met Chauncey enough times to know even at a distance that is not who is waiting for him. He is dressed smartly, all in black, wearing a black overcoat as well and a driver's cap against the chill, even though tonight is warmer than recent ones.

He inclines his head to Calden when he stops, door opening or window rolling down, and says: "Please permit me to park for you, sir," he says, and should Calden concede, they trade places. As the truck pulls forward, out of the way, there is suddenly someone else standing a few yards away, and Calden may recognize this one. This is the pale-skinned, dark-haired young man who -- though Calden likely is not privy to this -- cleans his lady's trophies for her, preparing correspondence for her enemies at times. He has slightly haunted eyes, but he is crisp and polite, serving as Calden's escort to the front door.

The front door is recessed through a smaller gate 'round the front of the house, but those wrought-iron, arch-topped gates stand open tonight, and the black door is unlocked. Colin, for that is his name, takes Calden's coat inside, as well as his hat or scarf or gloves or whatever else he might have. The entry hall boasts an enormous chandelier and a wide, curving staircase in white and pale blue. The house is glorious, the details vast and tremendous and hard to take in. Everywhere he looks there is some source of light, dim and bright, small and large, filling the place with an artificial starlight and sunshine. There are cut flowers all over the place. It is not the cozy warmth of his own place; there is no doubting that he is in the home of Silver Fangs.

--

And then she comes down the stairs. Well, first: he sees her up there, through the glittering chandelier, her hair all in curls, adorned by a fascinator that may very well be platinum and diamonds or white gold and some less-powerful stone. No matter; it gleams and twinkles. She is beaming at him, wearing a red dress, tea-length, A-line, all tulle and lace. Seeing him from up there over the railing, she just grins, then comes as quick as she can down the stairs, trotting over to him from the foot of them and throwing herself into his arms, wrapping her embrace around his neck, smiling up at him. She is wearing some delicate, light perfume, and her dress rustles where it presses against his pants.

"Happy Valentine's Day!" she tells him, giddy.

Calden White

Not to be a stereotypical Fianna, but Calden actually has not yet set a sober foot inside the Manor Chase. But then, despite their ten-and-a-half-month romance, this is the first time he has been officially invited to dine with her and her family at her family estate.

This is the first time, too, that he's driven through the east gate and down that treelined drive. This is the first time he's parked his truck -- which is a nice truck, even luxurious, but still very much a working vehicle -- at the roundabout and handed the keys to Avery's chauffeur. This is the first time he has been shown through the front door, and the first time his overcoat and scarf and gloves have been taken by that slightly offputting young man.

This is not the first time Avery has seen her paramour dressed for dinner, however. Dressed formally for dinner, we might add, and very classically: a black dinner jacket, a pressed white shirt. There was some internal debate about the tie; in the end, he eschewed the bowtie and went with a plain, well-knotted black tie instead. His pocket square has a bit of flair -- a neat trifold in red silk.

He shaved. His hair is recently trimmed. Wavy and thick and auburn; almost neat for once, rather than that great shaggy mess. His watch is nice, his cufflinks are conservative but elegant, and his shoes are polished. She can tell, immediately and without a doubt, that he has put an extra level of thought and care into his grooming tonight. He is, after all,

meeting her father.

--

The house is full of light and air and splendor. The faint scent of fresh-cut flowers touches the senses where he stands waiting for her. She doesn't keep him waiting long. That would be so rude. He is straightening his shirt-cuffs beneath the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket when she appears,

radiant,

dressed in the color of love and passion and blood and joy. He looks up at her at once, catching that movement out of the corner of his eyes. His eyes light up. Surely she can see that even from the top of that sweeping staircase. Surely she can see, far away as she is,

the way his breath catches,

the way his heart skips.

She comes down to him, taking those stairs so light and quick and merry. He has no patience; he forgets his manners. He meets her as she throws herself into his waiting arms, catching her as though they were long-separated lovers at the train station. Her dress rustles. The hem spins out as he whirls her, just once, laughing as she wishes him a happy Valentine's.

"Happy Valentine's," he returns. Her feet touch the ground again. He kisses her: it is a quick, light thing, not quite chaste but at least polite.

Then, unwinding from her, he takes her hand. "I brought a prime rib roast," he says, just as he promised. "I think Chauncey might have brought it in. I seared it at home, but it still needs some time in the oven. There's a bottle of scotch for your father as well."

Pause, there. He lifts her hand to his mouth, kisses her knuckles with his eyes bright with laughter.

"How have you been, Miss Chase? It feels like it's been longer than it has."

Avery Chase

Her lips, like her dress and her nails, are deep red. The way she kisses him is best called a smooch, gleeful at his presence and his appearance. When he sets her down, she steps backward, sliding her hands down his arms, taking his hands, beaming at him. He tells her about the meat he brought, and that the servant who took his car -- though that was not Chauncey -- may have brought it in, along with the scotch for her father. She notably does not see a bouquet of roses or heart-shaped box of chocolates in his hands, but she doesn't look for them, either. She just smiles at him.

"Chauncey has the evening off," she tells him, prettily, endearingly adding: "He's having dinner with his wife."

Which is just about the most adorable thing Avery can imagine, right now. She squeezes his hand, dropping one of them, as he lifts her knuckles to his lips and asks her where she's been. "I've been here all the time," she tells him, laughing at him. It has, after all, only been a week.

