an engagement.

Calden

They should talk.

They're going to talk.

They're talking. They really are talking: saying things to each other that they haven't before, raising thoughts and concerns and, yes, sweet little imaginings that they've never mentioned before.

It's just that -- in the course of all that, he's also urging her a little closer. She's also moving closer still, crawling over him, all that glorious golden hair of hers tumbling over her shoulders and onto his skin. She comes down to him, and in the same breath he flexes up to her; they come together as though drawn by gravity, by electromagnetism, by the basic forces of the universe. His hand is in her hair and he kisses her, sudden and warm and drenching,

brings her with him as he sinks down on the bed again. She kisses the side of his neck. He tilts his head to accommodate her, sighing,

panging as she confesses what she does,

closing his eyes as he imagines it all in a flash, the string quartet and the long walk and the smiling faces, all long-boned and fair-haired on one side of the aisle, all husky and ruddy on the other.

He gasps as she does. They both draw sharp breaths from the air when she touches him like that, with such unhesitating familiarity. His hand joins hers and he was going to tell her maybe they should talk first, he was going to laugh and ask if she didn't want to shower, if she didn't want to eat, he was going to do all these things but what he does is take himself in hand, guide himself to her, kiss her hard, moaning into her mouth, as she sheaths him in her body. And they're off again.

Avery

Oh yes: the long aisle and the white flowers, the tulle, the train. The guests of Falcon blood and Stag blood and a number of others, in particular there would be a son of Owl here and a son of Thunder and his date, her scent resplendent of the black-coated, black-winged Pegasus of her tribe. Her father, silver and bright on her arm, and a slender young woman with cotton-candy hair looking terribly nervous to stand on the dais.

Everyone there would understand the presence of a priestess of Gaia, ordained by human law, and the comingling of earthy pagan rite with mortal vow. Everyone there would understand, even those who might be bothered.

Well: the photographers and the string quartet and the caterers might not really understand, but they will have all been to stranger weddings with brides dressed as Daleks and grooms dressed as Darths. A bride looking like the blessed child of sun and moon marrying a distractingly handsome rancher ten years her senior, no matter whether they handfast or broom-jump or simply exchange rings or what: this will not raise eyebrows.

Avery so likes the thought of the string quartet. But not as much as she likes the idea of marrying him. In front of everyone. It makes her shiver just as profoundly as the sight and feel of that growing lust in his body.

--

Calden does not answer her. She moans that she wants it, wants this fantasy of hers, wants this body of his, and as she's touching him she's unerringly guiding him to her. They've gone so many rounds already this evening; she finds him sliding into her so easily now, so smoothly, though her body still tightens up, her breath still catches in a gasp as she bears down on him a bit. The sensation makes her groan.

She buries the noise of it in his mouth when she kisses him, her hands slipping up to his shoulders, his chest, touching his face. They are filthy. She is rolling around in the scent and feel of that filth, though, reveling in it. All that feeling is rising up in her, overtaking her, and she breaks from that kiss for a moment only to exhale, saying again:

"I want to marry you,"

only it isn't again, is it?

Avery tips her head back, lifting her body up, hands spread over his chest, momentarily losing track of all thought and word as his cock shifts inside of her. Her eyes are closed, her expression beatific. "Oh -- god. I want to marry you."

Calden

Calden's heart

skips in his chest when she says it the first time. Skips under her hand as it passes over her chest. She rises with her sensation, her emotion; her head falls back and she looks beatific, sainted, divine. He thinks she is celestiality sometimes, divinity; so bright-burning, so illuminated and intense. Her hands spread and beneath her palms his chest flexes; he reaches up, his hands following her body to lift her breasts, his hands passing her shoulders to grip, gentle-firm, around her upper arms.

She says it again. And he comes up as well, sits up and wraps his arms around her and she is no shrinking violet, no crushable little fae thing, but even so she disappears into his embrace. He is all around her and he is within her and he envelopes her, kisses her neck roughly, mutters the words roughly:

"Come here,"

as though she had gone someplace. He goes back down, back hitting the mattress. He's brought her with, holds her close to his chest as he drives up into her; a series of athletic thrusts that brush the edge of savagery without crossing it because: he remembers. Even to this day, the memory scars him, the time he went too hard, the time he hurt her.

It is a passing thing, though, and not a thought that casts a pall over the moment. He kisses her again. He is always kissing her; you'd think he loved her or something, my god. He is laughing into that kiss, low and -- yes, this is a rough sound, too. Laughing into it, and then dissolving into it, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed, the kiss falling apart into panting as she moves, or he does; resetting that rhythm, finding it again.

Avery

She laughs, breathily, as he's sitting up to her. And she likes that, settling herself on his lap, kissing his mouth, touching his face. She resists laying back down, though, still laughing after that kiss breaks, as he is falling backwards. Avery does lean over him, her arms braced with hands to either side of him, her hips moving, looking down at him as their bodies wind together and as her hair hangs between them, drawn by gravity to him the way that all of her is drawn to him.

