All's Fair [3/3], cont'd

[whiskyrunner]

+It's after dawn by the time Eames' childhood home comes into view.

He floors it, making the engine whine, kicking up a cloud of dirt behind him. His heart is beating in triple time by the time he reaches the bottom of the valley, veering into the long gravel drive up to the house.

He's scrambling out of the car even as he throws it into park, shouting, “Arthur!” The house is just the same as he remembers it: old and weathered, ivy trailing up the face. The front door is unlocked and he hurtles through. “Arthur?”

He can smell him; it overwhelms Eames' senses; and Arthur must have heard him the first time because he's there, there and unhurt, bounding down the staircase. Eames doesn't even see the rest of the house where he grew up. He only has eyes for Arthur, who hurtles straight into his arms.

They clutch each other like survivors of a terrible wreck, wrapped up in one another's arms and burying their noses in each other's shoulder, neck, breathing deep to reassure their senses. Eames wants to never let him go. He's never been so relieved in his life. They cling tightly. He noses at Arthur's jaw, and then Arthur finds his mouth and they kiss: hard and passionate, at first; and then slow, gentling, nothing more than tasting each other's lips. For a moment they pause, panting into each other's mouths.

Arthur leans in just as Eames can hear his parents approaching. Arthur's lips brush his ear. “I need you.”

Eames nods mutely. He crushes his lips to Arthur's forehead for just a second before stepping away, just as his parents appear in the front hall.

“Oh, Thomas.” His mum hurries forward and he moves to meet her, enveloping her in a tight hug. His father joins them and Eames takes a moment just to soak in the smell of home.

“I need to go,” he says thickly, all too soon, trying to disentangle himself from his parents. “I'm sorry.”

“But you just got here,” his mum argues. There are tears shining in her eyes.

“I know.” He gives her a last, quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I'll come back.”

“When?” his father asks.

“Soon.” He's aware of Arthur fidgeting behind him. “I promise. I'm sorry,” he says again, backing away.

His parents stop arguing. They know they're in no position to ask anything of him right now, not after what they've done. And Eames wants to stay, he wants that more than anything; and for that reason, he pushes himself out the door as quickly as he can.

“'Bye,” he stops to say around the tightness in his throat. And, taking Arthur by the hand, he pulls him out of the house and shuts the door behind him.

Arthur breathes an audible sigh. “Fresh air.”

They get in the car. Eames rolls the windows down, for Arthur's benefit, and starts the engine.

“Where are we going?” Arthur asks, once they're off the driveway and on the country road. He's reclined his seat, head resting comfortably back so that his throat is a tempting curve above his collar. Eames forces himself to look at the road, even while all his skin is itching with the desire to stop the car and climb on top of Arthur and utterly ravage him, leave marks all over him, restake his claim on Arthur's skin.

“London,” he says tightly. “And then, I don't know. Somewhere else. Anywhere. I hear Iceland's nice this time of year.”

Arthur sighs again, softly.

“No,” he says, sounding resigned. “We have to find someplace to stay. I'm just a couple hours away from going into heat.”

Eames doesn't say anything, but he eases the gas pedal down until the engine is a roar and the wind whipping through the windows steals away Arthur's scent, snatching it away from Eames' face.

“Are you okay?” he asks, after they've put a couple miles behind them. “Did they hurt you?”

“I'm okay. Your parents are nice.” Arthur turns his head, stares out the window at the rolling hills, the lush carpets of heather, the distant flocks of sheep-all the sights and scents of Eames' childhood. “You made them sound like monsters.”

“They are monsters,” Eames reminds him: a feeble joke, intended to deflect. Of course, he can never get past Arthur.

“Why didn't you just tell them I'm your mate?”

Eames grits his teeth, staring down the road so hard his eyes blur. It reminds him that he needs to get a proper sleep in at some point, whenever that's possible.

“I don't know,” he says finally. “I wasn't sure you'd want me to say that. It's a big deal to my kind, isn't it. I practically proposed marriage when we'd been together just a couple months. I didn't want you to be ... overwhelmed.”

“Oh,” says Arthur. “Is that all.”

Eames swallows. “Yes.”

“Because I thought I told you I wanted this. I thought I made it pretty clear that I'm in this for the long haul.”

“It's not that easy, alright?”

Arthur leans back into his seat, his arms folded over his chest, chewing his lip. Eames knows all his tells and he knows something's brewing in Arthur's mind, but still he lets it build up for several minutes without speaking.

Arthur doesn't disappoint.

“Are you embarrassed?”

“What d'you mean?” Eames demands roughly.

“Of me,” Arthur presses. “Am I embarrassing? Because apparently you're some kind of big deal around here, and everyone's probably got all these high expectations for you-”

“You don't know what you're-”

“-and then word gets out that you've finally found someone, only it's not some nice werewolf chick, it's this-this freaky, male ... catperson-”

“You're not a freak!” Eames argues hotly, but Arthur continues to talk over him.

“-so of course you'd deny it, right-why wouldn't you? Anyone would. So I'm not angry, I just want to know ... is that the reason you've been trying so hard to stay away from your family? Because you're embarrassed?”

Frustrated, Eames slams his hand against the steering wheel and snaps, “Yes, alright! I'm embarrassed!”

Arthur blinks. “Okay,” he says quietly. Eames huffs out his breath, wanting to snarl.

“I'm embarrassed that I'm such a coward I can't even tell my parents the truth. All my life they've expected me to come home someday and take up their mantle, and I can't do that anymore, alright, Arthur? An alpha is supposed to provide an heir to his pack, and I can't do that. And I don't care, it doesn't matter, I'll give up the whole fucking pack for you, don't think I won't-but I don't want to see the disappointment in my parents' faces when they realize they have to cast me out. It's got nothing to do with you. This is about me and how I'm a bloody coward when it comes to my parents, I always have been.”

He huffs again, disgruntled at himself for having lost his temper. Arthur takes that in.

“Is that true?” he asks. “You can't be in the pack if you can't make an heir?”