That is when footsteps come down the hallway. Avery turns her head, her eyes brightening a bit more, as her father comes into the entryway. His suit is black as night, his shoes polished and reflecting the chandelier above, his pocket square white and straight-lined. The only color he wears is a boutonniere, a sprig of little blue forget-me-nots with their gold-and-black centers with a tiny tuft of baby's breath. They are wrapped in black satin where they are pinned to his lapel. His eyes are as bright a blue as Avery's, his features as aquiline and noble. He is smiling.

"Good evening, Mr. White," he says, the smile growing as he heads over. "I would pretend to wait for a formal introduction, but I know who you are." He offers his hand, and Avery delicately releases Calden's so they can shake.

"He brought scotch for you, Father," Avery chimes in, but shakes her head, curls bouncing a bit, "but all he brought me for Valentine's Day is meat."

She grins. Her father laughs, shaking Calden's hand.

Calden White

Avery's father, like Avery's estate and manor, like Avery herself, is so utterly Of Falcon that a blind man couldn't mistake him for anything else. There is something impeccably elegant, something very old-fashioned about him. The walk, the attire,

that subtle, heartbreaking little remembrance of his wife.

"Mr. Chase," Calden returns warmly, clasping hands. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir." They release and straighten, the three of them in subtle geometry: Calden and Avery's father and Avery herself. "I'd present the scotch, but I've lost track of the bottle."

Avery Chase

He still wears his ring. It's not on the hand that Calden shakes, of course, but it's there, platinum, shot through with flat-faceted diamonds in a band around the middle. It's a lovely piece of jewelry, light-catching and well-kept, polished and pristine, and he is still wearing it, a decade after she fell. That and the forget-me-nots: he sends a clear but quiet message that he will not remarry. She was his mate. There is no other.

"Please," he says, "Philip." Not Phil, of course. Philip. He chuckles. "I'm sure Colin can track it down for us," he says. Colin, who is standing near the door with his back to the wall and his hands clasped in front of him, does not need a moment of eye contact from his master or another word: silently, shadow-like, he vanishes.

"Oakley," Philip adds, speaking to Calden still, "will be joining us for dessert; he begged Avery." And he doesn't need to say it, really, but there's a girl, and it's Valentine's Day, and it didn't take much begging for Avery to agree not to be cross with her little brother for missing dinner with her beau. "Why don't we adjourn to the parlor? I believe Ms. Kendrick has set out some hors d'oeuvres for us there while we await dinner."

With that, he steps aside. The hallways are more than wide enough for the three of them to walk abreast, and Avery steps in to Calden's other side, slipping her arm through his, giving his bicep a little hug as they make their way towards the ample parlor, with its dark walls and baby grand and cream-colored armchairs.

They have not so much as entered, they have barely begun with Philip starting to tell Calden that Avery's piano lessons never did any good, when Colin enters carrying a tray. That tray has three crystal glasses upon it, and the bottle of scotch that Calden brought for Mr. Chase. He sets it down on the table among the armchairs, beside the platters of hors d'oeuvres, gives a slight bow, and departs again, just as silently. Just as simply.

Calden White

Let's be honest: Calden is a little -- no, not awkward. Not nervous, or uncomfortable. But this is his first time truly meeting Avery's father, and his first time truly in her home, and perhaps his first time truly and fully aware of the way she lives. The way her family lives; the life they are accustommed to. Parlors and hors d'oeuvres when company is over, servants and cooks and housekeepers and chauffeurs who get the holidays off to spend with family.

It's not unpleasant. It's not stiff. But there is a certain formality to him, a certain -- care, perhaps that's the word for it, in the way he carries himself. Presents himself.

It helps when Avery returns to him. Wraps her arms around his arm, hugs herself to his bicep. He smiles, then, and it is that warm-spreading smile of his. He has to catch himself from wrapping his arm around her shoulders, squeezing her against his side.

In the parlor, there are delightful little bites to graze on. There's a tray presented by Colin, three glasses and a bottle of scotch. Philip shares an amusing little tale about Avery's attempts at music, and Calden is standing by that instrument, lifting the fall to run his fingertips over the keys.

"My mother played," he says, "and two of my brothers. I, admittedly, didn't have the touch for it. I can strum a few chords on a guitar, and that's all." He quirks a grin at Avery. "So you've probably still got me beat."

Avery Chase

She

is so

happy.

Her father is here, and her lover, and they're all going to retire to the parlor for drinks and nosh, and everyone is dressed so nicely and she is getting to show off everything to him: the finery, the staff, the house, the way they can entertain even when it's just a small trio. She's giddy in her pretty red dress and her black heels, warm enough on her own that she doesn't need a shawl, a jacket, an arm to keep her warm. She burns hotter than anyone else here, even in the relative coolness of the house. She admits freely that she never had an interest in piano, maybe because you have to sit down when you play.

"If they had shown me pictures of the musicians who get up and kick their benches away I might have been more keen," she says, lifting a little heart-shaped snack to her teeth, nibbling while Calden departs from her immediate side, touching the grand.

His mother played. Her heart twists a little. His brothers, at least two of them. "I assure you, I do not," she warns him, as though he's about to ask her to play. "Oakley commands any instrument we hand him, but I just bash my hands on the keys until I get bored. He plays; I dance."

