a picnic with patches.

White

Let's go for a ride, he said, picking her up on a fine Saturday morning. And so they do: first in his truck, driving up that stretch of highway between Denver and the nomansland where Calden lives. Though of course, being who and what he is, what Calden meant was a little different.

Which is why, a few short hours later, they're packing a hearty picnic and saddling up the horses. They're putting on hats against the high-plains sun, they're whistling to Patches, come girl, come, they're leading the horses from the stables and swinging into the saddles and Calden points out across the land at a small copse of trees up on the broad, flat bluff of a hill, cradled in the curve of one of the small streams cutting through his land. This time of year, with the snows just beginning to melt, the waters run shallow and clear.

They set off across the terrain just a few minutes after noon. The sun is high and brilliant; their shadows are carved into the dirt. Calden has the picnic basket across his lap, balanced on the horn of his saddle. He has a relaxed, low-centered seat, swaying contentedly to steady even-footed pace of his tall gelding. Patches runs ahead of them, a black-and-white flash in the dry brush, pausing every so often to perk her ears up and look back at Calden and Avery, caldenandavery, averyaveryavery, she adores avery.

"You know it's been almost a year since I met you," Calden says. His horse has, by its own decision or by a gentle nudge of Calden's knee, wandered a little closer to hers.

Chase

Well, he was going to pick her up. Drive all the way down, pick her up, drive her all the way back, and she laughed and called him silly. He tried insisting: he doesn't mind the long drive, he listens to audiobooks, he loves driving with her. All of which she knows, and this probably isn't the first time and probably won't be the last time that he insists and she glides over it anyway, telling him she'll just come up. She likes having her car with her.

Neither of them acknowledge out loud, over the phone at least, that she likes having a way out. She hates being stuck, feeling trapped, though even without a car she wouldn't be either of those things. Even if she were not a werewolf, Calden would never keep her where she did not want to be. It's not about that. It's about independence. It's about that thing she clings do, that thing that she needs so desperately it becomes -- sometimes -- pure madness.

What she does tell him on the phone is softly, smilingly, that she likes long drives, too. She listens to audiobooks, some of which he's recommended to her. Maybe when it's dark they can go for a drive together, too. Listen to music. Park somewhere and kiss.

She likes that, too.

--

When he said he wanted to go for a ride, though, she never once thought he meant in the car. She assumed, straight off, that he meant his horses. And of course she came up, dressed already in jeans tucked into tall boots and a lightweight, blue and green plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her arms are slathered in sunscreen, as is her neck and face and collarbone and any other exposed skin. She won't need a coat, nor will he. She has her hair braided and is putting on a pretty straw cowgirl hat when she hops out of her little white Juke.

For Avery, this is dressed down, but it's a warm enough day that if they ride long enough, they'll be sweating. They take water with them in sturdy canteens, the picnic basket riding with Calden, a large and hearty blanket rolled up behind Avery's saddle.

She does like riding. She trots ahead sometimes, playing with Patches, and the horse she rides is easygoing and fond of her, eager to please, tender underneath her, protective. As much as Patches adores Avery in this open, exuberant way, the horse now loves her quietly, steadily, lapping sugar out of her palm before kneeling down to be mounted. No one trained that; there is some instinct to kneel to Avery in many creatures, when her Rage does not terrify.

They're riding together though, Patches loping along happily, when Calden speaks. Avery smiles at him, her cheeks dappled with bits of sunlight coming down through the brim of her hat.

"Almost," she agrees, sounding teasing. Coy. "Did you mark it on your calendar the night we ran into each other?"

White

He did not protest overmuch when she said she would drive herself. Actually, he didn't protest at all. He checked once: are you sure? -- and when she was, he let it be. Come up whenever, he said. She needn't wake early just to make it here.

--

She was in riding gear when she arrived. Not in the East Coast, Old Money, Preparatory School sense -- not those close-fitting, dun-colored breeches and not those well-tailored dark coats. Plaid and denim, tough and sturdy and capable of withstanding the elements. He mt her as she hopped out of her white Juke, which is so like her first white Juke that it's quite possible Calden has yet to realize there's been a change. He was already in jeans himself, as he nearly always is, his own buttondown shirt opened a few buttons over a white undershirt. He grinned as she affixed the hat to her bright, bright hair; met her halfway; wrapped his big arms around her, kissed her.

And now: they're out on the trail, ambling toward those sunhazed trees, a blanket over her saddle, a basket of yummies balanced on his.

Calden makes a sound, a quiet laugh low in his throat. "Maybe I should've," he quips back. "April 2013: heart stolen by goldenhaired lady bandit. Yet to retrieve."

Chase

She leapt on him. Crossed the lawn and jumped up on him, legs around his waist, letting him spin her, kissing him with a warmth and an eagerness that nearly put off the picnic. If not the ride.

Rimshot.

--

She grins, all broad and toothy and bright, meandering atop the back of the contented dun. "I am not a bandit," she insists. "And I took nothing that was not freely offered." Freely, repeatedly offered. Hell: he insisted she take things she didn't, too. "It should read, instead, 'April 2013: delightful evening with unexpected dinner guest. Played billiards and shared other entertainments also. Hope to see again.'"

Avery lifts her brows to him, smirking with neatly pursed lips. "Discretion is the heart of manners, Mr. White. Even in one's diary."

White

This time his laugh makes it all the way out. A minor explosion of mirth, that, tipping his head back, flashing his teeth. He reaches over -- there's perhaps an armsreach between, perhaps less -- and he catches her hand; leans almost gracefully from his saddle to kiss her knuckles.

"All right, I concede. You stole nothing; I offered freely. Don't regret it one bit, either." His fingers tangle with hers another moment. Then they release. He smiles at her from beneath the pulled-low brim of his hat, which is not straw at all but felt, well-worn and well-battered.