Her eyes are open now, and for a while she's smiling, her eyes and laughter equally bright, watching him as they make love. Watching him as they find their rhythm again, panting.

"Say yes," she exhales, grinding down against him, the sensation blowing her pupils out. "Tell me -- oh, god -- tell me yes."

Calden

He laughs -- it's a pant -- he reaches up because she won't come down and his hands ride her hips, his hands cover her breasts.

"I thought I was supposed to ask the question," he says, and there, there's that lazy grin of his; there's his thumb running over her mouth; there he is, coming up to steal another kiss from her. "Don't you want -- mmph -- don't you want the fancy proposal, the, oh, the whole down-on-one-knee thing?"

Avery

Her cheeks are bright with color, her skin lit up where he touches her. She rides him almost eagerly now, an unbroken pattern. She likes when he lifts himself up: the tightening muscles in his core, the flex across his chest. She kisses him, hard, in return.

"I want you," she says, sinking against him finally, kissing his throat. "I want to marry you."

Calden

His eyes are open when she kisses him. Open, watching her, lowering when she's too near to focus. His eyes are open when she draws away, when says what she says, when she rides him like that, eager and fast and hard, but

when she sinks down, when her body touches his, when her breasts press to his chest, her abdomen to his, Calden's eyes close. His throat vibrates under her lips -- a muffled sound, a moan caught before it escapes.

"Let's get married, then," he whispers. He kisses the side of her face, nuzzles her, urges her to raise her mouth to his. "Let's get married, Avery Chase. I'm saying yes."

And: eyes flickering shut, brow contracting; she rides down on him again, he loses his train of thought --

"Yes. God, yes."

Avery

Nothing -- really, nothing -- after that compares to what Avery feels when he says yes. Formally, which is so incongruous in the moment where they are in dust and darkness and sweat and pleasure. She knew he wanted to marry her a long time ago, knew he wanted to be her mate, knew he would take her to his home and keep her there or come live with her if she asked, knew that he would wait for her, live with her and live apart from her as she needed. She's known, and it has worried her for him, worried her about herself, wondering not if she deserved such affection and devotion but wondering if there was something wrong with her for not being equally flexible, equally willing, equally generous.

Right now she is not thinking about that, or worrying about it, either; she has known for a while that Calden would love to marry her, and she's avoided all hints of such a conversation until tonight. The word vows. The question about discussing whether he would like to be her mate. The fear of details; the burden of them on her mind. The decision, which was not really a decision, to simply tell him that she thinks about it, she wants it, she wants him, say yes, this is what she wants.

Everything is clarified, somehow, by this.

Avery knows, and yet it doesn't make a difference: when he tells her yes, when he realizes she doesn't care about the one-knee, the ring, the nice dinner, any of it and just tells her yes, he agrees that they should get married and want to get married and yes, yes, something inside of her explodes. It's a sunburst, an opening, it's light, and it's warmth, and it floods through her all golden and sweet. She makes some noise, unfettered and joyous, quickening her pace without even thinking.

She doesn't say anything else for a long time. Nothing more than exultations that have little meaning on their own. She does say his name when she comes, says it over and over as though she's trying to warn him of some oncoming disaster or revelation or both, but even his name falls apart in her mouth, becoming just cries of ecstasy at the very end, when all of her is soaring rapture. It is glorious. And it still does not compare to what she felt when he said yes.

Calden

This time they hit their climax together, or so nearly together than Calden cannot tell the difference. Can't tell the difference between his orgasm and hers, his pleasure and hers, his voice and hers, his body and hers.

This time, he wraps his arms around her and holds her, holds her against the bunching musculature of his torso, the hammering of his heart. This time, when she keeps riding him in the aftermath, when she keeps moving on him and writhing on him and driving him quite out of his mind, he turns, he rolls her under, he weighs her down beneath him and kisses her, laughing, gasping, shuddering and jolting through the last mind-melting shockwaves of their lovemaking.

And then they are still. Or near enough. And then he is lying atop her, sprawled and heavy; he is nuzzling her slow and lazy and now, now he is well and truly spent.

"I thought we were going to order food," he murmurs after some time, smiling. He rubs his face against her shoulder. He feels like an animal, instinctual and thoughtless. "I thought we were going to shower."

A kiss finds its way to her skin. He lays a small trail of them along her collarbone, and he has to be careful, he has to be careful because her breasts are right there, so close, and if he's not careful he might start all over again.

"I thought you wanted to talk," finally, a gentle tease. No, he can't resist: he kisses her nipples. One and then the other, methodically, like checking boxes. He laughs at himself. "God, I love your tits."