Philip has picked up the bottle to inspect it, his eyes keen on the label. "You really didn't have to do this," he tells Calden, sincerely, looking over. "This is a fine bottle."

Calden White

Bash my keys.

Calden laughs aloud. He can imagine it. His eyes twinkle when she says she dances. He lowers the fall again and pulls the piano bench out a little to take a seat -- not to play, no, not with his back to the keys. Just to sit.

"You do dance. That's how I met your daughter, Mr. -- Philip. She was dancing on my ranch. It may have been in the pale moonlight, at that."

He leaves out the other details. The elk. The kill. The steaks and the games and -- the rest of that. Of course he does. Philip, meanwhile, thanks him for the scotch, and Calden shakes his head.

"I'm glad you like it," he says. "I'll bring something else next time. My family's been living in the same house for generations now and we've managed to put together a pretty interesting collection in the winecellar.

"You know," he adds, "if you're ever up north with Avery, you should drop by. We'll open a few bottles. Maybe call my cousins over and play cards by the fire." He grins. It's directed at Avery. "We can see if Miss Chase bashes her hands on the deck until she gets bored."

Avery Chase

Philip smiles past Calden at Avery, whose eyes are twinkling as she swallows her little bite of that heart-shaped snack. "As she tells it," he informs Calden, setting the bottle down on the tray again, "she was hunting on your land. She didn't mention the dancing."

"That's because I didn't dance," Avery says, perhaps not remembering that happy swaying dance she did over the body of her elk. "He isn't lying about the cellar though, Father, he almost didn't let me leave without two bottles. So watch out. Also:" and this is directed teasing-sharp at Calden himself, "I know how to play cards."

She walks over to him -- her father, that is -- her tulle rustling, and gives him a hug from the side. He smiles fondly, patting her arm. "You should," she tells him, less giddily. "You'd love his house. It's all hearths and exposed beams and red plaid. It's all very manly and homey."

Without a hesitation, she leans over and kisses her father's cheek, and he chuckles. "Maybe I will," he says, and nods at the glasses to Calden. "Let's have a taste, then, shall we?"

Calden White

"Well, she was hunting. But when she finished -- " Their voices overlap; she says she didn't dance, and he laughs and insists, " -- oh no, I know what I saw. When you finished, you did this happy little swaying dance." He pantomimes it with his hands, his fingers, and grins. "It was so charming. I was so charmed."

He was teasing her. He was, but now he's just being honest: nakedly, happily honest. He was charmed. She accuses him of pressing bottles -- two! -- on her.

"I'll have you know, Philip," Calden interjects, laughing, "that I've since managed to sneak both bottles to her. We Whites don't joke around about gift-giving."

They settle a little. Avery hugs her father. Calden watches, his smile quirky and fond and touched. Then: smirking as she describes his home, very manly and homey.

"I have a dog, too," he adds. "She used to be a cattledog, but then she fell in love with your daughter and followed her everywhere. Now she sleeps on my bed and nearly dies of adoration every time Avery comes over."

He rises, then, as Philip nods at the glasses. Calden picks them up, two in one hand and one in the other, walking them over to Avery's father. While Philip opens the bottle, Calden sets the glasses down in a little triangle.

Avery Chase

When she finished hunting, she danced. When she finished dancing, she washed. When she finished washing, they ate. When they finished eating, they played. When they finished playing, they could. Not. Stop. Fucking.

Avery blushes though, just when he gets to the second part: when she finished gorging herself on blood and hot meat, she did a little swaying dance, happy. His pantomime doesn't help; she turns pink, shoulders hunching upward, as he tells her -- and her father's listening ears -- how charming it was. How charmed he was by it. By her.

"You've met your match, then," Philip says easily to Calden, regarding the Whites and their gift-giving habits. "Half of what I own these days is a gift from this one," and his hand patting Avery gives a gentle squeeze. She puts her head on her father's shoulder for a moment, draped there while she watches her lover, her beloved, who is just as touched by this sight as Philip is touched by hearing this story of their meeting, omitting even as it does the more sordid details.

"We've thought about getting a dog," he adds, as Avery withdraws her embrace and he picks up the bottle again to start opening it. "Since Avery tells me she's learned a gift that could allow such a thing." He begins to pour, a finger or so into each glass. There is a little crystal vial of clear water on the tray as well; Philip foregoes it for now, at least until after the first taste, before opening the flavors of the scotch with a drop or two of water.

He lifts one to hand to Avery, then another to Calden, and finally his own. "To the Whites," he says of his toast, "those in our company and those in our hearts."

Avery could just die, she's so happy. She taps her glass to theirs. "To the Whites," she adds, beaming.

Calden White

"And to the Chases," Calden completes,

because of course one does not toast oneself. Their glasses tap together, the fine crystal ringing musically, a pleasant hum in the air even after they lift the scotch to their lips. It's a potent whisky, heavy and smoky as Calden seems to prefer -- certainly not one of the milder, smoother breeds. Taken in savoring little sips as they do, it leaves a long, lingering finish that lends their pre-dinner hors d'oeuvres a unique twist.