An easy silence for a while, interrupted only by the whispering of wind-in-grass, the steady clop-clop of their horses' hooves. And Patches, running in the distance, looping back, panting, frolicking. After a while Calden turns to Avery again.

"Do you keep a diary? Now I'm curious."

Chase

Their horses are relaxed about being so close; Patches is bounding but knows how to behave around these larger animals, even though she is descended from predators and they from prey. All domesticated now. All gentle. All companions, workers, not hunters or food.

"Of course I keep a diary," Avery tells him, as though this is like asking her if she ever bathes. It's just the most ridiculous question. "Don't you?"

White

"Only for a few years as a boy," he admits. "Every once in a while I start one. Inevitably, I give up two or three days later."

Chase

Avery looks surprised. "Oh, but not a journal," she insists. "A book of days. Even if it's just a line or two, a jotting-down of what happened that day is such a good habit to build. Imagine looking back, years later, and reading just a few words that bring back the entirety of the day to your memory."

She smiles to him. "'Rode with Calden and Patches to a picnic. Sunny and warm, not too windy. Wore my new straw hat.'"

White

He grins at her, endeared, his face shadowed to the tip of his nose; mouth sunlit and bright. He's reaching over again -- just can't seem to help himself, can he? But how could he be expected to? Even animals adore her. Horses kneel to her

(how surprised he was, how charmed and taken aback. I've never seen him do that, he said as she climb easily onto the dun's back),

and dogs rally to her. She is universally admired amongst her peers. Amongst her enemies -- one suspects there's some level of respect as well. Or perhaps just blind hatred and terror, which in the world of Garou and their adversaries is, in fact, the purest form of flattery.

"New hat, is it? Miss Chase, has fraternizing with me inspired you to add a country & western section to your wardrobe?"

Chase

He's a good boy, he's a darling, Avery had cooed to the dun when Calden said that. She was bent over the beautiful boy's neck, stroking him firmly and hugging him, showing him the ample affection it is in her to give... at least to animals. To those she doesn't have to be so reserved toward for the sake of propriety or authority.

"Well, there was a bit," she admits, "before I met you. For moving to Colorado. But my dear one, we have ridden in some terrible weather, you have me go out to pasture with you sometimes, we attend rodeos... I can't simply wear the same shirt and jeans every time. And you don't wear a heavy leather hat in summer, now would you?"

White

"I suppose some part of me," Calden teases, "keeps hoping you'll just give up and show up to a rodeo in a cocktail dress. Or maybe a prom tiara. Do they have prom where you went to high school?"

Chase

She nods. "I went to a girl's prepatory school. We did have a senior spring formal with our brother school." That's all she says of it. No regaling him with tales of her date if she had one or her dress or whether she was crowned anything. That was, of course, the time before. Just a few years. College, and then serving the Nation. Being married to someone, possibly someone she hardly knew, for she was a beautiful and educated and well-bred and highly talented kinswoman. She could run corporations, she could run a country, and still find time to carry the next generation. It would not have been a bad life, really; it was nothing she did not want, nothing she was not content with, could not find happiness in.

"I do like wearing the long skirts and the fun hats, though," she says. "I could arrive in a cocktail dress and heels but I'd be terribly uncomfortable. I would stand out and make others uncomfortable, too."

White

She doesn't launch into a long tale of prom and the boys from the brother school. She doesn't tell him about her date, or her corsage, or whether or not she was crowned prom queen. A few sparse details of that life-before-this-life and that's all, and Calden knows better than to ask.

It's not that he fears her anger. It's something simpler, and more tender than that. He doesn't want to cause her pain. It's not that he's never hurt her before -- after all, no true relationship is wholly without conflict. But he never, ever wants to cause her pain.

So she changes the subject subtly, and he is all too happy to follow along. He smiles; he seems to do that so often in her presence.

"Avery, I think you'd stand out no matter what you wore," he says, "but that's a good thing. I don't think you've ever alienated anyone.

"I do like you in blue jeans and straw hats," he admits with a grin. "Though I have to say, I don't think I've seen you in long skirts and 'fun' hats, whatever those might be. Have I?"

Chase

"At the rodeo!" Avery reminds him. "I wore a long skirt and a fun hat." She lifts a hand, reins held loosely around the other, resting on the pommel, and tips the brim of her straw hat a bit. "This is a fun hat, too."

She regards him keenly for a moment, thoughtful. "You may only remember what I wore after, though," she says, musing aloud. Gives a decisive nod. "That's probably it."

White

Calden -- is that a...? yes. it is a blush: Calden flushes. His grin is lopsided, it is lazy-warm, it casts her way silently because he is beyond words for a moment.

And then a moment later: "You did look good in blue. I think I can be forgiven for forgetting what you wore before you put the blue things on."

Chase

She looks

delighted.

"'The blue things'?" she repeats, quite obviously thinking this is hilarious. Patches is perked, panting, able to see that averylaughingaveryhappyfunnyfunny but not able to understand the joke. Avery grins at him, a bit savage-happy as she often does. "What if I was wearing 'the blue things' the whole time we were at the rodeo? What if they were right there, just centimeters -- millimeters -- away every time you hugged me?"

White

Calden's teeth catch his lip for a grinning moment. "Devilish woman," is all he says -- or manages to say.

Chase

Well now she's delighted and tickled, perking up in her seat and just grinning, grinning as they lope along. "I wasn't," she informs him, mercifully. "And so you know: when I said I would be uncomfortable in a cocktail dress and heels at a rodeo, I may or may not have been talking about wearing something short while sitting on hay bales and trying to walk over dirt or gravel in stilettos."

