A warm sun rises and ignites the Bay [Liam]

[♔ Jericho ♔]

The city of Ponta Delgada exists as a striking testament to man’s ability to mix aesthetics, architecture, and faith. Buildings fashioned from stucco-covered brick and the city’s elaborate, decorative streets create a picture reminiscent of old Italy, where art and expression often trumped practicality. The streets are close, the people open and happy. It is a paradise, but there can be no heaven without a hell, and no angels without demons.

It may be odd for a land of parishes, but the Azores play host to a growing population of supernaturals. The island of São Miguel, specifically, houses a respectable presence of both werewolves and vampires. There is no rhyme or reason as to why certain areas become hot spots, but Jericho surmises wolves are like geese; one wolf in a pond is enough to have others gravitate towards it. This pond is strange, he finds, as it is not nearly so organized as Boston. The werewolf has spent the better part of two weeks trying to get a pulse on the local brotherhood, but it is like sifting through a desert during a sandstorm.

There is an alpha –there is always an alpha-- and yet the esquire cannot arrive to a conclusion concerning the man’s identity. Paranoia is understood – Jericho has swallowed more than his fair share of those bitter pills – but the misdirection and mystery surrounding what he knows to be a pack is definitively new. The wolves hide. The wolves keep to themselves. The wolves operate as nothing more than a seedy drug cartel bound to the shadows. Jericho finds it entirely distasteful.

São Miguel is home now and Jericho plans to mold it into his own personal definition of paradise. This will take a measured approach and in order to construct a plan of action, he needs information. Knowledge rarely comes easily and never cheaply. The local wolves seem reluctant to play into his hands, but Jericho is a creature built from determination. Patience is not a virtue that Jericho is well-acquainted with, but he finds himself open now that he is no longer Nikolai’s heir. The chains of the Malik dynasty have at last rusted away; the peregrine son is allowed to strike out and build a life of his own.

Across the ocean Boston sits as an old and sturdy empire. The memory of her sits bittersweet on the edges of his heart, but she has served her purpose. He looks at the ocean now, green eyes lingering nostalgic at the horizon. It is nightfall and Ponta Delgada has come alive. The island city glitters like an earthbound galaxy of stars. Orange lights twinkle and glow; the city looks warm, inviting – beautiful. He will find happiness here. He will find purpose. A new beginning at the age of twenty-five, Jericho could ask for no more than that.

White Hermitage splashes rich and full against his tongue, and Jericho savors the taste as he relaxes into his chair. The werewolf sits alone at a table located within Azure – a local outdoor café that plays host to the island’s socialites and entrepreneurs once the sun sets. An air of loftiness surrounds him and he is untouchable – far too important to approach. Jericho takes pride in his ability to intimidate a room by appearing utterly relaxed and bored. It keeps the undesirables at bay as Jericho is someone who refuses to play with the timid. No, he prefers the daring, the exceptional, and those willing to take a risk.

Clever, calculating eyes take stock of the growing crowd. This is no mere pleasure outing; Jericho is waiting to notice someone or, better yet, for his wolf to take notice of someone. In this land of new things, he finds he must rely on instinct.

Instinct is a weapon and he wields it with an expert’s hand.

[Liam]

Spending too long in one place has always made his spine itch and his teeth grind, a wanderlust that drove him mad if not answered. Liam was nothing if not a man to indulge his cravings and in a few short weeks he has his things arranged, the apartment closed up, belongings locked away in one of those anonymous storage sheds until his return. If he ever came back, after all, what was there to hold him here? The white band around his finger where his wedding ring had once sat had long ago faded and his sisters grew older with each passing day, soon to join the family plot in eternal rest.

America had little to offer him these days. His parents had come in search of streets paved with gold, of opportunity and promise, but within her confines Liam found only unfulfilled dreams. The certainty that a life of toil did not always equal a life of plenty and that those few who did prosper always did so at the cost of others. It was a lesson he had been quick to learn and apply to himself.

The island vacation is chosen at random--his eyes closed, finger stabbing a random spot on the map. Liam can only applaud his good instincts.

As soon as he steps off the plane he feels the weight lifted from his shoulders. The nagging sensation drifts away into peace and deep felt satisfaction. São Miguel is exotic, a world away from the past that hounds him at every corner in America. There are the constants of course--women, drink, music, but she breathes lighter, her heart beats at a different pace. Here, Liam thinks, is a place that appreciates the finer things, that worships the artist and applauds his work rather than down trod him.

