The Werekitten Chronicles, part trois

[whiskyrunner]

Title: The Werekitten Chronicles, part trois
Pairing: catboy!Arthur/werewolf!Eames
Words: ~7300
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Arthur and Eames introduce their mutant offspring to the pack.
Warnings: WEREBABYKITTENS. FLUFF. ARG.
Author's Note: Pavlov's Bell verse! You may want to read All's Fair before this one. You all wanted to see the werekittens meeting the pack, so here it is, because I'm weak. The other werebaby parts are here. Also, if you haven't seen this fanart by my bff (who has never even read these stories) or this by plasticwrappixi, you need to right now.


People are looking at them like they're crazy when they board the plane. They probably are crazy, bundling three infants onto a plane. At least it's only an hour-long flight from Paris to London.

They're taking the red-eye. The babies have been sleeping through the night consistently for awhile now, and to Arthur's relief, they remain fast asleep during the check-in process. They're good at sticking to their routine. Ariadne, who's coming with them to London, is quick with a pacifier when Leah fusses a little, putting her out again. Her brothers are mostly out to the world for the majority of the check-in and boarding.

When they're on the plane and Arthur is settled comfortably in his window seat, with Will dozing in his lap, he's feeling fairly smug about how well-behaved his children are. Even when the engines start to roar all around them and the plane starts to take off, they're quiet. He's not aware Thomas is awake until his ears are just starting to pop and he hears Eames next to him saying, “Oh, no, Tommy, not you ...”

He turns to look. Thomas' face is scrunched up; he looks on the verge of a meltdown.

Eames scoops him swiftly and starts rubbing his back, murmuring to him. Arthur winces and looks away. He hates it when Thomas cries. Thomas is the happiest of his siblings; he seems to accept everything with a sort of philosophical grace. Nothing much seems to ruffle him. So when he cries, it's as if the world has done him a personal wrong, just to upset him. And Arthur hates that. To be honest, it makes him feel like crying, too.

Eames, evidently made of sterner stuff, keeps up a steady stream of comfort even while Thomas breaks into full-on tears, crying and clutching at his ear, which is tucked away underneath a hat Arthur's mom had knitted-not one of his little wolfish ears, but his human one.

“Another ear infection coming on,” Eames grunts, shifting Thomas to his other arm. “Poor little mite, we didn't think of that.”

Arthur just gazes out at the glittering black landscape below and starts worrying his lip between his teeth. It seems like a bad omen.

Thomas' cries dwindle into whimpers when they finally reach cruising altitude, though no effort by Ariadne or Eames can soothe him completely. He just goes on rubbing his ear and whimpering, and it's such a short flight that it normally feels like they're only at cruising altitude for a few minutes before they start to descend, but to Arthur, this time, it feels like forever. When the plane starts to descend and the air pressure starts to change again, Thomas breaks into fresh tears and cries like his little heart is breaking.

He's so audibly distressed that at least half the other passengers are looking over with more sympathy than annoyance. As soon as the plane lands, Eames scoops Will out of Arthur's lap and says “Grab the luggage” before he and Ariadne hurry the babies off the plane.

Will and Leah are strapped into a stroller by the time Arthur gets into the terminal-Will still fast asleep, Leah sucking on her pacifier and taking it all in with wide eyes. Arthur drops the diaper bag next to them and looks at Eames, who is still trying to soothe Thomas. When Thomas sees Arthur, he curves toward him with a wail. His nose is running and his face is wet with tears.

“I'm sorry,” Eames says, shifting Thomas' weight in his arms, as if Thomas' ear infections are his fault. He sounds exhausted; neither of them have slept for twenty-four hours. “I know this isn't your thing-”

“Give him to me,” Arthur says.

Eames hands him over. Thomas is reaching for Arthur before he's even in his arms. Arthur hefts him up against his chest, that spot where the babies settle so naturally in his arms, and Thomas burrows into him. There's a tissue in Arthur's jacket pocket. He pulls it out and gently wipes his baby's face, then stoops down and digs through the diaper bag until he finds a teething ring to offer. Thomas takes it and gums it, muffling his whimpers.

Eames sighs heavily.

“We'll have to get him on some more antibiotics,” he says. “We definitely can't put him on a plane again until he's feeling better. Have you ever been on a plane with an ear or sinus infection? The poor little thing.”

Arthur sighs, too, pressing his cheek to the top of Thomas' head.

“We're here for the full moon, then,” he says.

Eames nods. Thomas' whimpers dwindle off slowly into soft, raspy little breaths.