She smiles. "I like this," and she means the jeans, the plaid, the boots, the hat. It's all rumpled and comfortable and while it fits and tailors to her form rather well, it's a far cry from something a bit more binding. Then again, if he thinks for a moment, he'll realize that even at fancy occasions, she's dressed... well, rather comfortably. She doesn't wear things that are very tight or weather-inappropriate. She wears heels but has no compunction against taking them off at her leisure; in summer she is in sandals and flats most of the time.

And no: she doesn't wear stockings and garter belts and push-up-underwire bras or corsets under her clothes when she goes to a rodeo. She wore a plain and comfortable bra and cotton panties and knee socks beneath her boots. There.

White

It's true, and he does realize this about her: she dresses well, and never shabbily, but she dresses with an eye toward comfort. That sundress at that garden party; that red red dress on Valentine's -- those are perhaps the fanciest get-ups he's seen her in, and even then, neither was a modern torture device of fashion.

Even that blue thing. It wasn't what one might wear to the gym, by any stretch of imagination, but it was ... classy. Classical. And not absolutely absurd.

She likes this, she says. The jeans and the plaid and the boots and the hat, and maybe the ride and the wind and the grass and the sun beaming down on mile after mile of open land. She likes these simpler, humbler things, and he knows this is the truth because --

well. Look at him.

"I know," he says, smiling but quiet. He nudges the brim of his hat up with a thumb; looks squint-eyed over the land, and then back to her. "I think we've got that much in common."

Chase

So far he has not said lingerie. stockings. garters. bra. panties. Just 'that blue thing'. Which Avery thinks is adorable. She thinks he's adorable, his faint blush and his tip of his hat, his little lip-bite. She likes the way he looks when he's taking a nap on a couch, whether his own or back at her penthouse, all sprawled and lazy and breathing steadily, the very picture of him making her want to curl up in his arm and against his chest.

Hell. She wants to curl up in his arm and against his chest right now, and they're currently on horses. So she just smiles at him, and reaches over to him across the gap between her dun, his chestnut, holding his hand for a few short moments.

I love you, she says, soundless, mouthing it to him as though from across a crowded room.

--

Up ahead there's a copse. Some woods. Many, many things for Patches to sniff and run after, but she never goes too far from Calden and Avery. They tie the horses some distance away. It's still too early for there to be copious grass and clover for them to munch on, so they are fed some carrots, not just for the treat but for the water. The dun whinnies at Avery when she starts to walk away, comforted when she comes back to stroke his face, smoothing her slender hand down his brow and petting his neck. He drapes his muzzle over her shoulder for a few moments, chuffing heavily in contentment.

After that he lets her go. She gives him another lump of sugar and, what the hell, feeds one to Calden's chestnut as well, who can't help but look on with dark, limpid eyes as she walks hand-in hand with her cowboy to their picnic site. The blanket is spread, the basket taken down. Patches can be heard bounding occasionally through the underbrush, dry and crackling from a long winter. The trees are not in flowered and aren't evergreens in this area; it's a mite shadier here, but Avery keeps her hat on, dropping to the blanket and propping herself up on her elbow.

"Did you," she asks, "bring wine by any chance? Maybe champagne?"

White

While Avery makes friends with their horses, Calden unpacks their picnic. He chooses a spot where the ground is high and dry, where the sun dapples through the trees. Their blanket is thick and sturdy, rubberized on one side to keep moisture at bay. Their picnic is in a classic wicker basket that looks like it's seen years, if not decades, or use.

Though -- when Calden opens the top of the basket and starts unloading, it turns out there are two insulated bags inside the basket. That's what he lifts their lunch out of, the hot things still warm, the cold ones still cool.

She lays herself out, long-legged and straw-hatted and golden, golden, golden. He is kneeling on the blanket, unzipping the warm bag to pull out a small roast and dinner rolls. He smirks:

"No champagne, I'm afraid. Just scotch."

Scotch. At lunch. Incorrigible Fianna.

"The roast," he adds, just offhandish while he unpacks a potato salad from the cold bag, "might just happen to be venison. I'm not sure." His eyes dance. "Just grabbed whatever I had on hand, you know."

Chase

"I should have brought champagne," Avery says, smiling. Cat with a canary. He has roast and dinner rolls, and though he teases her about venison, she just grins at him in response. She props herself up, spine sinuous, hands flat on the blanket. "Ask me why."

White

A small fruit medley completes the picnic, and Calden packs the bags in the basket, sets the basket to the side. Smiling, he leans forward, walking his hands over to her, stretching out beside her on his side.

He indulges her: "Why?"

Chase

Perhaps it is a point of pride that even on the prairie, no visitors ever have cause to question how the White family manages to house, feed, and entertain guests without a lady in the house. Even if Calden and his father and his cousins eat Sloppy Joes for every meal normally, and Avery would highly doubt that, she always finds the house well-kept, the meals well-rounded, the experience lovely. Even a picnic: he insulates the food, he pairs it with room-temperature scotch, he packs fruit for dessert.

Avery is so charmed by him. She can barely focus on her good news -- and isn't it almost always good news with her? Her pack, her rank, now whatever-this-is. She grins at him, leans over to him and into him and kisses him softly on the mouth, still smiling.

"I'm the Master of Challenges of the Sept of the Cold Crescent," she tells him, because he is indulging her. Who wouldn't indulge her? Who would tell her no?

White

They do, in fact, occasionally eat Sloppy Joes around the house. Sloppy Joes made from the finest damn grass-fed all-organic beef in the state, thank you very much. But yes: the house is well-kept. The meals are well-rounded. The experience is lovely,

particularly when there is, in fact, a lady in the house.