“Most likely,” Eames says tersely. “Not as an alpha, I know that much.”

Arthur frowns. “Is that something you wanted?”

“Which part?” Eames asks, then cuts him off before he can speak, opting for honesty. “Doesn't matter. Yes on both counts. I'm a werewolf and an alpha, Arthur. It's impossible for me not to want to have children or be with my pack. But it doesn't matter. We're all about blood and family ties-that's what would make it possible for me to go home right now and take over my pack and they'd respect me and welcome me after a decade of not seeing me, because it's in their blood to obey me. But as a genetic dead end I'm no good to them.”

He's white-knuckling the steering wheel. He forces himself to relax his grip. Then he turns his head and gives Arthur a quick, reassuring smile.

“I already knew all these things when I got with you. You're worth it, Arthur. Trust me.”

Arthur is still frowning. “I don't want you to be without a family because of me.”

“I'm not without family. I've got you.”

Nothing can substitute the pack in a werewolf's life, of course, not even Arthur; that's part of the reason Eames has stayed away for so long-because he knew the second he got home, he'd want to surround himself with his kind and run with his pack again. It's a yearning he's had buried for so long he almost managed to forget about it. Now he's opened that crater back up and he wishes he could tear himself in half, one half to stay here with Arthur, the other to go home, to his rightful place.

In another second he's rejected that thought vehemently. His place is here with Arthur. Unthinkable to pretend otherwise.

“Isn't there any way you could still be a part of your pack?” Arthur asks. “Even if you aren't the alpha.”

Eames clenches his jaw, despising the thought of submitting to somebody else when his father has to step down. “I told you, it doesn't matter.”

“It's because they wouldn't accept me, isn't it,” says Arthur, astute as ever.

Eames has to slow down and pull over to let another car, coming from the opposite direction, drive over a one-lane bridge ahead of them. He lets the car idle there for a minute, trying to figure out how to respond.

“I don't know,” he says finally. “It's complicated, Arthur. Maybe it wouldn't matter to them, maybe it would. The thing is there are ... customs we adhere to ...” He shakes his head, not knowing how to explain. “None of that matters. I wouldn't have a leg to stand on-they'd never see us as mates if I can't even be near you when I change ...”

“Because you'd mount me,” says Arthur.

Eames kills the engine and sits, silent, for a minute. Arthur just watches him.

“There's this old tradition, kind of an unwritten law,” Eames says finally. “Our way of consummating is to mate under a full moon ... as wolves. In the old days it would be the first time a couple tied with each other. It's nice and all, it's nothing we wouldn't do naturally, but really it's just another way of telling us to mate within our own species, because ... a human wouldn't be able to handle it.”

“But your kind take human mates,” says Arthur.

“And turn them, very carefully,” says Eames. “Or else walk away from the pack.”

“And that's why you'll never let me see you change.”

“Yeah, that's why.” Eames knows he shouldn't feel ashamed, but he does. “Not even in the dreamscape. I wouldn't be able to stop myself. And you're not human, Arthur, I don't even think I could turn you if I had the restraint for it.”

Arthur hisses, adorably. “That's off the table.”

Eames chuckles, relieved for the moment of levity. Then he turns and looks at Arthur, who is flushed, his hair slightly rumpled. Eames reaches over and touches his hand: he's already hot. He folds Arthur's hand into his own.

“It doesn't matter,” he says, one last time. “I've got you and that's what's important.”

“You're the alpha,” Arthur says, staring intently at him. “Can't you change the rules?”

Honestly, Eames doesn't know. There have been alphas out there with same-sex mates in the past, certainly, who'd stepped down or been cast out, and there have been alphas who've taken human mates, but he's the only werewolf he knows of who's gotten himself into this particular jam. Nobody would actually expect him to mate with Arthur on a full moon, but elitists like Alizé might use that rule against him, if he came seeking a place in the pack for them both. Maybe his parents would understand, if he spoke to them, but that would involve explaining his situation, and maybe they'd be so upset they'd cast him out right there ... and that's what he can't face, can't even bear to think about.

“Forget it,” he says. “Let's just go. We'll find a job somewhere, we'll forget about the pack ...”

“After you fuck me,” says Arthur sharply. Eames laughs again.

“Of course, pet,” he says fondly. He squeezes Arthur's hand. “As if I could possibly have forgotten.”

+Eames finds them an inn not too far away, much to Arthur's relief. He's shedding his clothes even before Eames has finished drawing all the curtains shut over the windows.

“Wait,” Eames says when Arthur flops onto the bed, rolling about. Arthur growls.

“No. No waiting.”

Eames hesitates, torn-probably thinking about his pack, worrying about Arthur. Impatient, Arthur rolls onto his belly and waves his tail: an invitation he knows Eames can't refuse. Sure enough, after a moment's pause, Eames is there on the bed behind him, closing his hand around Arthur's tail. Arthur lets it writhe in his grip for a few seconds, and when Eames lets it go, he sweeps it across Eames' face.

Eames gets off the bed with a muttered curse, yanking his clothes off as he fumbles through the bag he'd thought to bring in with them. He returns with lube and, when Arthur spreads his knees invitingly, slides a finger in without preamble. For once, Arthur opens right up for him.

“Hell,” Eames grunts. “Did you prepare yourself for this?”

“No. No, I just need you to fuck me.”

Eames stretches him open without finesse, spilling lube over the sheets. When Arthur can take three fingers easily, he withdraws them, lines the head of his cock up, and eases his way in slowly but forcefully. They both groan.

It's the best thing Arthur's ever felt, but he wants more. He needs more of Eames inside him. He rolls his hips, tail lashing against Eames' shoulder until Eames grabs it and holds it still. When Eames is fully sheathed inside him and he takes a second just to breathe, Arthur nearly becomes frantic, rocking back against him, tearing at the sheets.

“Fuck me. Fuck me now.”

“Alright, alright,” Eames murmurs soothingly. He drapes himself over Arthur's back, pinning the squirming tail between their bodies, and starts to thrust.