The conversation returns to dogs, then. Calden offers to keep an eye out for the spring puppies. One of the border collies, perhaps, lithe and quick and bright. Or perhaps one of the great pyrenees, much larger, protective, affectionate. He reminisces about the dogs underfoot on the ranch since he could remember, generation upon generation of herding dogs, guard dogs. The pair of hunting dogs his father owned when he was a boy. The conversation drifts to horses,

to his land,

to the land, to this state, to their move from back east. There's a certain delicacy to this topic. An unspoken ache that Calden knows of and avoids. They move on to the snowfall, the winter, the skiing, and has Philip caught any of the Olympics?

--

The roast Calden brought was rather enormous, and even half-cooked as it is, will realistically take a couple hours to finish. It likely isn't ready yet when one of the serving staff -- Ms. Kendrick, perhaps, or Colin -- enters to announce that dinner is served.

Summoned, Calden rises from the armchair he'd settled himself in. He has the good graces to cede the honor of escorting Avery to her father, instead falling in at her other side.

Avery Chase

The three of them -- two fair and one ruddy, two golden and one oak, two falcons and one stag -- toast and drink to the honor of their families. They sip well-aged scotch that tastes like a peaty fireplace, which Avery barely tastes, for she unapologetically prefers the smooth, balanced bloodlines. She, with her blast furnace of a metabolism, nibbles on more of the snacks than her father and Calden do, though she mostly remains at Calden's side, her arm around his waist.

They talk of puppies and horses. She seems delighted at the idea of Patches having a pup, just for her family. It wouldn't be hers, of course, but her brother's, but she proclaims that Oakley should have a dog, now that he can. She is wary of the pyrenees, simply saying, smoothly: "Oh, I think a border collie would be much more manageable in a household like this one," without going into the details that her gift might not work on a breed known as wolf-killers; they might not see her as worthy of adoration quite as easily, she fears.

Avery may be wrong about that. But there is this: her staff won't mind not dealing with a great pyrenees.

She sips again, and they talk of horses and the ones Avery's family used to have, and Philip tells Calden a couple of stories of Avery-as-a-girl, but they aren't embarrassing. He brags about her accomplishments, a riding award when she was twelve, or her recent rank ascension, with equal affection. It's clear that to him, at least, she is the same girl. She has always been the same girl. And it's obvious, as they chat in the parlor, why Avery is so tender, so protective, so close to her family. To them, she is who she has always been, and the nature of her body and soul are tangential to the spirit of her self that they know.

--

It will take them a good hour to get through the courses that come before the roast, so in due time, the maid -- that frail, wide-eyed young woman with the small mouth and almost colorless eyes -- comes to the parlor door, dropping into a small curtsey and waiting to be acknowledged before she speaks, hands folded in front of her.

Philip does look at her, and she tells him -- more than 'them' -- that dinner may be served at their pleasure. Sir.

Calden rises, and Avery quickly finishes the latest bite, furtive but delicate. She hasn't finished her scotch, but brushes her fingers together and allows Calden to lift her from her chair, walking her to her father, who just smiles. He doesn't wave this away but gives his daughter his elbow. The way she takes it is so effortless, so familiar, that it's obvious how often in their lives they've walked like this, arm in arm, strolling through this hallway or that. At her side, her free hand brushes Calden's, lightly interlacing the tips of their fingers.

--

Dinner is taken at one end of a long table. The runner is covered with floral arrangements, candles, the like; they eat off of white china with silver cutlery. Whoever Ms. Kendrick is -- she does not serve, that is for Colin and the kitchen maid, Rosemarie to do -- she has a progressive palate, stylish but not trendy, blending the classic with the deconstructed. This is not the sort of meal one might have while hunched down around a fire, either in the era of cavemen or out on the range. Nor is it plate after plate of tiny gelatinous cubes of odd flavor; the portions are small but only to keep one hungry for the next, craving the next wave of flavor, texture, novelty. And Rosemarie, for all her seeming fragility, has an efficient grace all her own. Colin pours their wine and has brought in the scotch on a new tray, fresh glasses, as though it was never touched.

Avery sits across from Calden. Her father sits at the head. He keeps noticing the way his daughter looks at Calden. He keeps smiling, asking Calden about his ranch, his family, his business in the city, his friends at the sept, but: he avoids politics. He does not speak of either human nor lupine power structures. He does not talk about money when they speak of business, but about the people Calden meets, the events he has dealt with, how the floods affected him. When the prime rib roast comes, he proclaims it incredible. He admits he shouldn't have let Calden do this, a guest in his home, and that his reservations were high, but tasting it drives all that from his mind.

Calden White

This is, Calden is surprised to realize, one of the few meals he has shared with Avery while in the company of others. Oh, there was that gala that turned into something of a war. There was that barbecue back when the weather was warm and the moon was full. And there was a night at the ranch when his cousins dropped in unexpectedly, their boots dusty and their clothes smelling of cattle; washed their hands but not their faces, shared a hearty meal and a few beers with them.

That was perhaps the closest thing to a meal they've shared with family, his or hers. And that was so different from this. So much more casual. So earthy, so -- brutish, almost. Loud laughter and clanking forks and open fires and the like. With little in the way of finer manners at the table to begin with, Calden felt little compunction to divide his attention equally amongst all. And ultimately, at the end of the night, he felt little guilt when he kicked his cousins out after a last round of after-dinner drinks so he could have a little privacy with his beloved.

