[Wild Roses] Isaac Gabriel, future forward
Title: cider on the steps
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Isaac Gabriel, Midori
Prompt: 64A "thoughts"
Word Count: 539
Notes: Prompted by a request for werewolves, a secondary request for Midori. I wasn't exactly expecting to see her from this angle. O.o; Somewhere well after the wars, may get expanded more at some point..
He let his mouth split in a taste-testing yawn as he sat down on the steps of the house, letting new cider curl around his tongue and the back of his throat. Early-fall apples, cloves, real cinnamon, and a gentle bite of acid from the lemon he'd tossed into the pot.
Holding the mug in the palm of his hand, he glanced around, then didn't laugh out loud. "You spend too much time thinking," he told her, and watched her ears flick in mild surprise.
She blended in best in fall, that was true, her fur in the same range of shades as the leaves and the aging grasses she was sitting in, but she was still fur, in among leaves and grass and tree bark. He might not be his brother, or of the pack, but he wasn't dumb.
Not like that anyway, and he toasted her with his cider as she shifted, settling on her heels, her knees tucked neatly together. She never talked in wolf-shape, he'd noticed recently, mostly because he'd been startled nearly out of his skin by Conall starting a conversation from waist height. She didn't spend a lot of time in wolf shape, really; nine times in ten when he saw her she was on two feet, not four.
"Most people would say you don't spend enough time thinking," she said, and only barely missed sounding honestly prim.
He grinned cheerfully at her, not bothering to try to hide his teeth. "It's worked for uncle Fintain. You, on the other hand, probably remind people more of uncle Hernén, and I don't know anyone who's willing to bet that he's not up to something."
It took him a moment to realise she was laughing, not coughing, a dry harrumphing sort of laughter entirely unlike his cousin's, and he snickered himself. He should be comparing his cousin to her, or to the other Bordeaux, not them to him. But then Conall was there, in a way most other wolves weren't, whether the invisibility was deliberate--hunting was easiest when the quarry didn't know one was around--or incidental.
She swallowed the last of the laughter, smiled at him with her eyes, not her mouth, "That would be a foolish bet."
He heard one of her knees click as she rose, padded closer. He held up the cider, shifted one of his knees to make space for her beside him, and she took the cup from his hand as she settled. When he glanced at her though the corner of his eye, he blinked, then tried not to frown at how gingerly she was holding the pottery. Thought, very briefly, cooled it slightly with a flick of the hand she couldn't see.
She almost certainly didn't realise how obviously she reacted, curling both hands in, cupping warmth into her palms instead of trying not to drop the cider in pain. She moved a little differently when she was making a point, movement exaggerated only just slightly from this but her eyes intent instead of looking somewhere else.
"How's the pack?" he asked, and her eyes flicked at him, startled, then dropped down to the cider.
"Well," she replied, after a moment. "A little bored--" cast a glance at him, amused, "--too much time for thinking."
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Isaac Gabriel, Midori
Prompt: 64A "thoughts"
Word Count: 539
Notes: Prompted by a request for werewolves, a secondary request for Midori. I wasn't exactly expecting to see her from this angle. O.o; Somewhere well after the wars, may get expanded more at some point..
He let his mouth split in a taste-testing yawn as he sat down on the steps of the house, letting new cider curl around his tongue and the back of his throat. Early-fall apples, cloves, real cinnamon, and a gentle bite of acid from the lemon he'd tossed into the pot.
Holding the mug in the palm of his hand, he glanced around, then didn't laugh out loud. "You spend too much time thinking," he told her, and watched her ears flick in mild surprise.
She blended in best in fall, that was true, her fur in the same range of shades as the leaves and the aging grasses she was sitting in, but she was still fur, in among leaves and grass and tree bark. He might not be his brother, or of the pack, but he wasn't dumb.
Not like that anyway, and he toasted her with his cider as she shifted, settling on her heels, her knees tucked neatly together. She never talked in wolf-shape, he'd noticed recently, mostly because he'd been startled nearly out of his skin by Conall starting a conversation from waist height. She didn't spend a lot of time in wolf shape, really; nine times in ten when he saw her she was on two feet, not four.
"Most people would say you don't spend enough time thinking," she said, and only barely missed sounding honestly prim.
He grinned cheerfully at her, not bothering to try to hide his teeth. "It's worked for uncle Fintain. You, on the other hand, probably remind people more of uncle Hernén, and I don't know anyone who's willing to bet that he's not up to something."
It took him a moment to realise she was laughing, not coughing, a dry harrumphing sort of laughter entirely unlike his cousin's, and he snickered himself. He should be comparing his cousin to her, or to the other Bordeaux, not them to him. But then Conall was there, in a way most other wolves weren't, whether the invisibility was deliberate--hunting was easiest when the quarry didn't know one was around--or incidental.
She swallowed the last of the laughter, smiled at him with her eyes, not her mouth, "That would be a foolish bet."
He heard one of her knees click as she rose, padded closer. He held up the cider, shifted one of his knees to make space for her beside him, and she took the cup from his hand as she settled. When he glanced at her though the corner of his eye, he blinked, then tried not to frown at how gingerly she was holding the pottery. Thought, very briefly, cooled it slightly with a flick of the hand she couldn't see.
She almost certainly didn't realise how obviously she reacted, curling both hands in, cupping warmth into her palms instead of trying not to drop the cider in pain. She moved a little differently when she was making a point, movement exaggerated only just slightly from this but her eyes intent instead of looking somewhere else.
"How's the pack?" he asked, and her eyes flicked at him, startled, then dropped down to the cider.
"Well," she replied, after a moment. "A little bored--" cast a glance at him, amused, "--too much time for thinking."