The fever really hits Arthur then, with all the force of a wrecking ball: he can't form a single coherent thought, his nerve endings spark wherever Eames touches him. He mewls and sobs and begs for more and can't even feel how Eames is stretching him, can't feel the lube running down his thighs, can't feel how his arms are already aching, can't feel anything except how fucking full he is with Eames inside him. Eames pushes him down gently and he folds, curling himself around a pillow and clinging on. When Eames reaches his climax, the mere thought of him coming inside Arthur is enough to have Arthur spilling over the edge, too.

They don't tie: Eames starts moving in him again almost at once. It doesn't take long for them to fall into the same trap they did the last time: feeding off each other's energy, needing more, never getting enough. Eames growls, beyond words, just making feral sounds in his throat as he pounds into Arthur as hard as he can. They lose themselves in each other's bodies and it seems to Arthur that he's never felt so complete in his entire life.

It's good, it's perfect, but it's not very long before, gradually, Eames' thrusts lose their frantic edge. He starts to slow down a little. Arthur knows his energy can't be flagging yet, so he pushes against Eames impatiently, wanting more, harder.

“Wait,” Eames rasps, and before Arthur can see it coming, he pulls out and, in a few swift jerks, comes across Arthur's back. Arthur can feel where the burning streaks land. Furious at having been cheated-he's supposed to come inside, doesn't Eames realize how important that part is-Arthur twists around to face him, glaring. Eames is kneeling there stiffly, still hard, catching his breath, one hand holding tight around his knot. It looks like it's taking him a monumental effort to sit still and not shove Arthur down, start fucking him again.

Arthur flops onto his back and stretches out, trying to look appealing. Eames' eyes flicker. He shuts them.

“You need to drink,” he says, sliding off the bed.

“No,” Arthur says, dismayed. Eames is walking away; how can he be walking away?

“Yes. I should have thought of that before. Here ...”

He disappears into the ensuite bathroom. Arthur hears the tap run for a long time. Eventually, Eames returns with a glass full of water, wiping his mouth off.

“No,” Arthur says, pushing his hand away impatiently. He thought Eames understood, thought he realized how vitally important their mating is. “I need-”

Then Eames runs his hand through Arthur's hair, and Arthur sways into his touch, helpless.

“Drink and we'll go again,” Eames says.

Grudgingly, Arthur takes the glass and raises it to his lips. The water is cool and good; startlingly so. He gulps it down feverishly.

“You weren't this bad last time,” Eames says, watching him. His eyes are still glazed. “You were able to stop.”

Arthur drains the glass and shoves it at him. “Fuck me now.”

“Wait.”

Again Eames leaves, and Arthur's tail lashes the bed with frustration. Then Eames is back with another glass.

“No,” Arthur snarls, striking at his hand. Eames jerks back. “Fuck me now.”

“One more, pet. For me. Please.”

Arthur's hand shakes as he downs this glass. As soon as it's gone Eames is on the bed with him, wrapping Arthur up in his arms, murmuring in his ear how good he is. Arthur twists onto all fours, and sobs when Eames slides in-half because it feels so overwhelmingly right and good, half because it's starting to hurt. Eames murmurs soothing words in his ear, fucking him gently enough that Arthur quickly starts squirming and growling, clawing the bed. Eames huffs against his neck, and starts fucking him hard again, until Arthur is a mindless, blissed-out puddle in the sheets.

They fuck all day and half the night-Arthur sometimes taking brief, half-hour naps when Eames is tied with him. Every time Eames gets up and forces Arthur to stop for awhile or have some water, Arthur whines, snarls, sulks, tears at the bed. He can't understand how Eames doesn't see how urgent his need is. He goes mad when Eames isn't inside him; he wants to claw right out of his own skin, because the itching, burning desire is so powerful he doesn't think he can stand it. Last time it was he who needed to stop Eames: this time it's Eames who regains his cognitive functions more rapidly, especially as the night wears on, and soon, Arthur starts to smell anxiety on him.

“You're a mess,” Eames murmurs into his neck, nipping under his jaw and rocking into him after another short break. “You have no idea.”

Arthur's too breathless to speak anymore; his throat is raw from crying out. His body is at war with itself: he can't take anymore, it hurts and he's starting to cramp, but he can't stand to be parted from Eames. He hisses, squeezing his eyes shut tight as Eames wrings another orgasm out of him, then falls limp, gasping. Eames mouths his jaw, skates his lips over Arthur's, and starts to slow down. Arthur whines when he pulls out slowly.

“We need to stop now,” Eames says raggedly.

“No. Please.”

Arthur's cheeks are wet; when did that happen? Eames runs his thumb over Arthur's cheekbone, still caging him with his body.

“It's worse this time, isn't it?”

Arthur shuts his eyes again and lolls his head slowly in a nod, exhausted. So much worse.

“Take a break, kitten. Go to sleep.”

“No.” Arthur's voice cracks. He tries to struggle upright from his position on his back. Eames watches him, concerned. “Need you,” Arthur mumbles, reaching for him.

Eames catches his hand. “I think you've actually managed to wear me out this time, Arthur. You've wrung me dry.”

But the length of his cock is still covered in his own come, which is trickling thickly out of Arthur as they speak. It seems like the most important thing to taste him, suddenly. Arthur maneuvers himself awkwardly down the bed, pushing Eames over so he can take his cock into his mouth. Eames grunts, surprised and obviously oversensitive, but Arthur is careful, lapping up the length of the shaft to collect every drop. He doesn't swallow Eames down, just licks, not wanting to miss any of it. When he reaches the head, Eames tenses. Arthur laps over it a few times, collecting stray fluids, and when Eames' cock is clean, he finds himself still wanting more. He fastens his mouth over the head and suckles, trying to coax out any remaining drops.

“Arthur,” Eames bites out, letting his head fall back onto the pillow, and a few feeble spurts of come land on Arthur's tongue. Arthur sucks it down greedily.