+Arthur loves his babies. Loves them in that special kind of way where he would submit to waterboarding and bamboo splinters shoved under his fingernails if it meant protecting them (and he's experienced both those things. They are not even a little pleasant).

It's similar to the way he loves Eames, but also different. Arthur loves Eames so wholly and unequivocally that it makes him feel like an idiot. Feeling like an idiot is not one of Arthur's favourite states of being, and for this reason he has a lot of trouble articulating his feelings to Eames. Past experience has taught him to guard his heart, and those stupid words make him so uncomfortable, even when they're coming out of Eames' mouth. So he says it with his lips, with his hands, with his actions, with his whole body, and hopes Eames understands.

He loves his babies unreservedly. He finds himself daily murmuring oaths of adoration into silky wisps of hair, furry little ears, soft round tummies. This also, at first, made him feel stupid, because Arthur's not exceptionally good at the whole affection thing. His mom was always very big on cuddling and kissing, and Arthur ... isn't. He can accept affection on his own terms (“What d'you expect, you're a cat,” Eames had put it, with a shit-eating grin), but reciprocation isn't his strong suit. (He suspects sometimes that Eames only loves knotting with him because then he can't squirm his way out of a post-coital snuggle.) He had to be taught to love his babies out loud, to lift them and swing them and hold them and sing to them.

He knows Eames doesn't pick favourites, but it's hard not to-the only thing is that Arthur can't settle on one for more than five minutes. Oftentimes it's Thomas, who is their firstborn, and so is the one who officially knocked Arthur's world off its axis forever-but besides that, he is just such a lovable baby. He's so happy. When he sees Arthur or Eames he lights up in what the books call a full-body smile-beaming, kicking, all-out I'm-so-happy-to-see-you where-have-you-been-all-my-life wriggling. And he's good enough at cuddling for both him and Arthur. He likes to bury his nose in Arthur's neck, the same way Eames does.

Leah's their little girl, though, and that counts for a lot. She has a way of wrapping them both utterly and helplessly around her little finger with just a perfectly-timed smile. She's mercurial in her affections, and it's easy to feel resentful when she spurns Arthur and only stops crying when she's cuddled in Eames' arms-and she's Eames' little girl more often than not-but when she reaches for Arthur instead, it's the most validating feeling in the entire world. He tends to get a little smug when that happens.

But there's Will, baby of the family, squashed by his siblings when they curl up together as cubs; the one whose first month home from the hospital was full of sleepless nights spent trying to coax him to keep down just a few ounces of formula. They definitely dote on Will. And Will is different, besides-he takes after Arthur, reason enough for both Arthur and Eames to hold a soft spot for him.

His babies. They are perfect.

And now Arthur has to share them.

He's allowed to be bitter, isn't he?

+Ariadne leaves them just outside the airport. She's got a couple friends she's staying with in London. Before she goes, she wishes them luck. Arthur thinks privately that they'll need it, bundling three babies into their rental car for the three-hour drive to Eames' house.

Eames is more sanguine, because car rides usually put the little ones to sleep. But they're only twenty minutes on their way before Will, presumably to be contrary, wakes up and starts crying in his squashy infant car seat. As the non-driver, it falls to Arthur to fix him: but Will doesn't want formula. He doesn't want attention, and he doesn't want his favourite stuffed horse Mr. Cumberbatch (so named by Eames). He just wants to cry. He cries until he finally lapses into hiccups, and that's the soundtrack for the remainder of the drive up to Eames' parents' house.

It would be annoying if it wasn't so stupidly cute.

Thomas and Leah stay passed out in their car seats the whole way. They are Arthur's favourites.

“Thank God,” Arthur sighs when they're finally pulling up the long gravel drive to the house sometime around mid-morning. He gets out as soon as the car stops, and starts extricating some of their bags along with Leah in her travel seat. Eames grabs Thomas, still dozing, and Will, still hiccuping, and leads the way. Evidently his mother has been listening for him, because she opens the door before they even reach the front stoop.

“My darling,” she says excitedly, throwing her arms around Eames. “And Arthur,” she says, giving him the same treatment. She takes Will from Eames, lightening his load. “Come in, come in. We've been so excited-”

Arthur can tell; she's positively bubbling with it as she takes them straight to the carpeted sitting room and ushers them to put the babies down. Eames' father limps in with a bit more energy than usual, his grey eyes shining.

“Let me see my grandchildren,” he says as soon as he's greeted them both, easing himself down onto the nearest couch.