It's reciprocal and mutual, how charmed they are by each other. Look at how he lays himself out beside her almost at the earliest possibility -- wanting, wanting, so very wanting to be near her like this. Look at how she leans over, grinning, that kiss on the mouth soft and intimate and, yes: reciprocated.

She tells him the good news. He chucks her chin ever so softly, because she is there and she is smiling and the sun is in her hair and because he loves her.

"Now," he murmurs, "that is worthy of champagne. I'll break out a bottle over dinner. Congratulations, love. You deserve it, no question."

Chase

Avery reaches for his hand -- obviously not the one he's leaning on -- and lays it on her side, then thinks better of it and smooths it to her lower back before releasing him. Once she has him touching her just where and how she would like at this precise moment, she scoots a little closer to him, still with that ever-present smile that keeps broadening to a grin and closing, but never completely fading. The bloom never falls.

"We'll have a party soon in the city, I think," she says, though from the sound of it she doesn't even mean a party to celebrate her, just: a party. Maybe a garden party. "We'll have champagne then. For now we can stick to scotch."

And she kisses him again. Still soft. More lingering, though. The world around them is quiet: breeze crackling through the branches at times, the horses shuffling and breathing, Patches bounding around. But between them, quiet enough that they can listen to each other breathe. Quiet enough that they can hear her hand against his skin when she touches his cheek.

White

He's very agreeable about it all when she reaches for his hand; when she positions him just-so. Of course he's agreeable: she is lovely, she is golden, she is Avery Chase and he quite adores her. His hand is large and warm and spreading slowly open and his grin is much the same. He rubs his palm over her back where she's placed him.

"I keep meaning to have a party at the house," Calden muses. "A weekend bash. Invite everyone we know; put up airbeds and cots all over the house for people to spend a night or two. The boys and I could probably even make a haybale maze if we do it at the end of summer.

"Which isn't to say you shouldn't have your city party," he adds. A turn of his head; rough-jawed still today, hasn't had a chance to shave yet. Or perhaps shaved in the morning and grew some scruff back. He kisses her fingertips nonetheless. "I'm just thinking out loud."

Chase

"You've mentioned it before, I think," Avery says, as they part from kissing once more and he muses aloud as he rubs her back. Which feels lovely. He says 'we' and catches her eye, and her eyes sparkle happily. everyone we know. Airbeds and cots and perhaps a maze and she's grinning again.

"I can have many parties in the city. A harvest party out here, though. Bonfires and whiskey, a giant sleepover. I love it."

Calden kisses her fingertips. "I am so in love with you," she says, achingly or sighingly, as though sometimes it hurts her, leaves her bereft. Overcome, she leans into him, tucking her face against his neck and shoulder, pressing their bodies together. It's a thoroughly animal thing, though she wears a woman's body right now; the suddenness of it, the entirety of it, the way she hooks her chin over his shoulder as though it were a muzzle.

White

He loves that she is an animal. He loves that sometimes she does not restrain it; does not worry about being a lady or civilized or anything of the sort. He loves that she is not shy about telling him just what she wants, or showing him: pulling his hand to her back, to her breast, to her face.

He loves her. It has been said and it will be said again, and for no other reason but that it is true. Thoroughly, achingly true. She tucks herself to him like that love that he thinks of, and she speaks of, sometimes hurts in its intensity -- and perhaps it does. It's a good sort of ache, though, like the ache in one's muscles after a hard day's work. It's the sort of ache that tells him

his heart is growing larger, and stronger, and better for it.

He strokes her back as she comes close to him. He kisses her cheek, right there by her ear, and he murmurs softly and wordlessly to her, holding her a while, feeling her breathe, the beat of her heart. "You know I feel the same about you, don't you?"

Chase

Wordlessly, Avery nods against him, still holding him. Just as wordlessly, she lifts her head to kiss him again, as she has so many times already since they spread out their picnic blanket. She kisses him ardently, pausing only to whisper against his mouth, something about

unbutton my shirt

which she will get to, shortly, if he does not. She is kissing him again, feverishly, taken up in this as though lifted by a storm. It is something like that. Something natural, and powerful, and unless he does not want to, unstoppable.

White

If he didn't want to, she would stop. He knows that. He is the same way: this is a respect between them that goes both ways, that has nothing to do with who is male and who is female, who is garou and who is kin. It's just basic decency, and they are both, at their hearts, very decent people.

He does want to, though. Sometimes he wants to so suddenly, so fiercely, that it's like a storm out of the blue. She kisses him and there's such heat in her mouth that he is instantly alight. She whispers

what she does

and he groans into her kiss, low and rough; he very nearly plants a knee in the potato salad as he rolls atop her, kissing her, reaching for her shirt and its neat little buttons amidst the cotton flannel. He doesn't undo them so much as he tugs and pulls until by sheer luck the buttons slip from the buttonholes. She's scarcely unbuttoned to her waist before he abandons that task. Puts his hands on her skin. Puts his hands on her body, sweeping up from her waist; interrupted by her bra, though that doesn't prevent him from cupping handfuls of her breasts, lifting, massaging, muttering something filthy and reverent into her mouth

before he goes about undoing her bra like maybe the last thousand years of civilization hadn't passed him entirely by.

Chase

If he were going more slowly, if he asked her what had gotten into her, if he suggested that making love on a picnic blanket in full view of the horses were not to his liking this fine afternoon, if he did anything of the kind, Avery would not only stop, she would flush, she would try to catch her breath, she would attempt to explain to him what had gotten into her, she would endeavor to wait until they were in a more appropriate or comfortable place, she would find out what she could do to make him feel more at ease and she would do it with all her heart, with as much gusto and passion as she might have sex with him. It is because she loves him, but she could not truly be his lover, one-who-loves, one who acts in accordance with that love, if she did not show him the utmost respect.