Avery

That's how he chooses to keep her still, to make her stop, god, Jesus, stop. And it makes her laugh as her back is hitting his mussed but still-done bedspread. Avery can scarcely breathe but she tries to laugh anyway, panting and gasping as her legs wrap around him to hold him close. He's hers now; she rubs her face heavily against his, kisses him intermittently, making soft little noises of happiness. She doesn't think she can go another round but she thinks: if he wants to I'll try, because she so desperately wants him to feel as happy as she does.

Also, because she certainly doesn't mind Calden wanting her, rubbing himself against her, urging her to open to him.

But she's a little pleased, too, to see how spent he is, how sweaty and worn down, how limp his body becomes as he lays over her. Avery lets herself drowse. She catches her breath. After a while, he murmurs, and she opens one eye, peering at him, and just shrugs one shoulder. He kisses that shoulder, kisses her chest and avoids her breasts because that will just make his poor dick hard again,

totally fails.

Avery laughs as he kisses her nipples; she shivers. "Stop," she whispers, her voice raspy beneath the chuckle. She lifts his face to hers with her hands, kissing his mouth softly. "We can still do all those things," she murmurs. "We should talk." Avery nuzzles him. "You'll just have to stay in town longer so we can have plenty of time to talk."

Calden

Stop, he is bidden, and stop he does. His cheeks are warm and scratchy under her palms; a little sticky from the sweat trickled from his thick hair. He laughs into her mouth as she kisses his, and when he is released he slumps gratefully, exhaustedly to his side, beside her, half-atop her still. His head is pillowed on his bent arm. The other hand: well, it can't help but graze over her body. His palm smooths along her abdomen. He takes her breast in hand, covering it, like he wants to keep her warm.

"I love you," he repeats. It is every bit as reverent and warm as his previous exultation of her charms, with the same warm humor beneath. He turns his head, finds the round of her shoulder near, kisses it. "I'd stay in town forever for you, if you asked.

"But I'd miss my cows," he admits, a little later. "And my horses, and my dogs, and even those unwashed barbarians that call themselves my cousins."

Avery

In answer to that warming, covering hand, Avery turns on her side, draping her leg over his him, snuggling closer. She will warm herself quite nicely that way, thank you. "Mmm," she says, satisfied and self-pleased. Her eyes are closing. She listens to him telling her he loves her again, spreading through her, even until he tells her he'd stay forever, if she asked.

But he would miss his home, and his land, and that pangs through her deeply.

"And I need to be with my people," she says softly, her eyes opening slowly again, looking at his skin and where the moonlight through the window washes over him. It aches so terribly, suddenly, the hurt evident in her voice: "Oh, darling."

Calden

He feels her pain as keenly as he would his own. Then again: it is his own. Their separate lives; their separate lands, and the demands each places upon them. That hand upon her breast becomes an arm around her shoulders, her back; he gathers her to him, pulling her close.

"Shh," he whispers. "It's all right, love. It's nothing we can't work out."

Avery

To be truthful, there are also separate wants: he is so tied to his land, to his business, to his family. And she doesn't want to live hours away from the caern, the sept, her post, her pack, her family. Not yet, she thinks, already anticipating a time in her life when she might want to retreat to the relative wilderness of his lands. But not yet. Not now; she's only in her twenties. She's only a Fostern. She can't, she -- wouldn't. Even if she truly and deeply wanted to, she wouldn't. She would be too far away to guard the places she has sworn to.

It makes her very sad. She presses herself to Calden as though trying to staunch a wound with his body, his nearness, his embrace.

"It's just that... I do want to live with you. And come home to you. But I don't want you to leave your land."

Calden

"I want that too," he says, soft. His arm around her is tight, and warm, and strong. The beat of his heart, too: strong. Slow now, a deep thrum in his chest, against which she is pressed. "I want to see you over the dinner table every night. And in the bathroom mirror, brushing our teeth. And in bed, turning out the lights.

"I couldn't ask you to leave your Caern, though. Or your two Septs. It's ... your vocation, and your duty." Calden sighs, his hand sweeping her back. "Wish I could open a moonbridge in my house."

Avery

That makes her laugh. A sad, almost tearful huff of laughter. She can't cry right now, though. She is so effervescent from making love to him, over and over like that, and that closeness does, indeed, staunch the wound. She's engaged -- sort of. There is no ring on anyone's finger and no one really said will you and no one said I will.

Just I want and Let's. Which, to tell the truth, she actually likes better.

Avery runs her hand over his side, achingly slow and just as tender. She kisses his chest, over his heart. "Maybe... there's a gift, or a fetish. Something that would let me move more quickly between the two." She turns a bit in bed, opening her eyes to look at him. "I'll look into it."

Calden

"Do," he says softly, his hand cupping behind her head as she kisses him over his heart. "But until then, we'll drive back and forth. And I'll spend time down here. And you'll spend time up there.

"We should tell your father tomorrow," he adds, the thought occurring to him. "We're making honest people out of each other. I suppose we'll have to tell my father, too, even if he grouses about it. And then my brothers, and yours, and all the cousins and aunts and uncles. We'll have to pick a date and a venue, and..." he laughs quietly. "I don't think I've ever thought about how much work goes into getting hitched."