Promptly, Eames unbuckles Thomas' car seat and lifts him out, handing him over. He looks as small in Eames' father's rough hands as he does in Eames'. Eames' mother sits down next to her mate so she can croon over the baby as well.

“That's Thomas Junior,” says Eames.

“Minus the Junior,” Arthur interjects.

“Alright, but technically he's Thomas Junior.”

“He's Thomas Junior if we want people to call him stupid nicknames like 'TJ' or 'Junior',” Arthur argues.

“What's wrong with TJ?” Eames demands.

“He's lovely,” Eames' mother cuts in. Thomas is waking up in his granddad's lap, not at all unsettled to be met by two strangers but peering at them rather curiously. “Every bit as handsome as his fathers.”

Eames beams proudly. “This is Princess Leah,” he says, lifting Leah out of her car seat and handing her to his mum. Arthur notes that he's careful to pronounce it properly, so as not to warrant a scowl. It's a cute nickname, but not when it's in reference to Star Wars.

“And Will,” Eames finishes, lifting their smallest. Will's hiccups have tapered off. Eames hefts him in his arms and he gazes at his grandparents with wide, kittenish eyes, curling a tiny fist into Eames' shirt.

Eames' parents coo adoringly over the babies. Leah soaks up their attention with an almost smug air before deciding she doesn't like it, and starts to fuss and squirm-her typical threat of an impending meltdown if she doesn't get what she wants, now-so Arthur swiftly grabs her and Eames passes Will to his mum instead. Arthur keeps waiting for them to say something about the babies' ears, but they don't; not even when Lady Pendleton-Eames notices Will's little banded tail, peeking through a slit in the back of his onesie. She runs it between her fingers gently.

“They're all lovely,” she says.

“They're perfect,” Eames' father rumbles proudly. He tickles Thomas' belly to make him kick his legs and squeal. “Absolutely perfect.”

Arthur hadn't realized it, but he'd been waiting with bated breath for their approval. When it comes, he exhales.

This turns into a grimace when Leah licks his neck. He's certain she gets that from Eames.

+Arthur goes upstairs and unpacks while Eames catches up with his parents. When he returns to the main floor, Eames is setting up the babies in their portable soft mesh playpen while his parents are putting food on the table. Lunch is sandwiches and tea. They're not half done before Leah starts to make noise. “Singing”, Eames calls it-she's just learning that she can manipulate her daddies just by changing the tone and pitch of her voice, and is having fun experimenting. This particular song is a familiar I'm-about-to-start-screaming-if-you-don't-feed-me tune. Even Thomas is starting to fuss.

Arthur gets up promptly to prepare their formula. Eames' mum is only too willing to help feed them, so Eames gives her Thomas, who stops everything as soon as he latches onto the bottle. His eyes half close in contentment and he focuses all his energy on eating. Eames himself scoops Leah, and Arthur takes Will.

Feeding used to be a quiet affair, and it sometimes still is. But they've found lately that Leah is starting to become easily distracted, unlike her brothers, who are totally intent on the bottle. Leah frequently has to stop and look around, forgetting the bottle altogether until it's waved in front of her face. And the singing. Noisy, tuneless humming while she eats; birdlike chirps and warbles while she looks around. She doesn't stop and Eames can't get enough of it. Now and then he'll ask, “Are you singing me a song?” and she'll look at him like she's just remembered he's there, and her little face will light up and she'll squeal and reach for his face.

Arthur hadn't though it possible, but he's reached a whole new depth of love for Eames since seeing him interact with the babies.

Despite the plethora of distractions all around them, it's Will who's the last one left working on his bottle, his suckling punctuated now and then by a little hiccup.

“Sometimes,” Eames tells his mum, setting Leah on her tummy on the floor, “once they've eaten, they change before they fall asleep ...”

Arthur looks on as Thomas is placed on the floor in front of Leah. He doesn't disappoint. The transition from drowsy baby to drowsy cub is seamless. Leah, watching, copies him. They often mirror each other.

“Oh,” Eames' mum breathes. “They're beautiful.”

“They look like you,” Eames' dad tells him from the doorway. He's right; the resemblance is very strong. Thomas is a tiny copy of his father, tawny-coloured with a grey-tipped stripe down his spine where his mane will be. Leah is more of a cinnamon colour-also tawny, but brindled so liberally with ginger that her fuzzy baby coat looks almost red in the right light. Her ears are red too-not just reddish, like Eames' in his wolf form, but fox-red.

