OOM
Last week, there were three items in her apartment in Milliways that qualified the room as her own. Since the furniture, toiletries, clothing, and linen had been supplied for her, it had retained the feeling of a nice hotel room for the months she'd stayed there. Except for the nightstand beside her bed. The top drawer that could be pulled open.
On top, a zip-bag of colorful paper squares. Beneath that, a large book on origami.
Beneath that, a bar napkin, a detailed pen sketch of a grizzly bear's round face and muzzle.
That was last week.
One morning, Rachel wakes up from a deep sleep completely free from dreams of any kind, rolls over in the sheets and catches sight of the fourth and fifth things that make the apartment her own.
The perch she'd asked for, tall and sturdy at five feet with a hefty oak branch situated at the top.
And the red-tailed hawk, talons sunk deep into the soft bark.
Tobias, sharing the room with her.
Tobias, watching over her.
Like home.
The lack of dreams is easily, and not especially romantically, explained. A full day of flying with Tobias meant riding thermals, taking dives, racing each other - not to mention multiple morphs throughout the day. She was exhausted and slept easy for it.
Which is wonderful.
There was no way she was going to keep a nightlight where Tobias could see.
Flying is a close second on Rachel's list of reasons why morphing is incredible. Very close. But it's not everything.
Maybe she should be ashamed of how certain she is that Tobias doesn't need that spoken aloud. How aware he is that wings and feathers are not enough for her. They never have been, or will be.
That love, while necessary in so many ways, cannot be maintained solely through altitude.
She knows now what that freedom meant - means - to him, how cruel it was to continually ask him to leave it behind.
That first day, after he's gone hunting and she's showered, her first impulse is to ask anyway. Not forever - an hour, maybe two.
Then she sees him flying in through her balcony and remembers jumping out.
She drags the perch into the living room for him, lounges on the couch so they can watch daytime TV together.
She eats when he does. He goes out to hunt, she forages in the fridge in her kitchen. Doesn't bother going down to the bar.
It's like playing house, she realizes in the afternoon of the third day together. Leaning against the counter, munching on an apple, watching the glass of the balcony doors, waiting for a flash of feathers so she can open it for him. They'll watch TV or she'll get a book from somewhere, or they could go flying together. The possibilities are endless, the demands are none.
This is not what she always wanted but, and especially in those last few days, it is more than she ever would have hoped for.
Afternoon fades into evening and a full moon rises. It's too cold for many thermals but the view and company is worth the hard work of flapping wings more used to soaring. As the moon comes up, howls start below.
Tobias wonders idly. Maybe just to fill the companionable silence that's been between them for the last hour.
Remembering suddenly, verbal and posted warnings, Rachel automatically clarifies,
And then has to explain.
That span of three days where the woods belong to the shifters and all others enter at their own peril.
Like us? no one asks.
And nobody answers, No. Not like us.
The howls below are pained and raw, animal-intense.
And they soar above it all, confident in body if not in mind.
Or dream.
Or hallucination.
They don't talk much.
Maybe, Rachel realizes as she powers through cereal and waits for Tobias to come back from his breakfast hunt, they never did. Not about what matters. Not enough.
And when they did, the volume was a little higher than perhaps necessary.
Perhaps.
"You want to go downstairs?"
If she thought about it, Rachel would know exactly why she asked. What she was trying to do. Why she was trying to do it.
But at the moment, she's too busy staring at her bowl, pretending fascination for the last few floating Frosted Flakes.
She pretends not to notice it. The hesitance, reluctance, discomfort. Everything. Like asking him to the school dance, trying to convince him to see a movie. Everything.
"Something new, different. I could ask Bar for a book and get a table. A booth. I mean, you could perch on the back of the couch and read over my shoulder if you wanted to, right? But a booth would keep a wall at your back."
She should look up. The flakes are getting soggy and she's getting obvious.
"I mean, how many books have you read lately? Like, more than two pages worth?"
Sitting over someone else's shoulder, reading from two hundred yards away.
"It's just an idea."
Now she's defensive, almost snapping.
Perhaps.
She waits for him to respond.