Avery

She nods, aching at the thought of it, but surviving that ache. There have been worse pains.

None that she can readily bring to mind at the moment, but there you are.

She huffs a laugh. "Oh, darling. Nothing so slapdash. We'll host a brunch. Up at your house, if your father won't travel. Just close family. After that we'll have announcements sent out regarding the engagement. After that we'll need to decide on a date."

Her hand pats his body softly. "It will all go much smoother if you just follow my lead. I'll need to make sure you have my steward's number in your phone, since she'll be managing the wedding planners."

Calden

Calden, shall we admit, smirks.

"Oh, you have been planning it in your head, haven't you."

Avery

She is quiet a moment. "Well, some of this is just etiquette, darling." Her hand moves. "I always knew I would marry. Even after I changed, I..."

thought I was going to marry someone else.

Avery goes quiet. She just touches him, stroking his side, silent now.

Calden

It does not have the intended effect, his quip. And Calden grows serious as well, his hand finding hers and covering it, moving it, taking it to his mouth where he kisses her palm warmly.

"You didn't know it would be me," he finishes for her, softly. "But it is me. And I am ... so happy and so honored, Avery."

Avery

She didn't know. She certainly never thought she would marry out of her tribe, though marrying someone quite a bit older wasn't beyond the pale. Calden's finish for her sentence is euphemistic. She forgives it, because now is not the time to be talking about the young man who was never really her ex because he was never really her paramour because he never really chose her, even when she changed and he could have, freely.

Avery hugs Calden tightly. She closes her eyes again, letting the ache leave her. "Oh, don't be honored," she says softly, laughingly. "It's not a gift." Her head tips back, eyes opening, finding his as her arms embrace him. "It's just what we both want."

She smiles, tenderly. "Kiss me. Then let's order food and take a shower."

Calden

"I know," he says. There is poignancy in his smile. "But sometimes you feel like such a gift, and I don't know what I've done to deserve you."

Her arms go around him. She slips easily into his embrace, as though she was born there, belongs there. She hardly needs to ask; he kisses her, tender and soft.

--

They make their way out of bed at last. They decide on dinner -- something hearty, something solid, something steak-and-potatoes. He calls one of the restaurants he supplies and he puts in an order for more red meat than two people should logically be able to consume, but then: his lover is a wolf. A glorious, sun-blessed, moon-beloved wolf.

He joins her in the shower, after. She is already halfway clean, and he makes her somewhat filthy again when he wraps his arms around her from behind, kisses her all along her neck. They soap and they shampoo. He grins at her as he waits his turn under the shower. She catches him looking at her assets; there's a gleam in his eye and he considers another go-around, but truth be told

they're both a little worn out, and really: it's getting ridiculous.

They emerge into a steamfilled bathroom, wrapping thick towels around themselves. At some point he bought bathrobes for the both of them, fluffy white. She looks golden. He looks husky and ruddy and oaken and earthy. He rinses dishes and utensils while they await their food, and when it arrives she answers the door. They unpack their dinner on the dining table, which is small, built for two but with space for a crowded four. He gets a bottle of wine from the cooler.

The food is still warm, almost hot, when they sit down to eat. And eating, his legs brush hers under the table; his shin crosses hers, resting there.

Avery

Avery's brows, such a dark contrast to her fair skin and pale hair, tug together, her forehead wrinkling between them. "Darling, no," she murmurs, ducking her head a moment to rub her nose against his chest. The gesture is self-comforting as much as it is reaching out to him to reassure him of her affection despite the negativity of the word. The hair on his body holds his scent and gives it back to her, relaxing her limbs and slowing her heart just as easily as, often, the smell of him quickens it.

"I'm not... a gift, my love," she says quietly, holding her arms close around his upper body. "I'm not something to be deserved. Or earned," she adds softly. "It makes me feel strange when you say such things. It makes me feel quite far away from you."

Her lips touch his chest, beneath his pectoral muscle, across the hard curve of his ribcage. She kisses him where popular mythology would suggest she herself was taken from him, before the world knew its own name. She kisses him where goddess and evolution both gave him hard armor to protect the powerful -- but vulnerable -- core of his being.

"I just love you, Calden. As you love me. That is why we are together." She smiles to herself, memorizing this little patch of skin she is currently staring at, nuzzling, kissing. "That's why we're going to get married."

Calden

A subtle little shiver steals under his skin when she kisses that small part of him. She has ways of uncovering secrets about his body; finding nerve endings he never knew he had. Sensitive spots that tickle, that arouse. His breathing changes a little, just a little, and then he releases a breath and hugs her against his side.

"I know," he says, and he does. He does know. As much as she sometimes feels like a goddess to him, like divinity, like something above and beyond himself to whom he is glad to offer himself as tribute, as pledge, as sacrifice -- she is not. She is his lover, and his love. She is mortal and human and fallible and flesh-and-blood, right here, right now, immediate, visceral.

