[Ben should be stunned at how easily he slipped into a routine with Maria, but he's not. And he's comfortable, and rested, and actually happy, for the first time in two decades.
Hell, sometimes when he wolfs at night and creeps into her bedroom, he winds up on the foot of the bed instead of on the floor at the foot of the bed.]
[And Maria should be surprised, probably, by how attached she's grown to him in return. She's never been someone to let her walls down easily, to let people get too close; that's always been dangerous, to varying degrees, and she was stringently trained to avoid it.
But here they are, and while she wouldn't say that she's let her guard down with him to the same extent he has with her, she trusts him like she has few others. And most of those people are dead, now.]
[Her expression softens. She's heard some of those nightmares, although not to the extent that she knows what they're about, and she doesn't pry. But still.]
I am a woman of resources. And I am one who does not easily forgive offense. I would have found you.
[There's something very serious and very dangerous in her tone, just a shade of it. Something that says this is one of those things she isn't going to talk about. Possibly not ever.
Suffice it to say she took that course more than once.]
[His hand is shaking, and he takes it away from the coffee mug before he breaks the handle off.] Well then. I'd just as soon not go through that for any longer than necessary.
I've already been broke down and built up. More than once. I'm not sure I come back from it again.
I know. And I wouldn't ask you unless... [He swallows.]
It's the first time I've been happy. For twenty years. And I'm terrified, Maria. I'm afraid they're going to take it away from me. Because God forbid a werewolf be happy with his lot after a lifetime of abuse.
[But she can't be everywhere, and she isn't as young as she used to be, and his fear -- his terror -- is justified, the world being what it was. So, reluctantly, she nods.]
Very well. Somewhere easily removed. Somewhere you can get at the thing yourself.
[And to just... have someone validate him, not dismiss his fear out of hand, or, God forbid, abuse him for having an opinion about his own safety--
It's huge. And it's got his eyes prickling again as he stares hard at the tabletop. All the beatings in the world haven't been able to make him cry. Kindness does the trick nicely, however. His voice is hoarse.] Thank you.
[And she turns her attention to her tea, in that looking-away-without-moving gesture she's mastered, that way of giving him a little space to recover himself gracefully.]
[And he's grateful for that, too. She doesn't embarrass him by drawing attention to his moments of weakness. He picks up his coffee again and sips it, grounding himself -- she buys him hazelnut creamer, luxury of luxuries! -- and takes a few moments to compose himself.] What's our agenda for the day?
Hell, sometimes when he wolfs at night and creeps into her bedroom, he winds up on the foot of the bed instead of on the floor at the foot of the bed.]
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But here they are, and while she wouldn't say that she's let her guard down with him to the same extent he has with her, she trusts him like she has few others. And most of those people are dead, now.]
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I think you should put a tracking chip in me.
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. . . I beg pardon?
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How would you have found me again?
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[Her expression softens. She's heard some of those nightmares, although not to the extent that she knows what they're about, and she doesn't pry. But still.]
I am a woman of resources. And I am one who does not easily forgive offense. I would have found you.
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[There's something very serious and very dangerous in her tone, just a shade of it. Something that says this is one of those things she isn't going to talk about. Possibly not ever.
Suffice it to say she took that course more than once.]
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I've already been broke down and built up. More than once. I'm not sure I come back from it again.
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She sighs and picks up her mug again.]
You are not my dog, Ben. To put a tag on you as if you were . . . ach. It sits badly.
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It's the first time I've been happy. For twenty years. And I'm terrified, Maria. I'm afraid they're going to take it away from me. Because God forbid a werewolf be happy with his lot after a lifetime of abuse.
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[But she can't be everywhere, and she isn't as young as she used to be, and his fear -- his terror -- is justified, the world being what it was. So, reluctantly, she nods.]
Very well. Somewhere easily removed. Somewhere you can get at the thing yourself.
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It's huge. And it's got his eyes prickling again as he stares hard at the tabletop. All the beatings in the world haven't been able to make him cry. Kindness does the trick nicely, however. His voice is hoarse.] Thank you.
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[And she turns her attention to her tea, in that looking-away-without-moving gesture she's mastered, that way of giving him a little space to recover himself gracefully.]
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