the chases, the hotel.

Avery Whitechase

"Well, I met you before it got that far," she says, happily taking every bit of credit for his salvation from self-grooming with sticks. He was on the verge, she thinks of saying. He almost collapsed under the weight of his manliness and would have been covered in mud by that fall if she hadn't intervened.

None of this is true. Part of what attracted Avery to Calden were his manners. His sense of refinement with a rough exterior, a sturdy core. It intrigued her, and warmed her, and his graciousness put her at ease. And truth be told, his family members may all be men, but her presence seems to knock them into shape a bit. They rise when she leaves the table, even if Calden has to remind them. They cover their belches with a fist. Many people, in fact, tend to straighten up when they're around Avery. Sometimes she notices, and this makes her happy. This makes her grateful and proud.

They are driving just outside of Hartford now. Calden has met almost everyone here, but it was in the blur of the wedding and reception. They pull up to the front door and then around the drive to the back to park themselves; much of the staff is already on holiday leave. They are greeted by a maid at the door, however, who is dressed in a knee-length pencil skirt and a simple white blouse, a pair of black flats. She's a charming young woman with red hair and freckles, and takes their coats. They barely make it past that stage before some of Avery's relatives are coming to greet them: various cousins, primarily, a couple of aunts and uncles, and the owners of the house, her paternal grandparents. Her father is already there with Oakley, having flown out a day earlier to attend to some business in Connecticut.

So there are hugs. Many hugs, repeated introductions for poor Calden, and some wine glasses offered to them. The cook has warm plates waiting for them, and neither of them mind having missed the salad, soup, or appetizer courses. Nearly everyone in the room has the same look as Avery: the fair hair, the bright blue eyes, the rosy cheeks. There are a few children, daughters and sons of cousins. The girls have bows or barettes in their hair and tights under their skirts or smartly pressed slacks. The boys all have on some form of tie, whether straight or in a bow. There is not a physical imperfection among any of them save one boy, who wears glasses.

Dinner is roasted pheasant with potato pave. The conversation is light and music is playing in the other room, some classical recording. Dessert is a cheese and fruit course. Avery, according to the seating arrangement, is separated from Calden for the meal by several diners, which -- they claim -- gives her grandmother and one of her uncles the opportunity to get to know him a little better than they could at the wedding. He mustn't feel dismayed, Avery will tell him later, if he is downcast, if he misses her; her grandmother's company for meals is fiercely contended for in both familial and social circles, and they were honoring him by placing his seat beside her to receive so much of her attention.

But chances are: Calden is not all that dismayed. Avery's grandmother is charming and effervescent, sneaking him extra pours of this or that and whispering the cleverest, slightest little jokes to him when no one else is listening. She's not cold or catty whatsoever; she is witty, and she is intelligent, and she is clearly just as engaged in her social activities as her husband is in the family business. Both have contributed to their fortune, and to the good matches among their family.

No one mentions his tribe. But it is obvious with one glance around the table that he is the only non-Fang here.

After dessert, there are some games in the salon along with espresso, some after-dinner cordials, the like. The tables have little bowls with nuts and candies, and the games are chosen by lottery. Tonight, the winner is an eleven year old who hurries to a cupboard and pulls out the Harry Potter 'Scene It' and loads up a hidden dvd player as the equally hidden television emerges from its cupboard. Teams are chosen and those who do not participate do so quietly, withdrawing to the other end of the salon with a few decks of cards. The children and grandparents play the DVD game, however, and the one child who is on the verge of a tantrum for not getting their game chosen is taken outside for a moment for a conversation, and then excused to sit in the hall until she decides that playing is better than sulking.

Avery sits in a window seat, her back against her husband's chest, and is quite good at Harry Potter Scene It.

Calden Whitechase

Indeed, Calden has met most or all who have gathered for dinner. He recognizes them all, because he's good with faces and he never forgets a face he's shared a handshake, a drink or a dance with. He's bad with names, though, so there are introductions all over again. Dinner is a charming affair; a table full of fair-haired, blue-eyed, lovely people who seem destined to age into white-haired, blue-eyed, lovely people.

After dinner, after dessert: a game of Scene It. Harry Potter edition. And Avery seems to know absolutely everything, and there's still a part of Calden that's mildly alarmed to realize she very well may have grown up on these books. She would have been a tween when the first movie came out; younger, when the books came out. On the other hand, Calden is terrible at it. He claims Narnia was more his thing. He gets a little buzzed on the after-dinner cordials.

Gradually the evening winds down. People begin to disperse to their rooms, or perhaps to their hotels. Before they leave, Calden and Avery add their gifts to the tree -- if her family keeps that tradition, at least. Calden's does, if only to give themselves an excuse to occasionally spoil their offspring, but amongst the Garou Christmas is far from a given.