She is tangible. She is touchable. She can, if she chooses to, give herself to him.

"I'll try harder to remember," he promises, and urges her back up, up to where he can kiss her mouth. "It's just that I love you so."

Avery

Avery does slide up beside him, closing her eyes when she kisses him. She smiles. "I love you, too," she murmurs, close to his mouth, when they've parted.

--

So, yes, they make their way out of bed. She is lolling about, lazy, even after she has shooed him off. Something about moving him off the bedspread and then rolling into the warm hollow where his body was. She smiles at him from there, grinning, teasing, til he grabs the bedspread and yanks, hauling her towards him over the mattress, making her yelp.

And perhaps he has to toss her over his shoulder to get her up, which only makes her laugh harder. And perhaps he swats her ass, light and affectionate. Or bites her. Or kisses her, this man whose first time literally kissing Silver Fang ass was the night they met. But they do get up. And go to the bathroom, discussing what to eat. Calden smooches her before he goes to order, or Avery catches him and smooches him before he heads out the door so she can use the bathroom and start her shower in ladylike peace.

The water is running when he gets back, steam filling the room. Avery is humming something, massaging conditioner into her freshly-washed hair. It makes her a tad slippery when Calden gets in, wraps himself around her. She just smiles at him over her shoulder, tips her head while he lays kisses over her throat. She hums something else, lower, softer. She wiggles her bottom against him in greeting, handing him the shampoo. There's no need for her to catch him at anything; while his hands are busy lathering his hair under the water, Avery is pressed up against him, chest to chest, and has no qualms about palming his ass, kissing his chest, nipping at his skin.

But they're both a little worn out. And it's getting ridiculous. And more than anything, Avery just wants to be close. All that touching and kissing and wiggling and nipping doesn't add up to the need to have sex with him again; just affection. Just piles, and hills, and mountains of affection.

--

Avery takes longer to skim and scuff water out of her hair than Calden does. She is wrapped up in the bathrobe he keeps here for her, much smaller than his own, humming again. While she's drying her hair he's getting plates ready, opening wine; she's passing the door on her way to the kitchen when the delivery arrives, but she has no wallet on her and they're both in robes so there's some searching through the clothing that Calden tore off piecemeal on his way to the couch where his naked, soon-to-be-fiance was awaiting him.

They eat, seated at the table. Steaks and potatoes on plates, red wine in glasses, feet touching under the little table.

"Do you think it would be terribly cheap or tacky to have small plates and hors d'oeuvres at the reception rather than a sit-down meal?" she asks him. "It seems like such a lull in the spirit of things. Everyone suddenly going staid and motionless, planting themselves in chairs they're stuck in because of some chart, eating dry salmon or over-salted fish when they should be dancing and mingling and moving about." She is slicing into her steak as she discusses this. "No one would go hungry, of course, I'd never permit that, but a full catered meal for that many people, all the same or with just a few options -- it just seems so dull."

Calden

Fiancee. Such a strange, tender, sweet new way to think of Avery: no longer merely girlfriend but fiancee, wife-to-be,

mate-to-be. Or perhaps they were already mated.

Their legs touch under the table. He rubs his shin along hers sometimes, casually, thoughtlessly, just-because. They eat steak and they eat potatoes and he refills her glass when it becomes empty. She wants to know his opinion on another one of those tiny details of wedding planning that he's never really thought about thinking about -- let alone thought about, period.

"You know," says Calden, sawing expertly into dry-aged beef fed and raised with his own two hands, or at least the hands of his close kin, "when I was a kid we used to have blizzard parties on the ranch. Whenever a big storm was blowing in and we weren't sure if the power was even going to stay on, we'd empty out our freezer and invite all the neighbors over. Had them bring their perishables and cots and bedding, and then we'd grill or bake or salt all the food. When the storm hit we'd hunker down and play cards, make music, light fires in every hearth. People'd be over for days, sleeping in every corner of the house, until the storm was over. Then we'd all go shovel snow together and go our separate ways.

"Maybe instead of a reception we can have a house party. Blizzard not necessary, but -- maybe we can just have fifty people over, feed 'em a whole cow, and let them stay for days. Set off some fireworks again, maybe. Or if you want a real reception, we can do that after."

Avery

That...

is not even slightly what Avery had in mind. Has in mind. When he looks up from his meal, perhaps, she's staring at him, not in horror -- nothing so dramatic as that -- but with her eyes slightly wide and her face otherwise quite still.

Fifty people makes her eyes widen a bit more: not that Calden would consider bringing fifty people into his house, which is roomy enough, but that he is suggesting that only fifty people be invited to their reception which isn't even a reception and is a thousand miles (more or less) from places she is considering for a venue in her head and, and, and

he says something about doing so after a 'real reception' and she exhales a quick breath of laughter that sounds at least partly relieved. "Oh."