They always seem uncomfortable in their clothes when they're cubs, so Eames takes the offending articles away and leaves them free to creep about. At five months now, where real wolf cubs would already be racing about and pouncing, the werewolves are only just figuring out their legs. They're keeping pace with their human development, and as humans, they haven't even learned to crawl yet. As cubs, Thomas and Leah are just learning to creep-but mostly, they prefer to be picked up and cuddled. When this doesn't happen, they inch across the carpet and cuddle each other.

“Put Will down, Arthur,” Eames says, without tearing his eyes away from the cubs. His parents are equally enchanted. When Arthur doesn't move, Eames looks over. “Arthur?”

Arthur shakes his head minutely from side to side, holding Will up to his shoulder. Eames' face softens and he gets up to sit down on the couch next to Arthur.

“Let me have him,” Eames says. Arthur tightens his hold, and Eames sighs. “Please, Arthur.”

“He's fine,” Arthur says stubbornly.

“I want my parents to see him.”

If their impeccable hearing wasn't an issue, Arthur would say, I don't. But they're starting to notice Arthur and Eames, and there's nothing Arthur can say that they won't hear, so he presses his lips together tightly and lifts Will from his shoulder. Eames takes him gently.

“Thank you,” he says.

Arthur just watches, anxious.

Will looks bemused when he's placed on his tummy on the floor, facing his furry siblings. When he starts to change, Arthur can feel his own nails digging into his thighs.

“Will's special,” Eames says, kneeling down with the babies. Arthur flinches. He hates that word. Special is just a polite word for freak. Noticing, Eames gives him a contrite little smile, pulls Will into his lap and says, “He's just different, that's all.”

“Oh,” Eames' mother gasps when Eames peels the onesie and diaper off of Will. Will the cub definitely does not look like Eames. He doesn't even look like his siblings. He's got a longer body, sleeker fur where they have baby fluff. His ears are ever so slightly more rounded at the tips, his muzzle a little blunter. His tail is longer and skinnier. Instead of tawny and grey, he's a dark charcoal colour throughout. Midway down his back, a row of black stripes starts, continuing down through his ringed tail.

He's not a wolf. He's not even a cat. He's not anything Arthur has a name for.

“He's not a werewolf,” he says bluntly, daring them to take issue with this.

Eames glances at him again, and then says, “He hasn't synced up to the lunar cycle yet. It might still happen, though.”

It won't. Arthur's pretty sure of that. Will slithers out of Eames' lap, squinting and sniffing at the air. Eames scoops him under the belly with one hand and puts him with his siblings. Will snuggles contentedly into the pile, his brother and sister shifting obligingly to make room for him.

“He's lovely,” Eames' mother breathes. She kneels on the floor, too, and traces Will's stripes with her finger. “I've never seen anything like it. Have you?” she asks her mate. He shakes his head. Arthur starts to bristle, until he replies.

“No, there's no black on my side,” he says, and Arthur realizes they're talking about his coat pattern. “And there's certainly never been a wolf with stripes. He must get it from Arthur's side.”

Eames' mother laughs delightedly, stroking Will's back. To Arthur, Eames' father says, “My wife's pet theory is that our two species share a common ancestor.”

“And I was right, wasn't I?” she says. Will turns, snuffling her hand sleepily, then starts to suck on her finger, and she laughs again. “Oh, isn't he sweet!”

She's enthralled. For a moment Arthur wonders if Eames had warned his parents beforehand, told them to put it on for Arthur's benefit, but a quick glance at Eames, who is beaming, tells him that isn't so.

“I told you,” Eames says, nudging Arthur's leg. “Anyone can see how gorgeous he is.”

And it's true, really. That's why he's Arthur's favourite.

+Arthur spends the afternoon napping in the green room-that's the Eameses' name for the glass sun room at the back of the house. There are comfy wicker chairs with squashy cushions and ottomans and Arthur lies there in the sun for hours before Eames comes to bother him.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, grinning. “Family'll be here soon. Besides, Leah wants you.”

“How do you know?” Arthur grumbles, even though he knows better than to question Eames' understanding of Leah's constant noises. Eames winks.

Sure enough, when Arthur trudges into the kitchen where the playpen is, his babies are human-formed once more and Leah screams when she sees him. It's a happy scream. Arthur scoops her up and she kicks his stomach joyously.

“No boy will ever be good enough for you,” Arthur tells her gravely. “And I'll shoot anyone who thinks he is.” She grins and starts blowing bubbles on his shirt.

He carries her around until the first family members start to arrive. Then he passes her off to Eames' mother and hastily slips upstairs. Eames finds him rummaging through their suitcase a few minutes later.

“Please come down, Arthur,” he says.

“I'm just checking something.”

“You're being avoidant.”