This is a different sort of family meal. It is exquisite and polite and there are many courses and the chandelier overhead glitters so bright. Ms. Kendrick has crafted quite the menu: a small parade of novel little dishes that rather flawlessly build up to the prime-rib roast. No one is drunk enough to shout and laugh, and no one is lightly to be. It would be easy to dismiss this meal as stilted, varnished and veneered, but --

it's not. That's the thing that strikes a soft, poignant note in Calden. There is nothing stilted or false about Avery's interactions with her father. There's nothing stilted or false about their regard for each other,

their love for each other,

the closeness of their bond. Sometimes, in brief little twinges, Calden almost envies his lover a little. He sees the way her father speaks of her, with undisguised pride and adoration. He sees the easy love she holds for her father in turn, the way they joke gently, the way they finish each other's stories.

He wonders, sometimes, if he ever had that with his own father. If he ever could.

--

The prime rib comes, and is praised so soundly that Calden flushes a little with pleasure and embarrassment. He waves off the compliments, thanking Philip, telling him it was the least he could do. They talk a while about beef, about suppliers in the city; Calden has a few recommendations. The conversation drifts momentarily back to business, to his trips to the city, his friends and his family and his long, old ties to this state.

As dinner starts to wind down, they eat less. They drink a little more. The wine and the scotch pool warmly in their stomachs; Calden lays his utensils down and leans back in his chair. He permits himself to sprawl, just a little. Just enough that under the table, the inside of his calf rests gently, steadily, solidly against Avery's. They are talking of more personal things now,

the trip Calden took through Europe when he was much younger, the time he spent on the coasts before coming home to his ranch. The other paths he briefly considered in life, and ultimately rejected -- a major in this, a doctorate in that; none of them equal to the simple, honest pleasure of turning a plot of land and a herd of cattle into a livelihood, a business, a career. He speaks of his family, his brothers and his father, his many cousins and uncles and aunts and all, and -- sparingly and sparsely, with a shine in his eyes that he hides by casting his gaze down to the tablecloth -- of his mother. They do not dwell too long on that subject. It is too personal, too private for a first meeting,

especially with a man who wears blue forget-me-nots on Valentine's Day.

--

A lull in the conversation, natural and easy. Calden sips wine, having had his fill of scotch. He is quiet a while, and then he lifts his eyes to Philip.

"I love your daughter very much," he says, frankly and quietly. "And I'm very glad to discover that her life at home is as happy and full as I would have wished for it to be."

Avery Chase

Oh, Philip takes Calden's recommendations, but he has no intention of undoing what his daughter has already wrought in their home: what beef they eat can be traced, to a morsel, back to Calden's own ranch. It has been so for months. He doesn't bring it up, but he smiles, dutifully and happily assigning to memory the names of Calden's suggestions.

Avery is as interested in Calden's travels as her father is; she's never heard these stories. She is quiet as he talks, feeling a slight sink in her heart and belly because she doesn't know. Almost a year now, and she doesn't know so many things about him. She chooses not to share with him, for now, stories of her own travels, her own experiences, in part because she cannot speak as easily about things she wanted to do and be and what came of those dreams: maybe she would have abandoned them by choice. She doesn't know.

Under the table, their legs touch. She feels warmed, sipping red wine instead of scotch, too. They are resting between the meal and dessert. Steadily, plates and platters are being swept away, silverware replaced. It is easy to forget the servants are even there, they move so stealthily.

He flat-out says he loves Avery very much. Perhaps erring a bit on the side of presumptuous, he talks of his opinion of her home life. Philip, for what it's worth, takes it in stride. He merely smiles. He reaches over, taking his daughter's hand, and she smiles back at him. Maybe they communicate in silence in that moment, but in the end of it, he squeezes her hand, and he turns to Calden, but then a few pairs of eyes look up.

There is a door somewhere being opened and closed, and moments later Avery is beaming and a young man walks in. He resembles their absent, passed mother the way that Avery resembles her father. His features have a sharply elfin look to them, not precocious or dainty but somehow both feral and ethereal. His eyes are somehow richer in color even than Avery's, approaching indigo; he has his father's leanly muscled but broad-shouldered build and height, the fair hair that will one day turn silver, ears that very nearly end in a point. He has a raptor's keenness of eye, a predator's easy grace in the way he walks.

It's at once startling that he has not changed.

He's dressed well, too, in a well-tailored, narrowly cut black suit with a thin black tie. He wears it easily, almost lazily, yet does not loosen his tie when he enters. This is a family dinner, but it is a family dinner with a guest. And lo: there is a spot beside Avery set, where one was not set before.

"Oakley," Avery is saying happily, as he walks not to her side of the table but to Calden's, first, extending his hand.

"Mr. White," says the young man, respectfully, inclining his head to his family's guest, his sister's boyfriend. "I apologize for missing dinner with you. I hope you did not take my absence for an insult."

Avery looks pleased enough to turn pink. Her baby brother! Using all fancy words! So polite!

After shaking Calden's hand he rounds to his father, passing him with a moment of friendly eye contact. When he comes to Avery he stands beside her, leaning over to squeeze her arms in a light hug and permits her to kiss his cheek, which he can't help but grin sheepishly at. He's a mannerly, well-bred teenager, not given to sulks or depression, but he's still a teenager. He finally seats himself at Avery's right, smoothing his tie to his chest as he does.

There is a wine glass in front of him. The maid comes round after a moment and pours it for him, not even that much smaller a portion than given to the adults, and he gives her a nod as she departs, but doesn't immediately lift a glass.