At the door, Avery hugs her father goodnight, and her brother. Calden exchanges some Very Manly Embraces (tm) with the pair as well. Then, a few hours after their arrival, they drive away in their rented SUV, heading off to a nearby seaside hotel.

Avery Whitechase

The tree is roughly a thousand feet tall, full and lush and scenting the room. There is a star on top and though the ornaments are somewhat curated, it's clear that most of them are family heirlooms or gifts from children. There are more than a few plaster handprints; Calden finds Avery's, when she was only four years old, making a present for her grandma. The gifts are already piled high, wrapped in every sort of color and pattern imaginable.

When they head out again to get to their hotel, finally, Avery is confirming plans with her father for brunch tomorrow. She tells him, briefly, about Huxley, but he scarcely remembers the young man, was never close to that family. He can tell she's anxious, but she says they'll talk more soon when she knows more about the project.

In the car, Avery exhales that breath she often does when she's overspent her resources with other people. She's thinking, far too hard, and occasionally has to tamp down on her rage for her leisurely family trip being interrupted. It isn't fair, or sensible; she's a werewolf. She has a duty to her people and to her tribe and to the earth itself. So she stares out the window a little more, on the way to the hotel. And as they check in. And as they go up.

Inside the suite, sitting down on the little couch in the anteroom, she slips out of her heels and rests her stockinged feet on the carpet, staring at the coffee table.

Calden Whitechase

They got a suite. They did this because they are, between the two of them, quite wealthy. They did it because it's the end of the year and they want to treat themselves a little. They did it, also, because a suite has more room. Space to move and breathe. Space to be a little apart, if need be.

Calden puts their luggage in the bedroom; unpacks a few things. He puts their toiletries in the bathroom and loosens his collar, takes off his watch, rolls up his sleeves, starts to think about bed. He glimpses his mate out in the anteroom, though. She's barely undressed. She's staring at the coffee table.

So he goes out to her. Put his hand gently on her shoulder. Sits beside her, his palm warm.

"Don't think about it tonight," he murmurs. "Come to bed."

Avery Whitechase

Avery still has her coat on. It's white. Wool. It has a broad shawl collar, draping over her shoulders. Her eyes have a tired look, focused intently but not seeing anything. She's not fidgeting, but she seldom does. She isn't itching to get away from him, or anything. She's just tired, and thinking far too hard. Not knowing what's going on with Huxley and his strange sept bothers her; a part of her is anxious for tomorrow, so she can learn more.

She blinks when Calden's hand touches her. She scarcely noticed him sitting beside her, which says something about how comfortable she is in his presence, how greatly she trusts him. She turns her head slowly to face him, fixes her eyes on his, and thinks gratefully of something she has never and may never say to him:

it's nice that he's so much older than her. It's nice that he comes so easily, so readily, to taking care of her. It's nice that she almost never has to admit aloud that she needs it.

He tells her not to think about it tonight, which is a release. A sort of permission -- a reminder, in fact, that she has permission. And then he tells her to come to bed, and in spite of herself, Avery takes a soft breath, filled with longing. Her hand moves to touch his leg, just over his knee. Her left hand. The one with his ring on it. She smiles tenderly at him, sleepy-eyed.

"Help me get ready for bed?" she asks him.

Calden Whitechase

They touch each other like this, tenderly, warmly. They share a smile, in which dwells any number of soft and unspoken things. He leans over; kisses her shoulder.

"Come on." And he stands, holding his hand out for hers.

--

They brush their teeth together over the sinks. Floss and rinse and all that, a familiar bedtime ritual that calms them both. Truth is they don't have as much time together as most married couples. Not as much as he would like. Perhaps not even as much as she would like. It is still enough that they have grown accustomed to one another's reflections.

He unzips her, and she showers, and while she showers he finishes unpacking. When she steps out he wraps one of the hotel bathrobes around her. There's a cup of chamomile tea waiting for her on her nightstand. He trades places with her: showers quickly and efficiently, emerging flushed and clean.

One by one he turns out the lights. Leaves the one on his nightstand for last. He travels with a Kindle; is reading some biography right now. He doesn't read tonight, though. He leaves the Kindle on his nightstand as he slides into bed. Turns out the light. Turns to her under the covers, reaching out to draw her near.

There's no insistence there. It's open-ended, a question, and he leaves the choice to her: if she wants to sleep facing him. If she wants to spoon. If she doesn't want to sleep at all, and pulls his mouth to hers instead.