Quicker than he can react, Eames grabs and flips him onto his belly. Arthur lands with a startled hiss. At once Eames is on his back, shoving in, and the base of his cock flares so wide that Arthur nearly screeches, not ready for it. But then Eames is in, and he realizes it's the knot, still expanding, stretching him, locking them together. Tears prick the corners of his eyes and he pants into the pillow harshly.

Once they're tied, Eames is very still on top of him. Then-slowly, gently-he wraps Arthur in his arms and rolls him over, causing Arthur to tumble down on top of him, so that he's lying on his back on Eames' chest. Arthur's own chest heaves, but Eames is still inside him, filling him, and that's enough to keep him quiet and quiescent. Eames' hand comes up to cradle his face, and he tilts Arthur's head back for a kiss. When he lets go, Arthur lets his head drop onto Eames' shoulder and closes his eyes, dizzy, panting for breath.

“That's it,” Eames murmurs, letting his hand roam Arthur's torso. Arthur bites his lip when Eames' hand wanders down to his belly-because he's sensitive, too-but the hand goes no further. Just starts rubbing in slow, rhythmic circles, fingernails scraping gently.

It takes Arthur a minute to realize he's purring. He also realizes, in a strange, out-of-body way, that he can't stop.

“Feels good,” he rasps hoarsely.

“You can sleep,” Eames says in his ear, still rubbing his belly. “Go to sleep.”

Arthur struggles to string enough words together to articulate his thoughts. “Don't want you to pull out.”

“I won't. I'll be right here, keeping you nice and full.” His other hand circles where they're joined, right above Arthur's tail. Arthur gives a full-body shiver.

“Promise,” he croaks out.

“I promise,” Eames says.

Arthur is lulled to sleep by the rhythmic rubbing of Eames' hand on his stomach, and the rise and fall of his breathing, up and down.

+When Arthur wakes, light is streaming around the edges of the curtains, burning his sensitive eyes. He groans, moving sluggishly to shield his face when he realizes Eames is wrapped around him, still inside him, fast asleep.

With a snarl, Arthur twists around and shoves him off. As he does so, he becomes aware of the wetness inside him, trickling down onto his thigh. His knees almost buckle when he springs out of bed. He flees for the bathroom while Eames is still stirring groggily.

Blinking sleep out of his eyes, Eames appears at the side of the bathtub to observe Arthur, curled up under a jet of steaming hot water.

“Feeling better?”

Arthur ignores him, turning away so that Eames doesn't see the flush rising in his face. He pretends to be too busy soaping himself to notice Eames standing there.

“Hey.” Eames's voice, behind him, is gentle. “Don't be embarrassed.”

Arthur stops soaping. He's almost quivering with anger.

Eames reaches. “Let me help you.”

“No,” Arthur snaps.

Eames stops. He backs off and disappears, leaving Arthur to his shower.

Arthur stays in the shower until the water starts to run cold, until he's satisfied that he's washed all evidence of the previous day's filth off him. Then he just sits on the toilet, wrapped in a towel, and wrings his tail out for awhile. He's left little grey hairs around the drain; there are more on his hands after a few minutes. He always sheds when he's anxious.

Eames was right. This heat was worse. And it's not over. They've taken the edge off, but it's still there, warming him, vibrating just under his skin.

He vacates the bathroom, taking the hair-dryer with him so that Eames can shower while he begins the laborious process of drying his tail. Eames has stripped the bed, balled up all the sheets and tossed them in the corner. Arthur sits on the edge of the bare mattress, and his tail is just about dry by the time Eames is done, wandering out of the bathroom with a huge yawn.

“I'm knackered, Arthur. Can't believe you managed to wear me out.” He yawns again, pulling his clothes on stiffly. Then he notices Arthur's face. His expression softens. “Sore?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says through clenched teeth.

Eames moves closer, leans down when he sees that Arthur isn't going to snap at him again and kisses him on the forehead. “Do you need anything?”

“I don't know. Food,” Arthur amends.

“I can get food. You have a lazy day. Just stay in bed and take it easy, yeah?”

“I can't,” Arthur grits out. He stops the hair-dryer, smoothing his tail fur out. “It's not over yet.”

Eames sighs. “What do you want to do?”

“Not sex,” Arthur groans, passing a hand over his eyes. “Can we ... go outside? I need fresh air.”

Unexpectedly, Eames perks up. “Shall we go for a walk?” he says, and Arthur has to chuckle weakly-Eames is like a pet dog who's just heard the magic word. He nods, and Eames brightens even more. “I want to show you my home.”

“I've seen your home,” says Arthur. “I stayed there.”

“No,” Eames says, smiling. “Let me show you.”

Arthur dresses, not caring if his tail is still a little damp in his jeans, and they get in the car together. As Eames drives, Arthur rolls the passenger-side window and props his head against the frame, shutting his eyes. The wind blasts against his face, refreshingly cool. Eames stops outside a shop by the road to pick up food-biscuits, fresh rolls, cheese, crisps, juiceboxes, all the makings of a proper picnic-and then they're on their way again. Back toward Eames' parents' house. Arthur fidgets.

“Won't we ... attract attention, if we get too close to your family?”

Eames shakes his head. “It's just my parents that live up this way, there shouldn't be anyone else around unless someone's visiting. We're pretty spread out. It's mainly the full moon when everyone gets together here.”

Arthur reminds himself of their inferior sense of smell. His own nose is burning with all the scents of the countryside, and Eames beside him. It's terribly distracting. He can't wait for this heat to be over.

Eames parks the car on the side of the road before they get anywhere near the house. He takes the bag of food in one hand and Arthur's hand in the other and leads him away from the road.

They go slowly, for Arthur's benefit. That's the only mercy Eames shows him, though-he's so excited to show Arthur where he grew up, and Arthur stubbornly refuses the offer to carry him. He limps along after Eames as they trek uphill, too glad of the fresh air and the activity to complain.

“I used to run around these hills all day,” Eames tells him, still leading him by the hand. “Four-legged, of course.” He's not even out of breath and they've been walking for an hour.

“Uh-huh,” is all Arthur can puff out.