"I hope I didn't miss any stories meant to embarrass my sister," he declares.

Calden White

Calden has seen this young man once, the same way he once saw Avery's father: from afar, across a garden party full of colorful awnings and umbrellas, planters bursting with late summer blooms. And like Avery's father, like Avery's servants, like Avery's house and home and furnishings, he is utterly, thoroughly, quintessentially of Falcon.

And indeed, he is a teenager. But he dresses himself and comports himself as a man, and so Calden -- whose outlook is perhaps colored by his own experience growing up in the backcountry -- treats him as such. He stands to meet the youth, taking the offered hand firmly.

"Mr. Chase," he returns; there is no qualifier, no young or little or junior or anything of the sort. "You hardly need to apologize for spending Valentine's with your sweetheart. I'd be quite the hypocrite if I expected anything of the sort."

They separate. Calden reseats himself; as Oakley makes his way around the table, greeting first his father and then his sister, Calden makes eye contact with Avery and lifts his eyebrows in smiling, silent approval. An upstanding young man, his expression says.

"Sadly," Calden answers as Oakley sits and is poured wine, "not a single one. I think she's bought off your father, and I'll depart as story-less as I came."

Avery Chase

Oakley has seen Calden three times that he remembers: once when he was passing through a hallway and saw a happily drunk man sitting at the foot of the front stairs, leaning against the railing, looking sweaty and odd. He had frowned, and started to call for one of the servants, when he saw Avery coming back down the stairs, saw her pushing her hand into the man's hair, grinning at him the way she does. He never said a word about it.

He also saw Calden one night when Calden picked up Avery for a James Bond-themed gala. He was in one of the parlors, and he actually traded a brief hello before Avery came in to go out with him.

Then there was the garden party, where he played basketball and Avery waved to him before she left, her done-up hair cast down, a flower still adorning it, her hand linked with this man's. She has had ample opportunity to introduce them all, but personally, he doesn't blame her. Especially given the whole 'Fianna' thing.

Philip laughs. Avery just grins. Oakley's eyebrows go up. "Then you're in luck," he says, leaning forward a bit. "She hasn't bought me off, and I'm willing to accept payment in trade."

"Oakley!" Avery says, only half-feigning how aghast she sounds.

He grins wider at Calden, ignoring his sister.

Calden White

Calden laughs. "I'd accept," he says, smiling, "but I suspect you're too much a gentleman to actually do as threatened, Oakley. And then I'd be left looking quite the gossip.

"Besides," he adds, that smile casting across the table to include Avery as well, "I doubt her tales of woe could possibly be more embarrassing than mine."

Avery Chase

"A gentleman never backs out of a deal," Oakley responds, as to his qualities, sounding quite high and mighty. He smiles, and Calden suggests that Avery's 'tales of woe' couldn't possibly be worse than his. "Perhaps," is all her brother says, leaning back, lifting his glass.

Dessert is creamy, affected with traces and hints of fudge rather than composed entirely of chocolate. It is cool, rich, bittersweet, blending with the wine chosen for the meal. The servings are artful puffs and swirls, adorned with a gemstone-bright drizzle of raspberry sauce.

Oakley is a teenager; he eats his perhaps faster than is strictly necessary.

Philip is an older man, and only a man, not a wolf; he eats small bites, infrequent, savoring them each, supping instead on conversation.

Avery is somewhere in between. She is ravenous; she is always hungry. Later on she will devour the rest of that prime rib roast straight from the fridge. But she is with now three of her favorite men on earth, all eating and drinking together, and her father and brother look wonderful and are being so polite and Calden is here and he's so charming and her dress is the prettiest thing, the dessert makes her so proud of Ms. Kendrick, so she talks. She laughs at something Calden says, her ankle touching his under the table. She considers the pleasure, later, of eating the prime rib roast from the fridge, chewing on the meat and tasting the hint of bloody life, following it with a pint of Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra with its core of pure caramel.

But for now she is in her pretty red dress, laughing as candles burn low with her father, her brother, her lover, eating dessert.

Calden White

She is so happy. Avery is so happy, this luminous, adored center of their lives. And there is the truth of it -- she is the bond that links them all. Sister of one, daughter of the other, and beloved of the third: gorgeous in red tonight, in that dress with its little lace roses that spill down from the shoulder.

They share dessert, which is cool and creamy and rich and bittersweet. Calden finishes most of his wine, leaving a swallow at the bottom. He asks about Oakley's studies, and where he might go to college, and what he might like to do When He Grows Up. Calden, it turns out, has at least dabbled enough in everything to have something to say about just about everything Oakley mentions -- engineering and literature, the life sciences, history. He mentions that most major colleges have an astronomy course that inevitably requires 2am trips to the observatory,

and that if Oakley has the chance, he really should take that course, because never again in his life will he be given credit for simply stargazing. Even professional astronomers don't have that luxury.

The candles are quite small now. The last of dessert is gone. Calden swirls the wine in his glass simply for the pleasure of watching it move, and then lifts his eyes to Avery's father.

"Thank you for the lovely meal," he says, giving the elder Chase the honor due to the patriarch of the family,

even if Philip knows, and Oakley knows, and Calden knows, and Avery knows who really is the leader and protector and guardian of this little cast of falcons.