Avery Whitechase

Avery's hand slips into his palm, and rests there as he helps her to her feet. He helps her shed her coat and hangs it for her. She sets her shoes aside, toes against a wall, out of the way. In the bedroom she turns her back to him long before they get to the bathroom; she's not going to brush her teeth in her dress. So he unzips her dress, which was comfortable enough for travel but pretty enough for dinner, and she puts it on a hanger. Then she's in lingerie. Stockings, bra, panties. Garters. That's how she brushes her teeth. Flosses, uses mouthwash. She stands close to him. It's entirely unnecessary that they should use one sink, since they have two here, and in most of their residences. But she stands very close to him, and holds her hair back as she spits, and tries not to smile at him when she swishes mouthwash and he smiles at her.

Her arms are around his neck when he asks her, hands on her lower back, if she wants to shower. Avery thinks about it a moment before she nods, gently, and gives him a soft, lingering kiss. She's kissing him when he helps her out of her lingerie. She's panting softly by the time her stockings have been rolled down, her garter belt and bra unsnapped. She's in panties, arms still wrapped around him, breasts bare, looking at him with that slightly glazed look in her eyes, a faint pink in her cheeks.

Calden Whitechase

He doesn't mind that she squeezes in and uses the same sink he does. They floss and brush and spit and rinse and spit again. They gargle with mouthwash. She smiles at him, her hair held back with one hand, and he's utterly charmed. Grins back frothy-mouthed.

Later on he helps her out of her lingerie. He loves, always loved, how she's old-fashioned about this. Stockings and garters, bra and panties. He takes each item off carefully, a little reverently, setting them aside. When she's down to panties he straightens up and her hands on his shoulders slide back; she wraps her arms around his neck. He picks her up by the waist, holds her suspended for a moment while they kiss. Then he sets her on the counter

and starts undoing the buttons of his shirt, there beneath the golden circle of her arms. There between their bodies, her lovely flushed breasts rising and falling against the backs of his hands. His eyes hold hers. He smiles at her as he undresses for her.

Avery Whitechase

Unlike some wolves, Avery's craving for nearness isn't regularly in evidence. She doesn't press up against Calden every time they're around each other, or hang tightly to him in bed all the time. But sometimes it's there: this animalistic desire to be close, particularly to her mate. So, sometimes, she squeezes in beside him and uses the same sink. Sometimes she stays very close to him and wants him to undress her. Sometimes she watches his every move, her fair eyes flicking over his hands and tracking over his body like she's monitoring every breath, every heartbeat.

Like tonight. Standing there in the bathroom, watching him as his rough but intelligent hands unclasp this, unfasten that. Slide under this, uncover that. She doesn't always wear old-fashioned lingerie; sometimes she's so modern. But she never wears pantyhouse; she doesn't like them. If she wears any kind of stockings instead of a bare leg, then there will also be garters. But these are fine things, light and silk, fit for dinner at her grandmother's house. He's so gentle with them, careful not to let them snag even on his fingertips. Lays them all aside on a little shelf to be gathered up later.

Avery is smiling, when he pauses before taking off her panties. Leaves her in them when he picks her up, makes her breathing hitch. Her legs fold around him, and when he holds her there, kissing her, she makes a soft sound into his mouth, pressing against his chest. She does so love his strength.

The counter is cold on her bottom. She sits up, watching him with that intense focus again as he undoes his buttons. Watches him like it's the first time she's ever seen such a thing. Wants to help but doesn't move to do so; rests her hands on his chest and just watches. Her tongue slips out between her lips, wetting them as he shrugs out of his shirt. She runs her fingers through the light hair over his chest, curls her fingers against his collarbones, gently drags them down when she leans in to kiss him again.

"My mate," she murmurs, the words a warm purr of sound. She doesn't sound simply like she is claiming. She sounds... proud.

Calden Whitechase

It makes him laugh a little, low and appreciative, when she names him. When he hears the pride beneath her words. He gets it. Couldn't put it into words easily, but he gets it. There's a certain triumph in choosing and being chosen. In a strong, beautiful mate.

Of course he gets it. He feels it, too.

And when he gets to the bottom of that column of buttons he peels his shirt off his shoulders. He wore an undershirt to dinner at her grandmother's house, because of course he would: he's a gentleman, after all. So that comes off too, pulled up over his head, the musculature of his torso elongating and then contracting back on itself as he lowers his arms. She touches him lovingly, exploringly. He undoes his belt.

She kisses him and he kisses her, eyes closed, unfastening his slacks by touch. When he's down to his shorts he pauses, his hands stroking her sides, her waist.

"I'd like to make love to you in bed," he murmurs. "Let's shower and go, hm?"