It's not like this is easy for Arthur. He's never had a big family, let alone one whose collective scent makes him want to stick his nose in bleach. He doesn't like big crowds.

“Cats don't do the whole social thing,” he says lamely.

Eames hooks an arm around his waist. “Well, this cat married into a family of werewolves and has to own that at some point.”

“We're not married,” Arthur says-much too quickly, he realizes in the next second.

He could wince at himself. Eames lets him go slowly.

“Would you like to be?” he asks quietly.

Arthur can feel a flush rising in his face. “We're not talking about this now,” he says, because they're not. Not here.

Eames frowns. Arthur adds tartly, “And if that's your proposal, you need to work on it.”

Eames' face relaxes into a smile. He leans in and nuzzles him.

“Come down for a bit. Half an hour. Then you can escape.”

“Half an hour,” Arthur agrees. “That's all.”

One thing that can be said for werewolves is that they are honest, in the nature of most animals. They don't put on false pretences around Arthur because they have no need. Even if he is different, he's an accepted member of the pack, and that puts an end to any disputes that might have arisen. They greet him just as they would any other cousin. Arthur appreciates that, but not so much how tactile they are-he gets pulled into several hugs against his will, and retreats to a corner as soon as their attention is off him and back on the little ones.

Werewolves love babies, Eames has told him. Human, werewolf, it doesn't matter. Something about that unique baby smell invokes their most protective instincts, draws them in and captivates them. Those little furry ears and tails may as well be invisible, for all the notice the pack members take.

Arthur finds himself next to Lady Pendleton-Eames, who is exercising her authority as both alpha and grandmother to make sure at least one of the babies is in her arms at all times. She's cradling a sleepy Will and, Arthur realizes when he glances over at her, watching her family members coo over Will's siblings with misty eyes. She turns to Arthur and hugs him, gently, in a way he doesn't so much mind.

“You have given my pack a wonderful gift, Arthur,” she whispers in his ear, and kisses him on the cheek. He just shrugs and shifts uncomfortably, remembering how vehemently he had protested to the notion of having Eames' young.

He slinks away, over to where the food is, set out on a long table buffet-style, and is examining the vast variety of crackers and cheeses the Eameses have set out when he catches a familiar scent, moments before its owner is at his side.

“Congratulations.” Faye's voice is low and icy. Arthur tempers his own tone.

“Thank you.”

“Guess there's no question now who the next alpha is, even if Alizé is older,” she says, jerking her chin in the direction of Alizé and his recently-taken mate, who are standing apart from the others somewhat stiffly and watching. Arthur doesn't know what to say. He's too stubborn to apologize to her, not for something that isn't even his fault-he can't help that Eames likes him better.

Eames doesn't even see Faye anymore; his eyes slide right over her. He's in the thick of the pack right now, tickling Thomas to make him laugh, which makes everyone else laugh and exclaim. When he glances up, his eyes catch Arthur's like a magnet and he grins.

Faye leaves without saying anything else.

When Arthur has put in a full half hour, he's at the foot of the stairs before he remembers that he still hasn't seen the one person he really wanted to. He ventures back and takes a few deep breaths with his mouth open, cringing and sifting through the individual scents until he picks out Micah's.

Arthur had asked Eames about each pack member, curious about his adopted family, and didn't get his idea until Eames told him about Micah. Micah is a scholar whose field of study is history; werewolves in history most prominently. He has a PhD and a library at home; he's even published a number of texts. It wasn't difficult for Arthur to get in touch with him. He beckons to Micah now, pulling him away from Leah, who is lapping up all the attention with a self-satisfied air.

“I didn't find very much,” Micah warns once he's greeted Arthur and they've retreated to the front lobby.

“Anything at all is helpful,” says Arthur.

Micah looks doubtful. After a moment of hesitation, he goes over to his bag, which he's left on the front bench along with his coat. He pulls out a folder and offers it to Arthur, but when Arthur takes it, Micah is still gripping the edge.

“Are you sure you want to read it?”

Arthur nods. The folder slips out of Micah's fingers.

“I appreciate this,” he says.

“Sorry I couldn't find more,” says Micah, and he goes back to the parlour where everyone is gathered.

Arthur hurries up the stairs, clutching the folder tightly. But when he moves to shut the door, he hears Eames coming and immediately shoves the folder into the bottom of his suitcase, under his spare clothes, where Eames won't see it-not even knowing why, except that he wants to have this to himself for now.

“I know I said I'd only make you do half an hour,” Eames says, popping his head in, “but I was telling them how Tommy likes to greet us, and he won't do it for me 'cause I've been around him all night ...”