Avery picks up her wine glass and takes a long drink. "Well. I had imagined we would depart our reception and... have a honeymoon."

Calden

"Well, of course we'd have a honeymoon. We could just go on our honeymoon after the house party and -- oh." The penny drops; he looks a little crestfallen. "You don't like the idea."

Avery

She reaches over to him, even though their feet are resting together -- the soles of her feet warming and warmed by the tops of his feet -- and touches his hand. "I don't, darling," she says gently, but honestly, and clearly, without hedging or fluffing, and also without flailing. "Not for this, at least. It sounds very fun. And warm. But... it isn't the sort of thing I had in mind for our wedding celebration, that's all."

Avery squeezes his hand. "It's all dressing and pomp, anyway, all these details," she says. "And I don't want to fixate and fuss over those things just to avoid the questions that really matter, funneling all our ache and fear into things about catering and decoration instead of talking about... where we will live. And when -- and where and how and whether -- we have children. Or how I feel when your father says something that makes you angry. Important things. Not all of which will be hard, or painful, to talk about, obviously, but... they are difficult questions to find answers for. And they matter far more than what style of party we throw."

Calden

The truth is, it does make him ache a little, and perhaps even worry a little, that his very first suggestion toward this marriage is one that she ... is less than enthusiastic about. It makes him think of her shining home, her elegant family, her lineage, her bloodlines, and how sharply each of these things contrasts with his own.

Yet what he feels overwhelming right now, when she answers him with such gentle honesty, is respect. True, deep respect. He lays down his fork. His hand turns over and his fingers wrap around hers.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "For being honest. And for being gentle."

And anyway -- she's right. There are so many other things far more important than where they have the reception and what color the bridesmaids wear. They both recognize that. Perhaps they only approached from this angle because the others were so much more fraught.

"Let's talk about them, then," Calden says. He takes a swallow of wine, sets the glass down. "Let's start with where we'll live, and when, and how."

Avery

It would be so easy to worry over these details, these differences in some of their fantasies about their future together, even what amounts to just one day of their future together. It is easy to stop there and feel the pang and twist of it, the fear of it. What if he wants a boot-stomping party outside of a barn and she wants champagne and canapés? What if he wants something vibrantly colorful and noisy and she wants something serene and all-white? What if they can't agree on a cake, or an officiant, or even a location or a date? Doesn't that indicate that they shouldn't even bother, that they just fundamentally want different things in life?

It doesn't. He wants to marry her, and belong to her, and love her, and be mated to her, and he will work for and accept what he needs to because that is what he wants. And she wants to marry him, and be with him, and love him, and be mated to him, and she will work for and accept what she needs to because that is what she wants. Ultimately it comes down to that: the willingness to place that one wanted, desired, worked-for thing ahead of passing desires for this flower or that cake flavor.

They are very different. Their backgrounds, their bloodlines, the ways they were brought up, the things they find beautiful or important or appropriate for expressing a particular kind of joy. But the joy itself is no different: she is honest with him because of that, and because of how easily it comes to her to feel it when she's around him. Even at her worst. Even on the hardest days.

"Of course, darling," she murmurs, to his thanks, as though it touches her heart that he would even want to thank her. Why, after all, would she be anything but honest with him, or anything but gentle? She loves him.

Avery slips from her chair, losing his hand in the process, circling the small table and coming around to his side. She holds her robe carefully around her legs and, if he should be so accommodating, sits on one of his thighs, her legs between his, perching on his lap. With one arm looped around his shoulders she leans over, pulling her plate and her fork and her wine glass over to the now-crowded side of the table that was once his alone. She does, if he has not noticed at all tonight, want very much to be close. If she were in another form she might be circling his legs, getting constantly underfoot, following him from room to room as though to make sure he doesn't Go Away For A Long Time again, her eyes bright and adoring.

Well: in this form her eyes are bright and adoring, anyway. And she may not be following him or tripping up his feet but she is certainly unapologetic and unhesitating in her pursuit of nearness. Especially if she knows the conversation is about to turn a touch painful and difficult. Especially she is not sure what the answer will be or what they will do. Well, then, absolutely: she will sit herself in his lap to discuss this.

"Yes," she says, almost primly. "Because that's about the marriage, and not the wedding."

Different things, really.

Avery spears a neatly-sliced cube of steak from her plate with her fork. "At least regarding the time we spend together in Denver...there's a part of me that wants to get a new place: for this to be your spot, all your own, for me to have my penthouse, for my family to have their home, and my pack the house near the caern, but then to have another home here in the city that holds our marriage bed." She chews neatly, quickly, shaking her head. "But as much as I adore real estate, even I know that's absurd." Avery smiles, her lips together. "Maybe I will move out of my father's house completely. Naturally we'll have a suite there, for visits and the like, but in spirit it won't be 'my' home any longer, if you understand my meaning. It will be, but not. Symbolically, I mean."