“Had all my secret spots where I could smoke a fag in peace. Alizé used to come along-”

He cuts himself off, pursing his lips.

“You guys were close?” Arthur asks, struggling up gamely alongside him.

“We were like brothers,” Eames says. “We grew up together, after all. He used to be different, believe it or not. I guess he changed around the time his dad left the pack-we were teenagers then.”

“And Faye?” Arthur asks. “Did you grow up with her?”

He can see the way Eames' expression closes off.

“Faye's not part of my family,” he says in a short, clipped way. “Her parents moved to the area from Japan. Human. Owned a restaurant, I think. Faye was bitten when she was nine years old.”

Arthur is surprised. As Eames has said, survivors of such attacks are rare. It seems strange that a little girl would manage to make it.

“Your pack adopted her?” he asks, struggling to keep pace with Eames, who seems to have momentarily forgotten he's there. “Is that how that works?”

“Generally,” says Eames. He slows down. “Her parents took her to a hospital and when there was nothing they could do, they no longer wanted the care of her. As far as I know, she hasn't seen them since.”

“What happened to the wolf who bit her?”

“Nothing,” says Eames tersely. “They never figured out who it was. Nobody came forward to take responsibility, so my parents took her in.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“It was Alizé,” says Eames.

They're silent for a few minutes. Arthur's too focused on keeping his footing to even realize they're at the top of the hill until Eames says, “Look.”

He turns and looks. The whole valley is spread out before them. There are other hills-or are they mountains?-rising dark blue on the horizon, and in between, a lush landscape of rolling moors. It looks like a patchwork quilt of shades of green, with a brown patch here and there, all of them divided by stone walls or rows of hedges or road. He can see their car, ant-sized from where they are, and other cars creeping along the road. He even recognizes Eames' parents' house, looking like a quaint little castle in the middle of the countryside. He recognizes the forest behind the house, and the stream he'd been able to hear from the guest room, flowing out all the way to the foot of the hill where he and Eames are standing.

“It's beautiful,” he tells Eames, turning to look at him. Eames is drinking it all in, and he looks so wistful that it makes Arthur's heart ache for him.

Then he turns away and says, “Come on.”

They wander down the other side, and Arthur takes to the downhill trek much more readily. He's starting to feel antsy again, itching in his clothes. Eames leads him to a strand of trees at the foot of the hill, right on the bank of the stream. There, they sit and eat. It's a long time before Arthur is full-he hasn't eaten since supper with Eames' parents, but fortunately Eames has brought plenty for them both.

“How are you feeling?” Eames asks, still picking at a bag of crisps. Arthur, lying on his belly in the sun with his eyes half closed, digesting, shakes his head irritably.

He's closed his eyes fully and put his head down on his arms when he feels Eames' hand running up and down his spine. He arches into the touch unconsciously, a movement that ripples all the way down to his tailtip.

“You smell good,” Eames rumbles. He takes his hand away. Arthur shivers, cold now even though he knows he's running a fever.

“Fuck me again,” he says hoarsely.

Eames peels him out of his clothes gently, laying apologetic kisses all over Arthur's body. He licks him open as if he can soothe the burn he'd left behind, and Arthur grips fistfuls of the soft grass beneath him to anchor himself to earth when Eames pushes in. It still hurts more than he anticipates. His vision blurs and he buries his head in the grass, not wanting Eames to see how much pain he's in, because he still needs this.

Eames needs it too, by the sound of it: he's quick and graceless, hungry for Arthur's skin, leaving bite marks to distract Arthur from the hurt where they're joined. He grunts softly on each thrust, growling take it, take it. Arthur rides it out at first, but by the end he's pushing tentatively back into Eames, gauging how much he can handle. It's easing from hurt into good again, quenching Arthur's need. It's so good.

He comes over the grass, not even aware he was hard until Eames strokes him with a spit-slicked hand, and then he just melts.

“Don't tie with me,” he thinks to say when Eames speeds up, growling again. Immediately Eames pulls out halfway and then he's coming, flooding Arthur with heat, clenching a hand around the base of his cock to stop the swelling of his knot.

He buries his nose in the side of Arthur's neck when he's caught his breath, inhaling deeply, and murmurs with a possessive squeeze of Arthur's hips, “You're mine.”

“I'm yours,” Arthur agrees in exhaustion, completely wrung out.

They slide apart gingerly. Arthur rolls over and starts pulling his clothes on, because the grass prickles his hypersensitive skin even though it's soft. Eames fastens his trousers and sits apart from him, closer to the stream, upwind of Arthur's scent.

“Why is it getting worse?” he punctures the silence, once Arthur has settled back down into a supine position.

Arthur sighs. He doesn't want to talk. He wants to spend the rest of the day dozing right here, in this comfortable patch of sunlight. No-the rest of the week.

“I don't know,” he says wearily. He opens one eye to look at Eames. “It's early again, too.”

“What are we going to do next time? Bloody hell, Arthur, another heat like that could kill you.”

“I think it has something to do with you,” says Arthur slowly. “It's not so predictable when you're around.”

“Should I leave, next time?” Eames asks uncertainly. “I'd have to be on the other side of the continent to keep myself away, but-”

“No,” Arthur says, unable to handle that thought. “I need you. It goes by faster when I'm with you.”

“What if it gets worse?”

He can't handle that thought, either. So he just puts his head back down and closes his eyes, purposefully shutting Eames out. He hears Eames sigh.

He's not sure how long he's been napping, or if he's even fallen asleep at all, when Eames startles him with a sudden growl. He senses Eames move past him, and cracks open his eyes sluggishly. There's another figure striding toward them. When he lifts his face out of the grass, Arthur can smell him. Alizé.

He sits up and watches as Eames meets Alizé a short distance away, a barrier between the werewolf and Arthur.

“Going for a walk?”

“I followed his scent.” Alizé's tone is derisive. “Faye told me what happened in Alaska.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Exactly.” Arthur can see the way Alizé's eyes burn even from where he's sitting. “You would never have passed her up in the past. You didn't want her because you already have a mate.”