“I'll come down,” Arthur says quickly. Eames grins at him, grabs him in a kiss when he steps back onto the landing.

“I'm so glad we're here,” he murmurs in Arthur's ear.

Eventually, late in the evening, after all the family has trickled out of the house and the babies are fast asleep in their cots in the room next to Eames' parents, Arthur lounges in bed, watching Eames undress.

“Feels weird not to have them nearby,” he mumbles, when Eames turns off the lights and climbs into bed with him.

“I know. Mum'll take good care of them, though. She says we're off duty.”

“We've earned it,” Arthur says, and he's suddenly very aware of how close to him Eames is in the dark, and how awake he is all of a sudden, and how very little sex they've been having over the course of the past five months.

“I'll say,” Eames murmurs, before leaning over and kissing him.

Arthur could never be a poker player: his tail flicks the bedcovers repeatedly with delight until Eames pins him down bodily and kisses him harder. Somehow, he forgets all about the folder in the bottom of his suitcase.

+They take Thomas to the nearest doctor to get some antibiotics for his ear, and then settle in to wait for him to get better. There's no shortage of eager babysitters. Eames' mum happily spends her entire day with the little ones; Eames' aunts come over, and his cousin, who is just past the risky first trimester and expecting her first cub soon.

There isn't actually much for Arthur to do in terms of infant care. For the first time in five months he has actual free time, and it's initially baffling. He's not quite sure what to do with himself, at first. Then he relearns the joy of a long afternoon nap in the sun, often curled around Eames (Arthur always starts out sleeping like a normal person, but wakes up in a fetal ball depending on how comfy he is).

And they reacquaint themselves with each other's bodies, lovingly and at length: passionate fucking at night, and slow, lazy lovemaking in the morning. It's a relief to learn that parenthood hasn't diminished their libido one bit-just put it on hold, for awhile.

“We could live here,” Eames says one night, while they're still basking in a post-orgasmic afterglow. “Think about it. We could live down the road and my family could help us out all the time. Ari could still visit from Paris, we only moved there to be close to her and she's on jobs half the time ...”

“I can't hear you,” Arthur says, his eyes shut. “I'm sleeping.”

He can feel Eames nosing at the nape of his neck, stubble scratching just enough to make him shiver.

“Someday we're going to talk, Arthur,” he growls.

Arthur plays dead as best he can. Eames snorts and Arthur thinks it's amazing he hasn't been dumped on his ass yet.

Before long Arthur is quite ready to go back to Paris, as nice as all the napping and the sex is; but Eames drags his heels and even the babies aren't on Arthur's side. They love being surrounded by adoring family members.

“I think Thomas is all better,” Arthur says, sitting on the floor and examining his ear. He holds him up to Eames. “Look. Better.”

Eames props Thomas on his hip, a wry smile twisting his lips. “He's got another week of antibiotics to go.”

“We could drive home.”

Eames kneels down across from Arthur and sets Thomas down with his brother and sister. “I know you're worrying about tomorrow.”

“You're expecting me to put three defenseless infants in with a pack of fanged wolves.”

Eames leans over to kiss him and, when Arthur pulls away from him, just grazes the corner of his eye. “Nobody's going to hurt them. I swear to you, Arthur. Even if anyone among them had the capacity to harm an infant, they know these are the alpha's babies.”

“My babies, Eames,” Arthur says, feeling stupid and frustrated and embarrassed at how irrational he's being. “My babies.”

This time Eames curves a hand around the back of Arthur's neck to kiss him, so that he can't twist out of it.

“You can be there. You can watch. And I'll be there, I won't leave them, and neither will my parents.” He pauses. “This is important, Arthur. It'll really make them one of us.”

“How little were you when you first went out with your pack on a full moon?” Arthur asks grudgingly. Eames grins, because he knows he's wearing Arthur down.

“Smaller than them.”

“I doubt it.” Nothing is smaller than them. They're impossibly small. Ridiculously, breakably small. He frowns. “Can I bring a weapon?”

“Anything of your choice,” Eames promises. “As lethal as you like.”

“Then-I guess. I guess this can happen. If it has to.” He pulls Will into his lap, smoothing down his soft hair. Eames does the same thing with Leah, who chirps for him. “But I don't want you keeping them out all night,” Arthur warns viciously. “Or they'll sleep all day and stay up the next night.”

“Of course.”

“And then we're going home.”

Eames sighs, but he nods.

It's a wonder he puts up with Arthur. Of course, Eames knows as well as Arthur does that even a cat's kiss is abrasive.