She leans over, rubbing her nose against his cheekbone, his temple, his nose -- whatever.

"I do love my penthouse, though. And I don't really want to give that up. Nor do I want you to give up this place. I did work so hard to make it something you would like. But I would like, at least for the times when we are together in the city, for us to have a home we share, even if I... have to run away, sometimes. She leans onto him, touching the back of his hair with her fingers. "Do you have a preference?"

Calden

Calden has, in fact, noticed that Avery wants to be close tonight. That hardly surprises him, or even strikes him as unusual: he wants to be close, too. When she gets up he sits back, smiling already, widening his stance already in anticipation of -- well. Exactly what she does. She slips into his lap, careful with her robe, and he slides his arm around her waist. Her plate grates lightly along the tabletop. He wipes his mouth on his napkin, nuzzles her robes aside, deposits a kiss to her shoulder.

Truthfully, even in this they are different. He does not have her love of real estate, of gift-buying and gift-giving, of new shiny things with which she can make her friends happy. Which isn't to say he doesn't enjoy giving gifts, because he does: but Calden likes old things, things with roots, a single home passed down and added to and expanded and remodeled endlessly over the generations. Gifts like bottles of wine from the cellar of that very home, saved up over decades. He is a little amused by her mention of getting yet another home in the city, and more so when she confesses even she knows the absurdity. He hides his smile behind his wineglass.

Which he sets down a little later, while she's touching his hair, while he's tilting his head into her touch.

"I'd love it if you moved in here," he says. "If you made this our shared home, instead of just my little place in the city. You should keep your penthouse, though, in case you need a place to run away to. And as for moving out of your father's house -- that's entirely up to you. I know all of us, your father, your brother and I, would support whatever decision you make."

Avery

They keep nuzzling. She twirls her fingertips in the hair above the back of his neck, smiling. Her robe stays a little off-shoulder after he kisses her, and she doesn't reach to adjust it. She is already smiling but it grows as he says he'd love this to be their home, she should absolutely keep her penthouse.

She rubs her nose on him again, kisses his cheek. "Well, it's traditional. Leaving my father's house to go live with my husband, tra la la." She grins, kissing his jawline again because the word husband tickles her so. "I would love that, darling," Avery says, almost sighing it. "I thought about it, but didn't want to presume."

There's a pause. "If we entertain we should do it at the penthouse, though. Just for the room if we have lots of guests. This place," she smooches him yet again, "can be our private little nest. Just ours and only for the most intimate gatherings."

All this kissing -- all this robe-askew nuzzling and smooching and words like husband and intimate -- has Avery snuggling closer to him. It has her touching him with her free hand along the collar of his robe, close to his chest. Surely some of that is the wine, too. Even though the thought of making love again wears her out a bit, she simultaneously grins to imagine it, giving him these teasing caresses and suggestive glances and earnest smooches.

"But... your ranch is your real home," she says, slowing a bit. Teasing a little less. Growing more serious as that thought sets like the sun in her mind. "And it's so... you." Her hand traces the skin on his chest now, more thoughtful, less coy. "Every square foot of it. That's part of why I like being there with you."

But, she does not say. But, she avoids.

Calden

"It is," Calden agrees. His voice is quiet. There's a certain gravity in it: the unspoken truth that lies behind those statements. The ranch is his real home. It is him, it belongs to him, he belongs to it. And it is very,

very,

far away.

He rests his chin gently on her shoulder for a moment. He kisses her earlobe, rubs his face against her skin. She smells clean and soft and new, like herself, but also like him and his shampoo and his bodywash and his sheets and his city-home. When he raises his head, when he leans back in his seat, he exhales softly.

"But?" he prompts. It's just as soft; just as quiet.

Avery

That aches for her the way her honesty about not wanting a blizzard party for their wedding reception made him ache; they are different, and when they feel so close, when they perhaps feel at their closest, they are strangely vulnerable to these shadows of schisms between them. They are differences that threaten to wound and sunder, not differences to be appreciated, celebrated, reveled in. It's a human thing: the fear that accompanies intimacy when that intimacy is, in truth, not entirely mature.

"But," Avery says softly, since he either cannot or refuses to guess at reading her mind, "it does not feel like mine." She touches her foot to his calf, sighing softly, though more thoughtful than worried or lonesome. "I have always felt there is room for me there as a guest, because of your excellent hospitality, but... I am not sure there is a place there for me as lady of the house."

Calden

Lady of the house. The very phrase makes Calden happy; kindles a warm glow inside him. He covers her knee with his palm. He bows his brow to her shoulder, nuzzling again.

"Do you want there to be a place for you?" he asks gently. The question is not rhetorical. "I wasn't quite sure if you wanted to share that home with me too, or if that'd be ... too much for you."