Avery Chase

In years to come, it will be Oakley who manages the household, the staff, the properties, the investments, the philanthropy. It will be Oakley whose marriage will join their family's blood and wealth with another's. He will manage things, he and their stewards, their staff, their loyal servants. They were both to be trained for this future, but Avery is on a different path now, and no one is deluding themselves about where that path ends. Not in bed, at peace, surrounded by fat and happy grandchildren.

For that price, and the price of being her family's guardian, protector, leader -- do not be confused; these are not gifts -- she receives two things in exchange: the ability to walk in the spirit world, to commune directly with Falcon, Gaia, Luna, and the sheer physical power and joy of shapeshifting. They are brutal terms. There is a reason no one is ever offered such a contract, but only finds somewhere in life that the deal has already been struck, the dotted line signed in heart's blood. It was decided before you were ever born.

She will never full detach from this family, though. She will never be so absent from Oakley's life or her father's life that his mate or his children do not know her. No matter how far she goes, how long she must stay away because she has gone utterly mad, she will come back. She will be anchored here, with them, and now

with Calden, too.

--

"A small price for your company," says Philip easily, "and smaller still with the gifts you brought." Scotch. The main dish. His presence, Avery's joy in his presence. Philip smiles, sitting up, his body language indicating that he will rise without moving yet to do so. "I would love to stay and talk more, but I have an early flight tomorrow. You're more than welcome to stay, of course. Rosemarie has an elegant touch with coffee, if you're so inclined."

Calden White

No one has risen from the table yet, but Calden coils his legs under himself, ready to do so, as he senses Philip moving toward the same.

"It's been a pleasure," he says. "I meant what I said about visiting the ranch. If you're in the area, drop by. You don't even need to call."

--

The gentlemen rise, and perhaps the lady as well. There are handshakes and well-wishings, and then Avery's elegant father departs. Avery's equally elegant -- though perhaps a little more elfish -- brother makes for a second helping of dessert. For a moment, they are left alone. Calden reaches across the table, his fingertips barely brushing hers.

"Are you staying here tonight?" he asks her softly.

Avery Chase

Before he leaves, Philip kisses the top of Avery's head. There is a pause there, blink and you will miss it, where he also inhales, the way he might have done when she was born, when she was small and sleeping, when her mother went back to war and her care was given into his hands and the hands of her nannies. She is a grown moment now, and yet there is that pause, that heartbeat of time where what is in Philip's heart twists outward like a rope weaving itself, tying him to her, for she is of his bone and blood, and she and her brother are all he has left -- in the most primal, most physical sense -- of his mate.

His hand is on the back of her head there, smoothing elegantly away. She smiles up at him, and he is shaking Calden's hand and assuring him he would love to visit the ranch one day, then departing. A footman is falling into step behind him out of nowhere as soon as he's in the hallway, following him up to his chambers. Oakley takes the moment to go get seconds, and Calden looks over at Avery, asking her his quiet question.

She smiles at him, teasing him by evading his fingers, then tapping the tops of his first knuckles with her own, as delicately as if she were playing an instrument. "If you are," she tells him, seeming coy, but it isn't that: it's just that giddy joy, which has not yet abated.

Calden White

It's like a miniature game of tag. His fingers reach for hers; hers evade. She tags him! His hand turns over, fingers parting for hers.

"I'd like to," he says quietly, smiling. It's not an answer he gives without thought, nor lightly. It is, after all, his first time officially meeting her family. And this is the house where her family lives and feels safe. And she is his lover, and her father's daughter, and her brother's sister, and --

he is not, he would never be utterly blind to how her family might feel. What they may or may not be comfortable with.

"If you think it's a good idea," he adds.

Avery Chase

When Calden shows her his palm, she finds it strangely reminiscent of Patches rolling onto her back, exposing her belly in a mixture of utterly trusting submission and plea for attention, for love, for touch. And yet it's not the same. Calden is not moon-struck by some gift of the spirits she employs in his presence to keep him from being terrified of her. Calden is not overcome by one emotion at a time, whether fear or aggression or love or contentment; he is more complex than that, more engaging. She would never deny some similarities, though: the wholeness of his affection, the fearlessness of it.

Many people give themselves over to Avery with their entire hearts, all their trust. Not everyone; enough that it's a trend. But Calden, for some reason, is marked as such in her mind as special: he gives her all of his heart, and he uses all of his will to do so.

Her hand slides into his hand, palms warming together. She smiles at him, has been smiling at him and everyone else all through the cocktail hour and all through dinner and dessert. "You're our guest, darling. We would not ply you with wine and scotch and then wave you out of our home,"

she says, as though they lived in some far-gone era when guests for dinner were only setting off a week or so, possibly a fortnight, at your estate, as though there would be hunts and dances and so on during that time, as though this were the regency era and not 2014,

though she also has a point: he lives very far away.

Her hand squeezes his. "We're all adults here, my dear one," she says, more tenderly. There's a beat: "Well, Oakley... he's almost an adult. As good as, most of the time." Another pause.

"Do not tell him I said that," she warns.