Calden does not slow down or ask to slow down, does not hesitate, does not ask her anything whatsoever. He responds, forcefully, ferociously, pulling at the thin plaid cotton that covers her so that it will stop covering her. He rolls her onto her back and holds her there against the earth and against his body, which are oddly similar to her in this moment and oddly, equally arousing. Avery has her hands between their bodies, pulling, yanking at his belt to open it. What follows is a rush of clothing, of buttons, of his hands up her back flicking open her bra so he can get it out of the way, lower his head, take her in his mouth and groan, groan the way he does. What follows is Avery fighting with his jeans, Calden fighting with her jeans, not even to get everything off, just to get it out of the way, because as much as she enjoys being stripped to the skin with him, there's no time for that.

Well, there is. There's nothing but time for that. But she is hungry, and patience is madness to a hungry wolf.

--

In the end, though he perhaps does not want to and almost cannot stop kissing her flushed lips, licking those pretty pink nipples on those soft fair breasts, Avery just helps him push their denims out of the way and then keeps telling him -- breathily, eagerly -- that she can't wait. Their mouths meet again; this time it's Avery groaning, arching to him, wanting, whispering wait, wait and rolling over.

So it's like that, then. Hurried and half-undressed, her shirt hanging and her bra askew, his shirt half-open, hats falling off, hair matted, pants down, in that sun-dappled quiet. At one point Patches is peering at them over a fallen tree, ears cocked curiously, but Avery, at least, doesn't notice. She's touching herself, Calden is touching her, and even though they are both seeking something more transcendent than their own bodies apart, they are not hunting pleasure quite so much as they are hunting this closeness, this sudden need for togetherness, this longing to eliminate the boundaries between them. And that, simply put, is pleasurable in itself.

Avery's orgasm is tight and aching and brief. She makes a sound of both yearning and relief when it comes over her, clutching at the soft side of the picnic blanket, her body pulled taut and her mouth open against the fabric. They are sweaty and disheveled, her braid mussed beyond reason. Her head is tipped back just before she comes, nuzzling against Calden's, but she goes quite limp afterward, lowering her body completely to the blanket they brought. Her heart is hammering still, furious and excited, her breathing -- having peaked -- starting to pant its way back to baseline.

He is still inside of her when she stretches, moaning under her breath, in her throat, and then relaxes again, cheek to the blanket. She looks quite content to just lay there forever now, belly to the earth, shirt pulled down and back from one shoulder where Calden was kissing her skin wherever he could find it. She looks pleasured, smiling blissfully, blessedly, cheeks pink and skin sheened with sweat and golden flyaways framing her face.

White

They can't wait. Sometimes they just can't wait, sometimes this lust breaks over them like a wave, drags them under. It's the best sort of drowning: her arms around him and her legs riding up his sides, the taste and smell and feel of her suffusing his every sense.

They fight their clothes off. They pull off her shirt and unsnap her bra. They pull the top few buttons of his shirt apart and then they lose all patience and his shirt and undershirt go up over his head in a jumbled mess, rolling into the still winter-dry grass, abandoned. His skin is so warm, but then so is hers: they warm each other, her palms and his back, his mouth, her breasts. God, he can't stay away from her breasts. He's on her, his strong arms wrapped tight around her, his mouth adoring her, worshiping her, he loves the taste of her,

so much so that it takes genuine effort for her to get him to wait, wait, to push him off by the shoulders, and then he's looking at her half-dazed and half-laughing like he's just be awoken from the best sort of dream. She rolls on her stomach. He comes over her almost as soon as she turns, pushing his boxers down, pulling her panties down. His chest presses to her back. He covers her; they kiss over her shoulder and they're both touching her, their fingers slipping and slick, and then he's inside her and she's throwing her head back against his shoulder and he's moving against her motion, a counterpoint, a gentle-rough sort of momentum that soon

gets them

quite carried away indeed.

--

Afterward she is the picture of bliss. She is glorious, an icon of -- oh, he doesn't even have words for it. He is still over her, covering her and warming her and shielding her, and she is stretching and he is groaning, making this sound like he can't take it, but he doesn't move away. She relaxes and so does he: sprawling over her, brow to the blanket, eyes closed. He still has one hand on her breast, caught between her body and the earth. The other rests a few inches from hers, fingers lax, palm open.

Their horses graze on what little greenery they can find. Their dog -- because Patches is as much Avery's as Calden's, if we're counting by level of adoration -- is off investigating some scent or other because she is an animal and she knew exactly what they were up to but because she is an animal she is neither embarrassed by nor for them; does not particularly think much of it all except that it is spring,

and this is what you do in the spring.

--

Presently, he rolls aside a little. He rubs his rough palm slowly, savoringly over her back. Such lovely architecture; the shoulderblades, the spine, the sleek muscles beneath the soft skin. He kisses her there on the point of her nearer shoulder. His hand strays to the small of her back. He strokes her bottom with a meditative, musing sort of enjoyment.

She is not perfect. He knows this: she is imperfect, she is flawed, she is as human as anyone could possibly be. And yet he thinks she is perfect for him, or perhaps he is perfect for her. Perhaps, he sometimes thinks, he was made for her. Shaped by the hands of their goddess, placed on this earth to await her. An offering, a prize, a tribute; a partner, a beloved, a mate.

Chase

In the course of that rambunctious bout of picnic-sex, Calden insists on getting Avery's shirt all the way off, Avery insists on baring as much of Calden's upper body as possible, and if any of the food were completely unpacked they would surely upset it on the blanket. Thank god he hadn't opened the scotch yet.