Avery

Avery ducks her head a little. She rests her brow against his temple, which means she leans over and nuzzles his head up from where he was nuzzling her shoulder and there is something profoundly animal about this, profoundly emotional. She wants his scent all over her, even though she's already washed in his soap and shampoo, was naked on his leather, has been covered in the dust of his living space, is wearing a robe washed alongside his. She cannot get close enough to him tonight, it seems.

As she nuzzles, she thinks. She considers the question.

"Wherever we are together, I know you will not fault me for needing... space. We could live with my father or in the penthouse or your house or here and I know you would forgive me my distance. It wouldn't make it less my home, or less yours." Her hand touches his arm, strokes over his wrist thoughtfully. "With you... it's often all right even if the only space between us is a few feed between the bed and the couch. And you are quite unique to me in that regard."

She is quiet a little, and smiles to herself. "The last time I was at your house, and I went for a run all those hours? I almost stayed out. There was a part of me that wanted to just remain entirely alone. But I also wanted to be with you again. I wanted to see you, and sniff you, and sleep beside you. That's... uncommon for me, in one of those moods."

Those spells. Those fits.

Avery takes a breath, lifting her head and smiling softly at him. "I think I want to, darling. I want to share all our homes. Because I know you will leave me if I can't bear your nearness. I know you will let me go if I have to run away. And I know you will wait for me until I can come back. But... what if I wanted to repaint a room or get new bedding? So much of your home seems... unchanged. Unchangeable. I feel wary of the thought of even suggesting alteration. I think that's what makes me feel a bit like an outsider."

Calden

It is remarkable, the nearness she allows him. The closeness she feels for him, even when she is not herself. Even Calden, who has never personally known madness, understands how remarkable it is, and how remarkable he must be to her, and how remarkable what they have together is.

They've all but forgotten their dinner. They have forsaken it in favor of supping on one another's presence instead. All those little nuzzlings. All the times they rub their faces together, kiss each other's bodies, touch each other's skin.

"If you want to share my home, all of my homes, then you're more than welcome, Avery. I'd love it if you shared them with me. I'd love it.

"And," laughing then, low and warm, "oh, Avery. If you only knew how many times that old pile of bricks has been rebuilt and remodeled and repainted and redecorated and sometimes even knocked down and built again. There's nothing about it that's untouchable. The whole purpose of that house is to be changed and changed again with every new generation that grows up in it. That's actually what makes it mean so much to me and my family. It makes it feel alive, like it grows and changes with us."

Avery

She laughs. Oh, she laughs, low and subtle. She is turning towards him, having only half-finished her lovely -- and cooling -- dinner though she made it all the way through a glass of wine. She turns on his lap, opening her legs, straddling him there, her palms touching his cheeks, cupping over his jaw.

"So you would let me brighten spots of it? A new spread here, a pillow there, flowers, some lighter colors?" She kisses his brow. "I will get your cantankerous old father a new present every month until he's nice to me."

Kisses his nose. "Or threaten to eat him like Red Riding Hood's granny if he isn't nice to you."

Calden

Oh. He is being straddled now. His hands stay on her body, gliding across her waist as she turns. There's a gleam in his eyes. She kisses his brow; his nose. He lifts his chin and kisses her mouth.

"It'll be your home as much as mine, Miss Chase. You can do as you please, and sooner or later we'll have an argument about the color of the drapes like a proper married couple.

"Now," his hands have settled at her hips, his wrists resting atop her thighs, "are we going to discuss the rest of the Important Things? Or are you about to drag me to bed again?"

Avery

That makes her giggle. Well and truly: arguing about drapes. She's never argued with anyone about drapes before. She can't even imagine it. She grins when he asks her if they're going to keep talking.

"Oh, darling," she says, teasing his hair again, tucking the nonexistent stray lock over his ear just to touch him. "We just did at least seventy-three per cent of one big discussion, and we got engaged tonight and we talked about not looking at me like a gift and you tacitly endorsed me eating your father if he's ornery. And we did roughly a percent and a half of all the reception talks we'll have to do."

She leans forward, nuzzling him, kissing his mouth. "We've done so much already. Can't we just... eat a bit more,"

she is hungry,

"and then go to bed and fuck?" The word itself is punctuated by a roll of her hips; she grins as she does so, wiggling the collar of her robe down her shoulders a bit more.

Calden

Calden meets that kiss in the middle, fiercely, smiling into it even as he eats at her mouth. When they pull apart, there's something a little heavier in his breathing, and that gleam in his eyes: well, it's kindled.

"Sounds like a plan," he says, "if you think you can handle another round."

Avery

Her grin only grows, glows, seeing his eyes glint. She's so triumphant, so eager, so amused. She sinks closer to him.

"I am one of Gaia's finest, fiercest guardians," she murmurs to him. "And all I want in the world is to fall asleep in a messy, post-orgasmic tangle with you, because I love you and you make me happy and you want to marry me and take care of me forever."

Avery kisses him again, her lips soft, her mouth lush as summer. When she parts, her eyes are half-lidded, dark lashes veiling her eyes. "So I shall have what I want."