His gaze shifts to Arthur, momentarily distracted and suspicious.

“Why does he smell like that?”

“Go away, Alizé,” Eames growls. “Go away before I hurt you.”

Silence. Arthur realizes Alizé is just breathing in, tasting the scent of him. Eames growls and shoves him back a pace, hackling.

“Go back to the house.”

“Your parents deserve to know,” Alizé snaps, recovering. “I don't want to see you cast out, Eames-”

“You'd love to see me cast out, we both know you're the next in line-I'm talking!” Eames snarls, grabbing Alizé by the arm and yanking him back when he tries to slip past.

“Let me smell him,” Alizé says.

“You touch him and I will kill you, Alizé-”

“I don't want to touch your filthy pet,” Alizé spits at him. “I just want to smell him.”

From where he sits, Arthur can smell the anxiety and hostility in the air. He can sense, too, that dangerous, thrumming undercurrent of energy that had emanated from Eames back in the house in Toronto, carrying the scent of electricity and ozone. Arthur tenses warily, watching them both. His hand curls around a butter knife Eames had brought from the inn for their lunch.

“Go back to the house,” Eames says again, and Alizé sneers.

“If you think I'm going to take orders from you now-”

“And if you think I can't take your throat out just because I let you live in Alaska, you're wrong,” Eames seethes. The air is virtually crackling around him.

“Now you choose that unnatural creature over your own family?” Alizé demands. He breaks past Eames, who rounds on him with a snarl, frayed to his breaking point. “Let me smell him,” Alizé insists, and the air is dry and fraught with tension-something snaps as soon as Alizé is in between Arthur and Eames.

It's a blur of fur. The changes happen almost too rapidly for Arthur's eyes to follow-flashing jaws, billowing fur, and then Alizé is changing too, triggered by the threat, sprouting a chocolate-brown pelt and falling to all fours. And then the wolf that is Eames is shaking off the tatters of its clothes impatiently, its muzzle twitching. It swings its head around so that its gaze bores directly into Arthur, who is still sitting, mute, frozen, on the bank.

And it hits him how stupid he was for ever wanting this. Because he doesn't see Eames in there, he just doesn't.

The wolf's nostrils flare-scenting him-and icy fear starts to trickle through Arthur's veins. Then it turns, bulling Alizé out of its way, and curves its body so that it shields Arthur from sight.

The brown wolf-Alizé-is bigger than the Eames-wolf, but rangier. As a wolf Eames is stocky and compact, dense with fur and muscle. His coat is tawny, with rusty reddish ears and a grey-tipped mane. He's-beautiful, Arthur thinks dumbly, really; his features are unmistakeably lupine, but there's something vaguely feline about the form, his short and sturdy body putting Arthur weirdly in mind of a big cat. He's a wolf, but like something primordial and ancient.

For a second he and Alizé square off, eyeing one another. Their manes hackle between their shoulders. Arthur thinks back to his textbooks, one passage jumping out of his memory: Serious injuries between werewolves are rare, as a fight is mostly composed of posturing ... The subordinate wolf knows when he is outmatched, and will submit before serious harm can be done to either combatant ...

For a long moment this holds true: they're just posturing, growling at each other and showing their teeth, but not moving.

Then Alizé starts to duck forward. Immediately Eames is on him with a snarl, grasping him around the neck and fastening his teeth in Alizé's mane. He can't find a hold, though; Alizé shakes him off and lunges for his face, causing Eames to rear back onto his haunches momentarily before crashing back down on top of his cousin and sinking his teeth into Alizé's ear. Alizé bucks and twists and manages to flip them over, and they maul each other with their paws before they break apart. Eames, again, plants himself between Alizé and Arthur. They're only apart for a second before Alizé rushes him again.

The smell of werewolf blood starts to choke Arthur, sending danger signals to his brain. But he can't get up, can't get away, and he doesn't want to distract them anyway, in case they decide he's more interesting than the fight is. It's hard to tell who's winning at any given moment: they move so fast that all he can register is a flash of jaws or wet red fur, and the snarls and yelps he can't tell apart. He sees blood all down Eames' face and isn't sure if it's his own or not. Inch by inch, too, Alizé is gaining ground, forcing Eames back toward the stream.

They claw each other's faces with their paws and land blows that would shatter a human's bones. When they bite, they aim for each other's faces or necks. Their chests are soon bloody from taking the brunt of these failed attacks, but their manes, too, start to crust with blood, proving that some of these bites are finding their mark. Alizé manages to clamp his jaws around Eames' foreleg for a second and Arthur hears him scream; before he can recover, Alizé bowls him to the ground and tries to grab his throat, but Eames starts raking him viciously with his rear paws until Alizé has to leap away, growling, before Eames can eviscerate him. They barrel closer and closer to Arthur, who's not even sure the wolves remember he's there anymore, too caught up in their bloodlust.

He's snapped abruptly out of his reverie when he feels the rush of air caused by a swing from Eames' tail. Then he starts to scramble backwards, awkwardly. The fighting wolves spin around so that Alizé's back is to Arthur. In a split second, without even consciously thinking about it, Arthur stops retreating and instead lurches forward. He slams the butter knife point-first as hard as he can, deep into Alizé's flank.

Alizé screeches. It's all the opening Eames needs to pounce and get a good hold on the back of Alizé's neck. Alizé roars, bucks, tries to throw him off, but Eames locks his jaws and clings on. His long second canines shear through the thick fur of Alizé's mane and blood starts to run down the side of Alizé's neck in thick rivulets.

Snarling, Alizé drops to the ground and rolls, dragging Eames with him. Eames doesn't surrender his hold. Alizé shakes him, tries to twist out of his grip. The blood runs faster. When Alizé falls still, exhausted, Eames looses his teeth and attacks the side of Alizé's face. He lays open a wound so deep Arthur sees white bone before Alizé screams and twists away, half blinded by his own blood.

Eames just stands there, his muzzle stained with red, and Arthur doesn't understand until the chocolate brown wolf, spitting and crying with pain and fury, bends into a crouch and twists his head to show his throat.