Afterward, Avery is stretching and then she is snuggly, happy, relaxed and -- restored, somehow. She looks flushed but energetic, not that she was in a stupor before. She isn't thinking about Patches or the horses but about Calden drowsing with her, holding her boob in his hand. She strokes his other hand with her fingers, lightly and tenderly. She is very tender toward him; he is her very dear one, after all. She loves him very much.

She sighs when he moves away and cooler air brushes over her skin. It feels good, even if it means separating, even slightly, from the snuggling she is quiet enjoying. She breathes in deeply, while his hand runs over her back, smooths between her shoulderblades, traces the dip of her spine, caresses her bared bottom. She shivers a little, turning her body more towards him, turning into these idle caresses.

Lying like this, one of her twin scars is exposed. Just like every time he showers and steps behind her. Just like every time she bends back over his hands and he lowers his mouth to her breast, glimpsing the exit wound that healed so neatly, so prettily, but only because it was cauterized and healed by rage. She forgets, lately, about it. And Calden never lingers on it. Certainly not when he has her breasts to worship. Busy man, can't dawdle over things like scars.

Avery is looking at him past her shoulder. Her arms are folded, hands laid one atop the other, cheek resting on them. She likes the way he's touching her, and the way he's looking at her, even though she can't read the thoughts behind it.

"We should do that to start every picnic," she declares.

White

There are things they just don't really spend much time on. Scars. Deaths. Lives that were begun but never completed; lives she thought she'd have that she didn't.

Certain words they don't say, too. Mate is one of them. Strange that it even occurred to him; he's not the type to define himself by labels. He's not the type to doodle Mr. Chase, Mr. Calden Chase, Mr. Chase-White, Mr. White-Chase. He's not the type to assume anything so enormous and permanent and binding as that, either. Wouldn't.

The word was in his mind, though. It was there, and then he let it go. Didn't speak it.

--

She has a suggestion. He laughs aloud, turning his head, shifting his shoulders. They come apart a little, but only by a few inches. He's still alongside her, his jeans rumpled around his ankles, his boxers about halfway there.

"It'd certainly make for an interesting time the next time we go to a garden party," he says, "though I've got a hunch our hosts won't be as pleased."

Chase

"A garden party isn't even remotely the same as a picnic," Avery scoffs, her eyes falling closed, her head giving a little shake of mock-exasperation with his dullardry. "I said picnic, you brute."

White

There are things they just don't really spend much time on. Scars. Deaths. Lives that were begun but never completed; lives she thought she'd have that she didn't.

Certain words they don't say, too. Mate is one of them. Strange that it even occurred to him; he's not the type to define himself by labels. He's not the type to doodle Mr. Chase, Mr. Calden Chase, Mr. Chase-White, Mr. White-Chase. He's not the type to assume anything so enormous and permanent and binding as that, either. Wouldn't.

The word was in his mind, though. It was there, and then he let it go. Didn't speak it.

--

She has a suggestion. He laughs aloud, turning his head, shifting his shoulders. They come apart a little, but only by a few inches. He's still alongside her, his jeans rumpled around his ankles, his boxers about halfway there.

"It'd certainly make for an interesting time the next time we go to a garden party," he says, "though I've got a hunch our hosts won't be as pleased."

Chase

Avery opens one eye first, watching him. Then both eyes. He's shadowed her against the sun; she needn't squint. His body shields her there, but somehow even in the shade her eyes still sparkle. They gleam like gemstones, always holding some fiery essence of the earth's core even when pure and clear, even when pale and blue.

His caresses seem a bit firmer now, more purposeful, less tracing, less light. Still warm, still gentle, still soft, sensuously soft.

"I know, my darling," she whispers to him, her lips moving against her shoulder where her arms are folded up to pillow her cheek. She moves a bit, stretches out, makes sure he is nonverbally encouraged to run his hand all over her back, rub her back, tend to her, touch her, enjoy her, please her. "And I like how eagerly, how generously, you give."

Her eyes soften; they do not stop their shining. "I do," she says quietly, underneath those words. "I am so touched and... awed, by the warmth of your generosity. Not only that which is extended to me. Not just your hospitality or the bottles of wine or the meat or the way you seek to please me." She looks at him, drowsy under his touch, her gaze fixed upon his face. "I love your heart."

White

[NOOOOO. DLP x2]

There it is again. That grin, the catch of his lip beneath his teeth. He levers himself up on an elbow, leans over her. His chest brushes her shoulder, her side, the outside of her arm.

"I like it when you call me a brute," he confesses. Oh, he's touching her again. He's never stopped touching her, but now his hand is smoothing its way up her back, down. "I like it when you tell me exactly what you want."

Chase

Avery opens one eye first, watching him. Then both eyes. He's shadowed her against the sun; she needn't squint. His body shields her there, but somehow even in the shade her eyes still sparkle. They gleam like gemstones, always holding some fiery essence of the earth's core even when pure and clear, even when pale and blue.

His caresses seem a bit firmer now, more purposeful, less tracing, less light. Still warm, still gentle, still soft, sensuously soft.

"I know, my darling," she whispers to him, her lips moving against her shoulder where her arms are folded up to pillow her cheek. She moves a bit, stretches out, makes sure he is nonverbally encouraged to run his hand all over her back, rub her back, tend to her, touch her, enjoy her, please her. "And I like how eagerly, how generously, you give."

Her eyes soften; they do not stop their shining. "I do," she says quietly, underneath those words. "I am so touched and... awed, by the warmth of your generosity. Not only that which is extended to me. Not just your hospitality or the bottles of wine or the meat or the way you seek to please me." She looks at him, drowsy under his touch, her gaze fixed upon his face. "I love your heart."

White

It's quite something to be caught in that gaze. So blue, so pure: the eyes of a Half-Moon of the one true tribe of kings. One could easily imagine the corrupt and the wicked flinching from those eyes, fearful of being exposed by that gaze.