Calden White

There's something a little old-fashioned and nostalgic about both of them. It's one more reason they fit each other so well. She is a lady through and through, even if sometimes she wears the form of a beast. He has a gentleman's heart, even if he is also a herder of cattle. He keeps meaning to have one of those parties where your guests were guests for a week or more, or at least the closest modern American equivalent: a hurricane party, a blizzard bash, whatever one might call it. He could invite Avery and her family. Eva and hers. Tamsin and her pack, of course, and all his cousins; they could pack the house full for a good weekend or so, and while there might not be hunting, there would probably be dancing, and possibly some riding, and

even living so very far away, he would feel close to his friends.

"I wouldn't dream of telling him," says Calden, straight-faced, "just as I wouldn't dream of ferreting embarrassing tales of your youth from him." His hand squeezes hers; he smiles. "I have to admit a certain curiosity, though."

Avery Chase

"Oakley is bluffing," Avery says with an imperious flair, a wave of her hand: "I've never done anything embarrassing."

The young man, interestingly, has not returned from the kitchen. Perhaps he is as mature as he claims; or he took it to his room.

Calden White

"Of course not," Calden replies. He's smirking, just a little, just at the corner of his mouth. "The very thought offends the senses."

Avery Chase

She grins. She squeezes his hand. "It's still early," she says, and it is -- depending on who you are. It's a Friday night. It's Valentine's Day. Look at her pretty dress. "Take me dancing. Let's go get embarassingly inebriated."

She didn't get up at 5 AM this morning, or 6 AM. She's a creature of the night. Of course it's early.

Calden White

Well; it's not early for Calden anymore. But Avery's energy is infectious, and her happiness hard to resist. Plus, there's something to be said for that dress. It is made for going out.

"I suppose," he says, "I do owe you a bout of dancing." His fingers squeeze hers in turn, and then he lets go to push up out of his chair. "Where did your brother go? We should say a proper goodnight."

Avery Chase

She beams. She glows, sitting up a bit straighter, her curls bouncing a bit with any motion of her body. He is already standing a moment later, and she looks positive elated, grinning up at him, her eyes alight. The first time they danced was their first 'real' date; she wore gold, he bought her Sunshine. They danced again in summertime, at a party for people they both know, some professor or doctor or lawyer or something, and she wore her hair up but he took it all down just so he could touch it, selfish thing that he is.

If he didn't dance with her tonight she might never forgive him. Look at her dress.

Avery takes his hand as he comes around to offer it to her. "He's probably upstairs," she explains. "He's still learning the delicacies of discretion and courtesy. I'll tell him a quiet cough in the hallway before entering to say his goodnights would have been all right." She rises to her feet, facing him, smiling still, always. "Later, I will."

Calden White

"I forgive him," Calden says, the very soul of magnanimity. "Or I would, if there were anything to forgive. At any rate, maybe I'll see him again tomorrow."

Because he's coming back here. Tonight. After dancing with her, his lover and his love, on Valentine's Day, with her in her scintillating dress with its cascading flowers, in its eye-catching crimson. The very thought fills his heart to bursting. The very thought makes him warm from the inside out.

He folds his napkin over once, laying it down on the table. Coming around to Avery's side, he offers his arm to her. She is still, always smiling. So is he. Sometimes, at the end of a long night with her, he's smiled so much his cheeks ache a little, but

let's be honest. He can't even pretend to mind.

"I hope you know where we're going," he says as they depart the dining room, "because I certainly don't."

Avery Chase

For breakfast, she thinks. Her father will be gone by then, off to his early flight, but she and her lover and her brother will all be able to have breakfast together. Rosemarie's elegant coffee, hash browns, sausages or bacon or both, fluffy scrambled eggs or sunny-side-up or omelettes perhaps. Maybe they'll watch the news in some room or another, though not the formal parlor with the piano, some other room with a large television and good speakers and Oakley sitting in an armchair and Avery curled up on a couch with her boyfriend while she drinks her cran-orange juice and feeds him bites from her plate, grinning every time he nips a strawberry from her fingertips.

"We can get Colin to drive," she says quietly, as she rises, since Chauncey is with his wife. Her cheeks are flushed. "La Rumba," she tells him, as though she planned this. "I hope you don't mind Latin."

Calden White

Maybe.

Maybe they'll watch the news together. Or something cheerful and light: Saturday morning cartoons, another Pixar movie. Maybe Oakley will man the remote and Avery will snuggle with Calden, who'll stretch his legs out on an ottoman and drape his arm over his girlfriend's shoulders. Maybe Oakley will even be so mature as to not look grossed out. Maybe they'll be so mature as to not do anything to gross him out.

Maybe they'll spend the morning together lazing about, the three of them: Avery and her brother and her gentleman caller. Maybe in the afternoon Oakley'll go out for a round of tennis with a friend, or maybe he'll do regular teenager things like hang around malls and drive around joyriding. Maybe, left on their own, Avery and Calden will simply lay about the house,

or maybe they'll go out. Go to an arboretum, or maybe that planetarium where Avery once met a cosmic nursery full of infant stars. Maybe they'll go dancing again. Maybe

he'll even come home with her again, once more, a Friday and a Saturday and a Sunday morning spent in Denver with his love before heading north again. So far away.

--

That, however, is future tense. The now: the laugh, the slow-spreading grin as he takes her hand over his arm, leans down to kiss her cheek. Not quite the way her father or her brother kissed her. Warmly, and rather at length: his lips pressing to her cheekbone.

"Uh oh," he jokes, "I'm not very proficient at the salsa. You might have to lead."