+Eames seems to be trying to make his children look presentable. Every time Arthur puts one down for a breather, he looks down to find Eames grooming the pup with long, sloppy strokes of his tongue.

“Would you stop that,” Arthur snaps, scooping Will away from him. “If you make them too wet they're going to get cold. Come on.”

He tucks Leah back under his arm, too, and Eames, with a last sullen stare, bends and picks up Thomas by the scruff. His thick second canines are very close to the pup's skin, but Arthur knows very well how gentle that mouth can be. (Not in a weird way. One of Eames' favourite expressions of affection, when he's a wolf, is to take Arthur's hand in his mouth and just hold it. He's gentle enough that he's never broken the skin, even when he tugs at Arthur entreatingly, and Thomas, dangling from those fearsome jaws now, hardly wakes.)

Arthur had been very stubborn about not exposing his babies to the pack until they were properly transformed. Will, as usual, is mimicking his siblings, and Arthur hopes it holds. He sees Eames' tail rise and start to wave excitedly as they climb the last hill between them and the pack, the scent of which is thick in the air now. Arthur's heart is starting to pound against his ribs.

“I think I know now why I react to the smell of werewolves,” he tells Eames. “It's probably an instinct my species developed so we'd know to stay away in case your kind went and knocked us up, and I'm the only one dumb enough not to run away ...”

But Eames, of course, isn't listening. His fur is bristling with excitement. He starts to break into a little trot and Arthur struggles to keep up, feeling queasy now.

Eames had to beg for a long time to be introduced to his cubs on a full moon, too. Finally Arthur had taken Thomas and a handgun down to the woods where Eames likes to run, and spotted the massive wolf skulking among the trees before he'd even gotten out of the car. He'd walked over, heart in his throat, drowsing pup in hands, not knowing what to expect, and when he got close, Eames did something he had never done before: he growled.

Arthur had immediately stopped and started moving backward. Eames had advanced, rumbling out a long, unbroken growl that couldn't be anything but a threat, and Arthur's mind had been so busy flicking over the various ways he could fight his way out of this that it took him a few seconds to notice, in the dark, that although Eames' ears were flat to his skull and his mane was hackling all the way down his spine, his tail was tucked very low. The smell of anxiety reached Arthur a moment later.

It went against all of Arthur's paternal instincts, but after a moment's agonizing indecision, he'd put Thomas on the ground and stepped away. The pup stretched and snuffled in his sleep, and Eames positively pounced; but before Arthur could react, Eames was sniffing, everywhere, nosing him roughly and inhaling so deeply Thomas's fur was in danger of being sucked into his nostrils. He'd sniffed and nosed and licked for almost a full minute before looking up at Arthur, and his tail had gone down again. Whining, he'd slunk up to Arthur, licking his lips and positively cringing in self-abasement, obviously mortified at having perceived his own mate as a threat. He'd shown his teeth in a nervous smile and licked at Arthur's hands.

“Something about you does things to the wolf in me, Arthur,” Eames had grumbled in the morning, plainly embarrassed by his show. “There's a bit of alpha in you, I swear.”

“Or you're just a big softie and your pack doesn't know it,” Arthur had replied dryly, and ducked the toast crust thrown at him.

But he remembers the chill that had shot down his spine as soon as Eames had lifted his lips, and he's not so worried about Eames' ability or willingness to protect the pups from his pack. That's the only thing that forces Arthur over the crest of that hill and makes him descend toward the pack.

Eames gallops ahead, too eager to wait for him, and immediately the wolves are milling around him. He sets Thomas down and Arthur hurries forward, only to be beset by another group who are eagerly sniffing at the bundles tucked under each arm. He is put in mind, not for the first time, of goats at a petting farm, clamouring for food.

He puts them both down, with great reluctance, and steps back. Tails are wagging on all sides as the wolves peer down at their tiny kin. Will, noticing, blinks his big blue eyes and yawns squeakily, and the tails start whipping back and forth with even more fervour.

They're spellbound. Arthur almost laughs. Suddenly these wolves really aren't that scary.

They move forward one at a time to sniff the pups, so as not to smother them. Will curls up and stares, wide-eyed, while Leah lifts her head and sniffs back boldly. The massive form of Micah towers over her, dwarfing her, and he touches noses with her gingerly. His muzzle is bigger than her head.

Eames picks up Thomas and brings him closer, shepherding his babies together, and Arthur moves away, in case anyone in the pack gets overwhelmed by their protective instincts and fails to recognize the human among them. Eames looks fairly ready to burst with pride, and Arthur notices a lot more muzzles being dipped respectively around him. He also doesn't fail to notice the way one male wolf jostles roughly against Eames' father by accident, and how nobody reacts.

