[Original] Mate
Oct. 11th, 2010 09:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Mate
Source: Hunter and the Wolf
Genre: Urban Fantasy
Characters: Nameless, Guy, Irina
Word Count: 1,021
Summary: Married. Totally married. In conclusion, married.
A/N: Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
origfic_bingo prompt "Marriage/lifemates/soulbonding"
Not yet winter, it was nonetheless damn chilly down the streets of the big city. He jammed his hands into his pockets and remembered when everything smelled of fish and brine, when the docks were the force to be reckoned with, and the torrent of babble up and down the high street didn't sound all the same. Dialects of every kind, and he didn't speak any of them but his friend did. Almost all of them. Least, the ones you'd likely find down here.
Now his friend still spoke all those damn funny-sounding tongues, but the babble still sounded the same anyway, most in English, all the kind of thing he understood. He was even picking up a little Spanish, here and there. Slow going.
Guy, of course, spoke it fluently, to the extent that he could chew someone out with a cigarette dangling from his fingers and then slip into swearing in French with no confusion at all. The scolded cook went back into the kitchen, and the werewolf turned to look down the alley.
"If I'm interruptin somethin..."
Guy snorted. "Don't be a dumbass."
They didn't even hug. The kitchen door closed, he leaned against it while Guy eased into a sprawl on the stoop and finished his cigarette in blatant disregard for whatever new health and welfare regulations they'd come up with lately.
And that was it. For minutes, many of them, rushing by in the cacophony of car horns and chatter and everything else that went on day and night in this city. The chill near-winter air pushed through his wool coat, against his hands buried in his pockets, through the denim of his jeans and the leather of his boots. The heat of his friend's body also pushed through, where his shoulder hunched in his chef's coat. Not even so much as touching him, but he was aware. They both were.
After he had finished his cigarette, Guy pulled out his harmonica and started to play. Not a song most people passing by would recognize, or even most people in the city. Maybe one or two people besides them would know that tune; it was an old one. It was one they'd sung, raucous and toasted, as they staggered along the streets. They'd sung it off and on in bed, in cabins, on a porch far, far away as they watched the fog roll in. One of many songs, but still one of theirs, a part of their world. He cleared his throat and started to sing, in the original French, husky and untrained but clear.
They went through two or three songs like that before they stopped. No reason, it was cold out and they were getting tired of it. Guy stood, brushed the dust and cigarette ash off of his bony knees. More out of habit than anything, he thought.
"You bring the beer?" he asked, as they turned back to head into the restaurant for one final check before walking back to his hotel room.
The old nameless bastard laughed at him. "Who do you think you're talking to, puppy?" Which made his friend scowl and cuff him. He ducked aside, shouldering into a couple of pots and sending them clanging. "Watch it, we start that shit in here and we'll destroy your kitchen."
"Can think of a couple other rooms I'd rather destroy," he smirked.
Most couples so tightly bound, even the long-married ones, having been separated for weeks, would fall into each other's arms kissing and clutching at each other upon entering their rooms. These two stripped off their coats and jostled and elbowed for the beer. Elbowing turned to shoving, to grabbing and wrestling and almost falling over the back of the couch, barely missing the beer.
"Hey! That's alcohol abuse, that is."
Guy wheezed with laughter and the other man half-landing on his ribs. "Ah, it can take it." Guy had very definite opinions on what constituted good, acceptable, excellent beer, and the stuff presented at first was just acceptable.
He pulled out a couple other bottles from under the entryway table and under his coat. "Yeah, but you almost made me knock over this."
The wolf narrowed his eyes at his friend and the bottle he had in his hand. "Gimme that."
"Rude," he told him, but he laughed and sprawled over at least two thirds of the couch. Guy walked around and sprawled over him and the rest of the couch.
For the duration of the first bottle and a half the only sounds were the occasional belch, the shifting of weight on the springs of the couch, the rustle of fabric against fabric. He scritched his friend's hair when Guy moved to sprawl out over him, burrowing his face in the other man's shirt.
The door opened and closed; Irina the Russian Supermodel (or that was what Guy loved to gloat over her as) came in, rolled her eyes at them, and picked up the bottles of beer to put them away and get them out from underfoot. Both men came in for a head-scritching as she walked around the suite, turning out the lights.
"You goin' to bed?" he rumbled at her, just loud enough for his voice to carry to her.
She nodded. "Bring him whenever you two are ready."
Guy mumbled something about being awake, dammit, and rolled over. Neither of them believed him, not about being awake enough to hold a conversation, anyway. And in spite of that, or maybe because of it, Irina was fast asleep in the big bed in the bedroom before both men staggered in.
She scooted over to make room. Guy curled around her with one arm tight around her waist, possessive, but he wriggled back into the broader bulk of his friend. Burrowed into him, as though he could turn him into a blanket and bundle up against the incoming winter wind. The old half-fae chuckled, nuzzled behind his ear for a second before sighing and drifting off. In all the centuries, he never slept so well as when he had his wolf with him.