He's submitting. Eames considers him.

Then he flies at Alizé, swinging a paw at his face. Alizé turns and runs. His tail isn't quite between his legs, but it may as well be. The butter knife is still embedded in his side. Arthur wonders if that will heal when he changes back.

Eames watches him go, his sides heaving for breath, and licks his lips. Sudden exhaustion settles over Arthur again, as if he'd been the one fighting. He puts his head down, dizzy, and closes his eyes.

He hears Eames' approach. Feels the brush of his cold wet nose as he sniffs at Arthur's neck. Arthur stops breathing and wonders if playing dead works with werewolves. The tip of a hot, flat tongue touches the pulse point in his neck; the same thing Eames had done the first time he smelled Arthur in heat.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

The massive wolf rumbles, perhaps approving of his prize. Arthur senses the wolf moving over him, positioning itself. Its clawed paws bracket either side of Arthur's shoulders. Then it leans down. Arthur feels hot breath on the back of his neck before its jaws start to close on his skin, to hold him in place.

He hisses, exploding from the ground and twisting around to confront the wolf, shocked at his own reaction.

“No,” he snaps.

The wolf, standing over him, looks startled, too. Only for a second. Then its lips pull back from its teeth, revealing the full length of the serrated canines that can slice through bones like butter. Its muzzle wrinkles and its ears lay back, and a growl bubbles out of its throat, long and rumbling.

Arthur considers lying still again, letting this happen, waiting for the wolf to realize how difficult penetrating Arthur will actually be, what with all these clothes and things in the way. Then it lunges lightning-quick; grabs at Arthur's collar and yanks hard, tearing the fabric a bit, as if to answer that question.

Arthur hisses again and strikes at him involuntarily. The wolf jerks it head back.

“You'll hurt me, Eames,” Arthur says steadily.

The wolf-Eames-stares at him, muzzle still wrinkled but teeth slowly being put away. It moves back, ears still flattened, but no longer caging Arthur's body. One ear swivels as if in sudden discomfort, and then Eames looks away. As Arthur watches, the wolf yawns deliberately.

Disgruntled, Arthur settles back down in the grass and closes his eyes. He hears the wolf pad away. When he cracks open an eye just to check where it is, he sees it marking a tree nearby. It wanders back over, settles a respectful distance away and starts licking its wounds with long, slow rasps of its tongue.

After five minutes of this steady rasping, Arthur opens his eyes again and turns his head to glare. “That sound is really annoying.”

The wolf stops. It gets up and moves closer to Arthur before it lies down again. There's no trace of a snarl anymore. It yawns again, uncertain, and then just watches Arthur. Waiting.

Not growling. Not trying to mount him again. Just lying there, looking vaguely worried.

In spite of himself, Arthur sits up and edges closer, curious. This is what he'd wanted, after all. To see Eames as he really is.

“Can I touch you?” he asks.

The wolf just gazes at him steadily, ears tilted forward. When Arthur reaches out tentatively and brushes the top of his head with his fingers, the wolf closes his eyes. Arthur explores him by touch: the soft, short hairs on the top of his head, the velvet of his reddish ears. The silver-tipped guard hairs of his mane, where not crusted in spikes with dried blood, are long and prickly at the tips but soft when Arthur buries his fingers under them. The thick undercoat completely covers his hand.

When his hand trails down to the shoulder, the wolf rolls onto his side, legs crooking out of the way so Arthur can see his belly. Arthur grunts.

“You're a big softie,” he says critically, pretending not to see the gashes that decorate Eames' flanks. The wolf's eyes close again as if in grave agreement.

Arthur withdraws his hand. He's too tired. He stretches out, curling onto his side. The grass rustles when the wolf rolls over. After a moment, his massive paw is on Arthur's shoulder. He paws gently, entreatingly, pulling Arthur closer to him. Grumbling, Arthur squirms until his back touches the warm bulk of wolf's flank and he can feel steady puffs of breath against the back of his neck. The wolf curves its entire body around him, tucking one hind leg between Arthur's.

He smells like Eames. Familiar and comforting.

They both sleep into nightfall, right there in the grass, side by side.

+When Arthur wakes, shivering, Eames is stomping around in the dark, human-formed once more, trying to salvage his clothes. Different emotions churn the air around him. Arthur can smell fear and anger predominantly.

Eames picks up a piece of cloth and then shakes his head, snorting. Looking up, he notices that Arthur is awake. He doesn't say anything about whether he's still injured, or how close a call that had been, him changing in such close proximity to Arthur.

“He's going to tell the pack,” he says dully instead, after a pause.

Arthur doesn't know what to say, how to comfort him. Eames flings the scrap of cloth down with a bark of mirthless laughter.

“Fuck,” he says.

+In the morning Eames finds that he can't bear to be near Arthur, not right now. So instead, he returns to the hills, where he sheds his clothes, changes his form, and runs and runs and runs. Until his muscles ache and his lungs burn and he has nowhere left to run to.

He retrieves his clothes and makes his way to the house.

He expects shame, shouting. He does not expect the tight embrace his mother folds him into.

“Is Arthur okay?” are the first words out of her mouth when she's stepped back, her hands still resting on his arms. Eames nods, and she smiles, squeezing him. “I told you he would be,” she says to her husband.

His expression is grave. “You took a terrible risk.”

“I know.” Eames' voice is barely a whisper. He can remember coming to the realization in his dim, feral mind that Arthur was something much more fragile than a she-wolf, something he couldn't hurt, and that truth had ingrained itself in him as deep as any inherent instinct. If he hadn't realized that in time...

That's the last they speak of that.

They take him to the parlour, where they can all sit. Eames' parents sit across from him. He feels like he's on trial. Maybe he is. He scrubs his hands over his face wearily.

“I'm sorry.”

“You could have told us,” his father says.

“I didn't want to ... disappoint you.”

His parents exchange one of their lingering glances that seem to contain an entire silent conversation. Eames' heart sinks, watching them. They are disappointed in him.