He waits, too. Rachel doesn't know what for exactly.
How this relationship, this relationship, could have possibly become more complicated is utterly beyond her.
On top, a zip-bag of colorful paper squares. Beneath that, a large book on origami.
Beneath that, a bar napkin, a detailed pen sketch of a grizzly bear's round face and muzzle.
That was last week.
One morning, Rachel wakes up from a deep sleep completely free from dreams of any kind, rolls over in the sheets and catches sight of the fourth and fifth things that make the apartment her own.
The perch she'd asked for, tall and sturdy at five feet with a hefty oak branch situated at the top.
And the red-tailed hawk, talons sunk deep into the soft bark.
Tobias, sharing the room with her.
Tobias, watching over her.
Like home.
The lack of dreams is easily, and not especially romantically, explained. A full day of flying with Tobias meant riding thermals, taking dives, racing each other - not to mention multiple morphs throughout the day. She was exhausted and slept easy for it.
Which is wonderful.
There was no way she was going to keep a nightlight where Tobias could see.
Flying is a close second on Rachel's list of reasons why morphing is incredible. Very close. But it's not everything.
Maybe she should be ashamed of how certain she is that Tobias doesn't need that spoken aloud. How aware he is that wings and feathers are not enough for her. They never have been, or will be.
That love, while necessary in so many ways, cannot be maintained solely through altitude.
She knows now what that freedom meant - means - to him, how cruel it was to continually ask him to leave it behind.
That first day, after he's gone hunting and she's showered, her first impulse is to ask anyway. Not forever - an hour, maybe two.
Then she sees him flying in through her balcony and remembers jumping out.
She drags the perch into the living room for him, lounges on the couch so they can watch daytime TV together.
She eats when he does. He goes out to hunt, she forages in the fridge in her kitchen. Doesn't bother going down to the bar.
It's like playing house, she realizes in the afternoon of the third day together. Leaning against the counter, munching on an apple, watching the glass of the balcony doors, waiting for a flash of feathers so she can open it for him. They'll watch TV or she'll get a book from somewhere, or they could go flying together. The possibilities are endless, the demands are none.
This is not what she always wanted but, and especially in those last few days, it is more than she ever would have hoped for.
Afternoon fades into evening and a full moon rises. It's too cold for many thermals but the view and company is worth the hard work of flapping wings more used to soaring. As the moon comes up, howls start below.
Tobias wonders idly. Maybe just to fill the companionable silence that's been between them for the last hour.
Remembering suddenly, verbal and posted warnings, Rachel automatically clarifies,
And then has to explain.
That span of three days where the woods belong to the shifters and all others enter at their own peril.
Like us? no one asks.
And nobody answers, No. Not like us.
The howls below are pained and raw, animal-intense.
And they soar above it all, confident in body if not in mind.
Or dream.
Or hallucination.
They don't talk much.
Maybe, Rachel realizes as she powers through cereal and waits for Tobias to come back from his breakfast hunt, they never did. Not about what matters. Not enough.
And when they did, the volume was a little higher than perhaps necessary.
Perhaps.
"You want to go downstairs?"
If she thought about it, Rachel would know exactly why she asked. What she was trying to do. Why she was trying to do it.
But at the moment, she's too busy staring at her bowl, pretending fascination for the last few floating Frosted Flakes.
She pretends not to notice it. The hesitance, reluctance, discomfort. Everything. Like asking him to the school dance, trying to convince him to see a movie. Everything.
"Something new, different. I could ask Bar for a book and get a table. A booth. I mean, you could perch on the back of the couch and read over my shoulder if you wanted to, right? But a booth would keep a wall at your back."
She should look up. The flakes are getting soggy and she's getting obvious.
"I mean, how many books have you read lately? Like, more than two pages worth?"
Sitting over someone else's shoulder, reading from two hundred yards away.
"It's just an idea."
Now she's defensive, almost snapping.
Perhaps.
She waits for him to respond.
He waits, too. Rachel doesn't know what for exactly.
How this relationship, this relationship, could have possibly become more complicated is utterly beyond her.