Source: Hunter and the Wolf
Genre: Urban Fantasy
Characters: Nameless, Guy, Irina
Word Count: 1,021
Summary: Married. Totally married. In conclusion, married.
A/N: Written for
origfic_bingo prompt "Marriage/lifemates/soulbonding" Not yet winter, it was nonetheless damn chilly down the streets of the big city. He jammed his hands into his pockets and remembered when everything smelled of fish and brine, when the docks were the force to be reckoned with, and the torrent of babble up and down the high street didn't sound all the same. Dialects of every kind, and he didn't speak any of them but his friend did. Almost all of them. Least, the ones you'd likely find down here.
Now his friend still spoke all those damn funny-sounding tongues, but the babble still sounded the same anyway, most in English, all the kind of thing he understood. He was even picking up a little Spanish, here and there. Slow going.
Guy, of course, spoke it fluently, to the extent that he could chew someone out with a cigarette dangling from his fingers and then slip into swearing in French with no confusion at all. The scolded cook went back into the kitchen, and the werewolf turned to look down the alley.
"If I'm interruptin somethin..."
Guy snorted. "Don't be a dumbass."
They didn't even hug. The kitchen door closed, he leaned against it while Guy eased into a sprawl on the stoop and finished his cigarette in blatant disregard for whatever new health and welfare regulations they'd come up with lately.
And that was it. For minutes, many of them, rushing by in the cacophony of car horns and chatter and everything else that went on day and night in this city. The chill near-winter air pushed through his wool coat, against his hands buried in his pockets, through the denim of his jeans and the leather of his boots. The heat of his friend's body also pushed through, where his shoulder hunched in his chef's coat. Not even so much as touching him, but he was aware. They both were.
After he had finished his cigarette, Guy pulled out his harmonica and started to play. Not a song most people passing by would recognize, or even most people in the city. Maybe one or two people besides them would know that tune; it was an old one. It was one they'd sung, raucous and toasted, as they staggered along the streets. They'd sung it off and on in bed, in cabins, on a porch far, far away as they watched the fog roll in. One of many songs, but still one of theirs, a part of their world. He cleared his throat and started to sing, in the original French, husky and untrained but clear.
They went through two or three songs like that before they stopped. No reason, it was cold out and they were getting tired of it. Guy stood, brushed the dust and cigarette ash off of his bony knees. More out of habit than anything, he thought.
"You bring the beer?" he asked, as they turned back to head into the restaurant for one final check before walking back to his hotel room.
The old nameless bastard laughed at him. "Who do you think you're talking to, puppy?" Which made his friend scowl and cuff him. He ducked aside, shouldering into a couple of pots and sending them clanging. "Watch it, we start that shit in here and we'll destroy your kitchen."
"Can think of a couple other rooms I'd rather destroy," he smirked.
Most couples so tightly bound, even the long-married ones, having been separated for weeks, would fall into each other's arms kissing and clutching at each other upon entering their rooms. These two stripped off their coats and jostled and elbowed for the beer. Elbowing turned to shoving, to grabbing and wrestling and almost falling over the back of the couch, barely missing the beer.
"Hey! That's alcohol abuse, that is."
Guy wheezed with laughter and the other man half-landing on his ribs. "Ah, it can take it." Guy had very definite opinions on what constituted good, acceptable, excellent beer, and the stuff presented at first was just acceptable.
He pulled out a couple other bottles from under the entryway table and under his coat. "Yeah, but you almost made me knock over this."
The wolf narrowed his eyes at his friend and the bottle he had in his hand. "Gimme that."
"Rude," he told him, but he laughed and sprawled over at least two thirds of the couch. Guy walked around and sprawled over him and the rest of the couch.
For the duration of the first bottle and a half the only sounds were the occasional belch, the shifting of weight on the springs of the couch, the rustle of fabric against fabric. He scritched his friend's hair when Guy moved to sprawl out over him, burrowing his face in the other man's shirt.
The door opened and closed; Irina the Russian Supermodel (or that was what Guy loved to gloat over her as) came in, rolled her eyes at them, and picked up the bottles of beer to put them away and get them out from underfoot. Both men came in for a head-scritching as she walked around the suite, turning out the lights.
"You goin' to bed?" he rumbled at her, just loud enough for his voice to carry to her.
She nodded. "Bring him whenever you two are ready."
Guy mumbled something about being awake, dammit, and rolled over. Neither of them believed him, not about being awake enough to hold a conversation, anyway. And in spite of that, or maybe because of it, Irina was fast asleep in the big bed in the bedroom before both men staggered in.
She scooted over to make room. Guy curled around her with one arm tight around her waist, possessive, but he wriggled back into the broader bulk of his friend. Burrowed into him, as though he could turn him into a blanket and bundle up against the incoming winter wind. The old half-fae chuckled, nuzzled behind his ear for a second before sighing and drifting off. In all the centuries, he never slept so well as when he had his wolf with him.