“You have options,” his father says finally, turning back to him. “Didn't you know that? You're an alpha, you-you can take concubines, if you need to.”

For a moment Eames thinks about that-taking a female who could bear him young, having Arthur and the pack and his status in it-being a father-

But the momentary rush of hope fades quickly.

“I can't,” he says flatly. “I told him I wouldn't share him. I don't expect him to share, either.”

“Damnit, son,” his father mutters, sighing. Eames' mother lays a gentle hand over her husband's arm, gazing steadily at him.

“Alizé is the only other grandchild of your father,” she says to him. “He doesn't have a mate yet. Thomas does. That makes him the alpha next in line. When Alizé has a child, he or she can take up the mantle.”

“But it's not that simple,” her husband argues.

“I don't see why not.”

“You're not stepping down any time soon anyway, are you?” Eames says, looking from one of them to the other. “I don't need to run the pack right now. Maybe I never will. I just want to know I still have a place here when I come home. Arthur too.”

His parents glance at each other again.

“We always accept mates who come from other packs,” his mother says softly.

“This is different.”

“It won't matter to them. He's Thomas' mate and Thomas is their blood. They'll accept him.”

“As long as Thomas isn't the leader of the pack-”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Eames follows their conversation back and forth, growing hopeful. It's important to him that Arthur have a place in the pack, too. Arthur has no family; he's the only one of his kind that they know of, and Eames knows how alienated he feels around the humans he's always tried to blend in with. He wants Arthur to be accepted by his family. It's not the same thing, but-maybe it will help.

After one last, lingering glance, his father turns back to Eames.

“Bring your mate to meet the pack, Thomas,” he says. “Then we'll see.”

+++
Arthur is not altogether too sure he's ready for this.

Eames' shoulder brushes his side. The full moon is blazing above them and the scent of many werewolves on the wind is making all of Arthur's instincts scream at him to run. Running would be a good idea, he thinks. Anything but descending into the valley where the pack is spread out.

They move closer, curious, when they see Eames loping down the hill to join them. Arthur sees a few tails start to wag, only to fall stone-still when they see Arthur behind him. Alizé lurks at the back of the group, his ears pinned, but doesn't make any move to approach.

“He wouldn't have hurt you,” Eames had told him after the fact, practically squirming in self-abasement. “It was my fault, he got my protective instincts all riled up. If he'd gotten close he would have smelled me all over you and stopped. I just couldn't let him get near you.”

“Faye shouldn't have told him,” Arthur snapped.

“She's bound to him,” Eames had said fairly. “If he asked, she couldn't lie.”

Faye isn't there, Arthur notes, testing the air. He can pick out Micah's scent, though, and Eames' parents. She must be gone, working some job so that she doesn't have to be near them. He pities her, sort of.

The wolves mill closer, curious, their eyes flashing green and gold. Eames stops in front of Arthur and fixes them all in a baleful stare. His body language can be read loud and clear: This is my pack, and this is my mate. Problem?

Arthur hardly breathes, curling his hands into clammy fists. The pack attacking them both is a very real possibility, though Eames said his parents could stop them from doing much damage-limit them to simply driving the pair off. Arthur hadn't been allowed to bring a gun. He wonders if the wolves can hear his pounding heartbeat. He sees more than one pair of ears laying back, like Alizé's; a hostile sign.

A she-wolf slips out of the crowd, a lithe white and grey form carrying the scent of Eames' mother. She pads right past Arthur to press her muzzle to the side of Eames' in greeting. A leaner copy of Eames, more grey than tawny, limps up to her shoulder and gazes steadily at Eames.

Arthur can practically see the tension dissolving from the werewolves' shoulders when they see that their leaders are unperturbed by their presence. When Eames' parents have slipped away, a large blond wolf greets Eames by grabbing his ear. Arthur is alarmed until he sees that it's just a playful gesture, Eames shouldering good-naturedly back against the blond who continues to mouth him. Tails start wagging again, and a few more of the pack come forward to sniff and nudge at Eames.

Arthur exhales slowly, thinking feebly, What about me? Eames is too distracted to protect him quickly enough if it comes to that, and wolves are approaching Arthur, too, their eyes alight with curiosity. He swiftly runs through everything Eames told him: Stand still. Don't make sudden movements. They're not afraid of humans, their first reaction will be fight over flight. Let them check you out. They might push you around a bit, that's normal. Most of all, he'd said gravely, remember that no werewolf will ever attack you without giving you warning first.

He has to keep that last point in mind when they come close enough to sniff. He feels a couple damp noses snuffling over his hands, and has to force himself to keep stock-still. The knife strapped to his ankle feels very inadequate.

The Micah-scented wolf approaches with a she-wolf at its side, and shoulders him, a seemingly companionable gesture of acknowledgement. Arthur stumbles. Intrigued, even more wolves pad up to sniff at him. It's like being surrounded by circling sharks. Or hungry goats at a petting zoo, Arthur isn't sure. They all want to be close, to sniff and nudge him the way they are with Eames.

Eames returns eventually, and his packmates move respectfully away. Nobody seems concerned by Arthur's presence anymore. They've satisfied themselves. He's got alpha-scent all over him (and bruises to match); they're not going to challenge him. Arthur's passed their scrutiny. Somehow, he's in.

No longer interested, the wolves begin to disband and mill apart. A few pairs of mates slip away while the rest get back to whatever they were doing before, playing and socializing. Arthur lets go of his breath slowly, sways and sits down on the hill where he stands. Eames pads up to him and cocks his head quizzically, as if to say, What are you doing down there?

“Hey, big guy,” Arthur says warily, ready for anything.

He's not in danger, of course. Eames circles and lies down next to him, stretching out comfortably and surveying his packmates with a regal air. Arthur touches his shoulder.

“Go play with your family,” he says. “You missed them.”

Eames yawns in response, resting his muzzle on his folded paws. Arthur's hand on his shoulder doesn't seem to bother him, so he keeps it there and stops talking. They sit there for a long time, side by side, watching Eames' pack at play.