While they're still thronged around the cubs, Eames breaks away from the pack and trots to where Arthur is sitting on the slope.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks irritably. He points. “You're supposed to be down there, protecting them.”

He gets a blank stare. Werewolves are intelligent, that's been proven. They can form plans and evaluate and consider things much the same way a human does. But they make decisions more in the fashion of animals. Right now, Arthur can tell that Eames has evaluated the danger to his pups, concluded that they are safe with the pack, and decided he would rather be next to his mate. It's these simplified thought processes that drive Arthur crazy.

“Go,” he says firmly. “Forget me. Sit with them. Look,” he points again, “Leah's starting to crawl away, go get her-”

It's true, Leah's creeping away with clear purpose, like she's on a mission, and the wolves are all simply observing her indulgently, tongues lolling. Eames settles down next to Arthur, who gets up with a frustrated huff, forcing away mental images of giant owls swooping silently out of the black sky to snatch Leah away. When he's pushing past the wolves a few growl at him, hackling over the pups, before smelling the alpha on him and turning their heads away meekly.

Only when Arthur reaches Leah and grabs her up firmly in his arms does he notice Faye, sitting apart from the pack. She's a fair distance away, but as he watches, she gets up and slinks closer, hesitating indecisively. As a human Faye is probably around Ariadne's size, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet: as a wolf of the same mass she's barely the size of a German Shepherd dog, easily half Eames' bulk, little more than a lithe black shadow with no substance to her. She approaches the pack warily and threads her way cautiously through the throng, but before she reaches Will and Thomas at the centre, she's noticed. The nearest tails stop wagging and turn stiff, and two of the closest wolves round on her with snarls. She ducks their snapping jaws and beats a hasty retreat with her tail down, a few others snapping at her fleeing back for good measure. Nobody else seems to notice, and as soon as she's out of their midst the attacking wolves relax and turn their attention back to the pups.

Arthur had been watching to make sure she didn't try to do anything to his pups, just in case-who knows how far her bitterness towards him extends-but as she hunkers down at a safe distance once more, watching the pack, he's startled by the longing in her eyes. He tries to remember if he saw her around the babies that night the family was over, where the laws of pack hierarchy were more relaxed, and doesn't think he did.

“Did you want to see them?” he asks her.

One of her ears swivels and her head follows a split second later. Her eyes are like shining copper in her jet-black face and he's surprised at the intelligence there. No animal instinct dulls the light in her eyes. Her whiskers twitch slightly on one side.

He walks closer, still holding Leah. The closer he gets, the more her ears go down, until they're nearly flat, but she doesn't move away.

“Here,” he says grudgingly, holding Leah out.

Faye stares at him like she's waiting for him to trick her. When he doesn't, she moves her head closer-still staring warily at Arthur-and sniffs daintily at Leah. When nothing else happens, she finally lowers her gaze to the gently-squirming pup and does a more thorough sniff. She looks into Leah's face and seems to be searching for something.

Finally she lifts her eyes to Arthur's face again. He can't read what they say. She gets up and slips away into the night.

By the time Arthur returns to the pack, Eames has joined them as well. He's lying down and has pulled Will between his forelegs to give him a thorough bathing, in spite of Will's mewls and squeaks of protest. Thomas is mouthing and tugging at the fur of a wolf who could squash him with one paw and the rest are looking on with fond indulgence. A few jump up excitedly when they see Arthur bringing Leah over. He puts her down and watches as she rolls onto her back and mightily smacks the first wolf to sniff her across the muzzle. Tongues are instantly lolling all around her, as if they're all laughing affectionately. Even Alizé's mate is there-probably hoping for a child of her own, soon-though Alizé is more off to one side, watching Eames.

They're all so happy. They're so close-with the exception of Faye-so excited to welcome these little ones into their close-knit family fold. Nobody has even paused for a second over Will, the way he looks and smells so different from them.

And strangely, Arthur catches himself thinking, Would it be so bad to live here?

The wind changes and, wrinkling his nose, he answers himself bitterly, Yes.

But not with a whole lot of conviction.

When Eames finally leaves Will's fur alone and flops comfortably down next to Arthur again, he doesn't even complain. The pack's got it covered.

He lies down on his back, feels Eames take this invitation to drape his paw and massive head across Arthur's belly, and decides he'll wait another hour or so before he puts the babies to bed. He can give them that much.

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