But even somewhere so far removed as São Miguel is not devoid of connections and with the help of a kind word here or there, as well as a padding of cash, Liam finds himself bumped up the list at the modern little club, from opening act to main. He plays the rich jazz tunes he was born a decade too late for, basking in the evening and the spice on the breeze. The band is not his own, but it doesn't take long to find their rhythm, eased by the amicable crowd and shared skill. They pause for a breather, to rosin bows and wet reeds. He chances a look into the audience, and amongst all the clamor, people moving to and fro like a festive ant colony in their finery, Liam spots a man at his table. He alone is afforded space in the cramped quarters of the patio, but at apparent and complete ease.

Predatory green eyes meet his own, by sheer chance if nothing else, and Liam blinks in surprise, drawing back for a moment, only for a grin to tug at the corners of his mouth. He waggles his brows at the man in an unmistakeably impish fashion, laughing with glee. People were too serious by far and the stage made him a king, to do as he pleased.

After a quick conference with his fellow players and the switching of instruments Liam takes command of the mic, easy smile still wavering. "Ladies and gentlemen, I think it's time to play something a little more suited to the evening. Here's the Rolling Stones' Can't Get No Satisfaction." The love of rock and roll was hardly unique to the States and the Irishman leads the band into the driving beat at the approval of the crowd.

Drunk on music, and his nerves set a buzz Liam makes his way off stage an hour later, heading for the sanctuary of the bar and eager to capitalize on the lingering high in his system. "One brandy, on the rocks." Liquor had never been his friend, but tonight, with the moon cradled by the jagged skyline and the performance gone so well, he didn't see how it could do any harm.

Everyone was his friend tonight.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

The peregrine son sees no glimmer among the mundane. A crowd gathers, there are smiles and words shared. They dress to impress and in their own minds, they are special and unique. As a man Jericho may have partook in their delusions but as a wolf, he can view them as nothing more than sheep. Sheep are meant to be used as fodder to satiate the man’s animal, but as the beast grows in years, so too does its hunger. Jericho finds that his usual escapes of sex and alcohol are now a drop in the ocean; the voracious maw of his demon opens wide and he cannot find means to close it.

He should be worried and in the dark, secret recesses of his mind, he is. The metamorphosis from controlled man to prowling animal methodically chips away at a first layer of restraint. What lays beneath the man’s disenchanted mask is yet to be revealed, and for Jericho’s part, he feels a modicum of dread.

That dread sits as a hollow pearl-sized bullet wedged burning-cold within his heart. He hides behind a life of sophistication, behind eloquent words and charming smiles. The world is a stage and Jericho is a dedicated actor, but the scene that paints tonight is devastatingly dull. He considers leaving to find more promising hunting grounds and then it happens--

A brazen man meets his gaze from across the room.

The musician throws his head back in laughter and Jericho feels it – that liquid hot rush of interest that blooms inside of his chest and warms his blood. The wolf is roused from its listless stupor and Jericho does not attempt to quiet it. Vibrant gold seeps into his eyes as indication of his animal’s precedence and the man is captivated. Challenge is something both he and his beast hunger for, and as the musician carries on his rendition of the old American classic, challenge is exactly the vibe Jericho feels radiate throughout the room.

I can't get no, I can't get no,
I can't get no satisfaction,
no satisfaction, no satisfaction, no satisfaction.

Jericho takes the lyrics as a tongue-in-cheek dig thrown in his direction. A rush of amused air leaves the cupid’s bow of his lips pulling back into a subtle smile. Whoever this man is should not matter and yet the peregrine is curious – and it is a refreshing feeling. His wolf pinpoints the man’s scent through the sway of energy falling from the crowd. The song carries on to completion and not once does Jericho’s attention wander from the musician.

Music fades into the chatter of the clientele and Jericho finishes off the last of his wine. He bides his time like a predator surmising the best approach to a hunt. When the musician finds a place at the bar, Jericho sees his opening and stands. Hungry, seeking hands snake their way from the crowd to his forearms, back and stomach, but Jericho pushes through and ignores the obvious invitations. His senses are assaulted by the thick scent of human arousal but he blocks it out. They are a gathering of gray. A void of the banal. Through the wolf’s eyes, he can see the aura of strangeness that surrounds the musician.

In this place of the ordinary, Liam glows.