Not so for her allies. Not so for her loved ones, the ones she keeps near and safe. Not so for Calden, who feels -- seen by those eyes. Seen and known and intimately, profoundly recognized. That heart she speaks of, that heart she praises: it feels as though it swells in his chest, fills to bursting. He kisses her, right there on the back of her shoulder, right at the ridge of her shoulderblade. It is an adoring, deep-felt kiss, and it furrows his brow like it aches to kiss her so. Love her so.

For a while, he says nothing at all. Just that kiss, and then his body stretching out beside hers. His hand rubbing slow patterns across her back. After some time, he smiles again; the corners of his mouth turning up.

"Well, that's a good thing," he quips softly, because what he felt a moment ago was too large to express, "since I'm pretty sure I gave you that, too."

Chase

Iron Tooth did not flinch. Not til the very end, when she looked at him with those clear eyes and described to him how stripped-down the truth could make him, how easily it would wash away his renown, his pride, his status, his power. The truth is not wounding but purifying; the pure at heart have nothing to fear from it. The corrupt shall be diminished by it. Erased by it. And it lives in her eyes, yes, which is why she sees so clearly that for all his rashness, Erich Reinhardt has a pure heart. Why she sees so easily that for all her fragile madness, Charlotte Gray has a mind and a power that few can match. Why she sees the honor in Javed's reservedness, the strength in Siren's pride, and so on, and so on.

But most of all, it lets her see the warmth and softness in this man who butchered an elk before her, was friendly but held at arm's length at first, was almost frighteningly firm with her in sex, and thought she was asking for a cocktail when she was asking for a beer. It allows her to see that even though he quips, deflects, teases about giving her his heart, it is not because he is untouched, uncaring, uninterested. It is because he is overcome.

She smiles, eyes closing slowly, when he kisses her shoulder like that. She scoots closer to him, jeans around her knees and bra half-on notwithstanding, knowing no hikers are going to come upon them out here, and knowing that she will not care if any enemies should appear in the daylight, because they won't live long enough to snicker about catching her with her pants literally down. She opens her eyes and smiles at him once more. "My darling, you may absolutely make love to me again later, if you like, but for now, I am starving, and your nudity is simply too distracting. I'm liable to get it into my head that I can survive on sex alone and then where will we be?"

Avery answers for him: "Dehydrated and cranky, I wager."

White

"Euphoric and ecstatic," he begs to differ, and when she opens her eyes to smile at him she finds him smiling right back at her, a few scant inches away, his hand still stroking her back like he just can't get enough of her skin. Which is the truth.

Then the smile breaks into a grin. He relents: "And then maybe dehydrated and cranky."

A soft, quick kiss on the mouth, then -- lips touching and sealing and drawing apart again. He pushes up, works his pants back up, buttons and zips. Then he snags their lunch and draws it back over between them, popping open the tupperware containers, unwrapping the dinner (lunch?) rolls. He hands her a sturdy plastic plate; sturdy but utilitarian utensils. They're all reuseable, and they're all clearly reused from prior picnics. Or more likely -- prior lunches out on the range, because it'd be the height of inefficiency to have to go back to the house or even the cottage in the middle of every day.

The scotch, though. For that, he fishes out a pair of glass tumblers, carefully wrapped in towels. He sets them on the somewhat rumpled blanket between them, splashes a couple fingers in each. Hands her one.

It can't be a coincidence that he's prepared for this picnic the same venison-and-whisky pairing they had that very first night, when she took down that elk, when she showered in his guest suite, when she flirted subtly and savagely with him in the wine cellar, when she played a game of billiards

and other entertainments

before he drove her to Fort Collins so she could catch a cab back home. It can't be a coincidence when they're nearing the one-year mark, but all he says of it, tapping his glass against hers, is --

"To us. And," with a grin, "to your mastering of all challenges."

Chase

She grins back at him. Euphoric and ecstatic. Dehydrated and cranky. They can coexist, like earthiness and purity exist in her, like tenderness and roughness exist in him. She kisses him back, their lips pursing together, spreading into smiles again as they get up. She pushes herself up on her hands and knees and stretches again, catlike, elongating her spine, and just in case he thinks she doesn't know she's sticking her ass in the air, she wiggles it a little.

Then she discreetly tidies up with some napkins. She pulls up her panties and her jeans, refastening them. She adjusts her bra and folds her arms back to clip it once more. She pulls her shirt, which was entirely removed except for one sleeve, back onto her body, buttoning it up one by one. Her hair is too mussed to bother with, so she unravels her braid and shakes it out, finger-combing it while Calden, too, is re-dressing himself. Well, mostly. He stays shirtless, which Avery does not mind, even though traditionally one might dress when luncheoning with a lady.

She was not kidding. She is reaching for a roll as soon as the container is open, taking a large bite, exhaling through her nostrils in an uncomplicated, relieved way. She is hungry. She burns calories just sitting there, exerting control over her rage. She certainly burnt plenty of calories having sex with him. But there he is, pouring scotch into real glasses, and she is charmed. She sets the roll aside on her plate, taking the glass and picking up, correctly, that he wants to toast. Which he does. To them. And her.

Avery's cheeks pink a bit. She taps her glass and, to seal the blessing, takes a slow sip. If she's noticed the significance of venison and scotch, it hasn't shown. Okay, we won't be coy: she hasn't noticed. She just scoots over to sit beside him, now her thin cotton shirt against his bared arms, and

gets her roll again so she can stuff it in her mouth once more.

White

There's something oddly decadent about the feel of her thin shirt against his bare skin. A reminder of the rawness of skin on skin; of what they were doing just a scarce few moments before.

There's something endearing, too, about the way she tackles their food. Tears into the dinner rolls before he can even hand her the wrapped-up little block of butter he brought. He laughs quietly, hooking a finger into the edge of the venison container -- pulls it over to her in silent urging.

For his part, Calden doesn't eat just yet. He drinks his scotch. He savors it, the smokiness, the kick. He savors her nearness, too. The warmth of her presence, physical and otherwise. After a while, he sets his glass down and starts to fill his plate: venison roast, potato salad. A dinner roll of his own, which he cuts open and butters.

"I've been researching places downtown," he mentions. His mouth is a little full. Perhaps she'll forgive his minor lapse in manners. "Just by internet so far, but I made some appointments with realtors next weekend. If you're free next Saturday, why don't you come see them with me?"

Chase

She is all those things: decadent and raw, endearing and warm. A bit like a flame. She likes that he keeps himself half-bared. Truthfully, clothing herself again was borderline unnecessary; it is not overly warm today, but warm enough for his bare skin, warm enough that she could strip down be content. But that is not really Avery's way. It is perhaps a bit about being ladylike, though that really doesn't hold up when you think about five minutes or so into the past. There is also perhaps a bit of secrecy to it, of the pleasures of being covered and uncovered at turns, of opening and closing like a blossom. Mainly it's the distraction. She was not teasing about that, not really; even with Calden's shirts cast aside and no more bared, she is thinking of putting the food aside and having him again.

After all: she is very, very attracted to him. She always has been.

Avery doesn't mind his chuckling; she is aware of how silly she is, how amusing her hunger can be when it isn't quite as painful. That night, back when it was flooding and she ran all the way to him, ate everything he put in front of her until her body stopped burning everything to oblivion on contact. They are both aware, in their ways, of the fact that he is a Good Provider, that he can give her meat and shelter in the animal sense and if he liked, could keep her in fine clothing and jewelry and cars in the mortal sense if she wanted. They are both aware, too, that these things are not why Avery is with him. She can like and she can appreciate, but ultimately, she does not need him to give her anything of the kind. What he gives her that she truly needs, that she truly cannot or has not found elsewhere, is acceptance. Is patience. Is faith, not just that she will be and do her best, but that -- more importantly, between them -- she will come back when she goes away. She cannot tell him often enough, or with enough fervency, what it means to her to come to him and feel as loved and as protected and as ...welcomed. As recognized.

She eats, smiling. He sips scotch; she keeps their sides close together, watches him buttering his roll, reaches for the venison as he mentions places downtown. Her eyes, already so bright and so colorful, twinkle a bit with delight. She perks. "Yes!" She pauses, finishes chewing, grins at him: "Oh, I'd love to."

White

Her delight delights him. He grins back, finishing with the butter, setting the knife down.

"It's a date, then."

Sometimes he says silly, cliched things like that. Sometimes he says things that are such Lines. Sometimes he brings her cocktails when she wants beers. Sometimes,

at night before they sleep, even if they hadn't just made love, even if they were simply lying in bed together reading quietly, he'll roll toward her and wrap her up in a hug and murmur something about how happy he is that she's there.

He isn't a sentimentalist, her son of Stag -- too practical, too levelheaded for that. But he has a Stag's heart and sometimes he just can't help but be true to the stereotypes: the hospitality, the generosity, the passionate heart. He loves as openly and givingly as he lives. He is not without flaws, but he tries to be good to her, and good for her, and he tries to do the same for everyone he meets.

Maybe that's one more thing that brings them together. Inherent goodness.

--

So: they have their picnic. They eat meat and bread and potato salad. They eat fresh fruit. They nap in the sun during the warmest part of day, and when the sun starts slipping into the west they pack their picnic up.

They race a little on the way home. They walk, and then Avery nudges her mount into a trot, and Calden edges into a faster trot, and then --

then they're thundering down the hardpacked dirt trails, laughing, stopping only when a stray gust of wind steals Avery's hat. It takes them nearly half an hour to find the thing, but Calden insists, playfully: it's her new hat, after all, it's lovely, it's straw, how will she make it through the summer without it.

It is nearly evening when they return to the ranchhouse. When they unsaddle their horses and brush them and water and feed them; when they go back to the house, pleasantly heavyfooted from exertion, meandering in and showering and changing into softer, comfortable clothes.

They take a light dinner outside, not on the terrace but on the small upper-floor balcony, lighting a fire as it grows dark. He gets a bottle of champagne from downstairs. They share a few glasses. They talk.

They retreat inside when the wind turns chilly, where they find Patches already asleep in her basket, worn out from the day and the picnic and so far, very distance, much running. It's a good idea; they follow suit. They wash for bed and he smiles at her in the mirror and when she finishes first she kisses him on the cheek, minty-breathed, and tells him she'll see him in bed.

He turns out the lights as he comes to bed. One by one they go dark. The windows are closed, but the drapes are open; out here, so far from cities and civilizations, what light there is comes from the universe and all its heavenly bodies. He finds his way by memory, by touch, and by the shadows of objects in the darkness. He finds his way to her by scent and warmth; wraps his arms around her and snuggles in behind her, a large and warm and heavy presence at her back.

He is a Good Provider. He can give her houses and cars and the Finer Things In Life; he can give her food and warmth and shelter in the dark. He is all of these things, but that is not why she loves him, and that is not why he loves her.

He doesn't often consider why he loves her. It is so complex he would ponder it for days; so simple he feels it purely and uncomplicatedly in his heart. He doesn't think of it. It simply is. He wraps his arms around her and tonight is not one of those nights that he tells her how glad he is that she is here, that she is who she is, that she is, but:

it is in his heart, held there as perfectly as any tautology. It is there as he sleeps, and there when he wakes.