Like a moth Jericho pulls in closer until he is situated at the man’s side. Feral eyes that he does not bother disguising wander from cheekbone to stubbled jawline. Nostrils flare imperceptivity and the musician’s scent is a riddle. He is not wolf. He is not vampire. He is certainly not human. A puzzle, then, and one than Jericho is determined to unravel.

”You play well,” comes a smooth drawl. There is a coyness playing at the edges of his mouth. ”But I’ve heard better.” A needling comment but not one meant in honest offense. Jericho straightens the collar of his shirt with a lingering thumb and makes a show of running his tongue over what are clearly fangs. ”Jericho.” The name is offered with an air of reward, as if the musician should count himself fortunate that he is worthy of knowing it.

He waves the bartender over and orders a whiskey sour. Jericho sips the drink, finds it agreeable and slides his eyes back to Liam.

”You’re not a local.” What he wants to say is what are you, but Jericho is never quite so direct. Why go in for the kill when he can revel in the hunt.

[Liam]

With liquor warming his insides Liam flirts with a young woman, as pretty as she is stupid. There was little sport in such an easy target, but he was beginning to develop some creases at the corner of his eyes and a little pick me up couldn't harm. The only question would be how much time to take from the girl. A few months, a few years? Perhaps it was cruel to steal the only notable aspect of her person, but they'd fade soon enough anyway.

Most things did. Liam finds himself weighing the cons and pros of such a decision when the masses part to reveal the same man he had chanced upon in the audience, now here in the flesh. The moment's glance from the stage certainty hadn't done him justice and the fox shifter blinks, unsure if he is just a product of the imagination, planted in his memory, but the thick musk of wolf invades his senses and he twitches in his seat, suddenly aware that he was no longer the biggest player in the room.

It has been a long time since anyone criticized his musical skills and Liam is taken a back for a moment, both by the fangs and the smoothness of his words. Many of the werewolves he had met in his life were brutish creatures, more animal than human, living as they did by the law of tooth and claw, but this one is far removed from such notions of backwoods dwelling monsters. He has all the hallmarks of an aristocrat, no stranger to money--not with those clothes and not in this club, and yet the wolf still lingers at the edges of him. Just enough to pick up the hairs on the back of his neck and draw the attention of passing humans, even with such dulled senses prey noticed when a predator prowled among them.

"You were alive to hear Jimi Hendrix play?" Liam asks with exaggerated awe, his mouth slightly agape and eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline. The surprise disappears as quickly as it comes, and the man leans back in his seat, ankles crossed and arms neatly folded over his chest to fix Jericho with a knowing smile. "Ah, well, I do have to concede on that point. It's a shame the good die so young." It was probably the only reason he was still around after all these years.

That and a blood deal made with an ancient creature of the abyss. It was the sort of thing that tended to extend a lifespan. Or shorten it. It all depended on who you talked to.

Jericho is an interesting customer and he watches him unabashedly for a few moments before exchanging his own name, full, never short. "Liam Fitzpatrick, mediocre musician extraordinaire." He grabs the wolf's hand and grips it in friendship, slender fingers tracing the lines of his palm as he pulls away. The gesture is nearly flirtatious in nature, but instead Liam sets the pad of his thumb at his lip, serious contemplation taking hold of his features. Usually, he tried to avoid wolves, volatile creatures with short fuses and fantastic explosive properties when properly excited--one had killed a good friend of his, but Liam is hesitant to throw back this catch, despite it's teeth.

He measures his response, taking a sip of brandy to burn down his throat. "No more than you are. You hardly strike me as the 'drug mule' type." Liam indicates the man with an all encompassing wave. "Your hands are too soft for that." He concludes with a smug look, "Unless you just woo everyone with your sparkling personality." Liam wonders if the man is capable of more than clipped sentences and waits to see how many toes he's stepped on in the meantime.

Pretty men always had fragile egos.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Jericho hides his grin behind the rim of a whiskey glass. ”A shame,” he agrees through a demure and hooded expression. The musician is clever and mentally agile; Jericho allows him a point for the Hendrix comment but the game is not yet over – it has only just begun. ”At the very least, cheap imitations keep his memory alive. We should all be so fortunate.” It is a not-so-subtle dig tossed nonchalantly in the entertainer’s direction. In truth, Jericho found the performance exceptional—Liam’s rendition was both faithful to the original and pleasantly unique—but the musician does not need to know this.

”Not so mediocre,” Jericho relents with a coy smile. He does not miss the way Liam’s fingers trace his palm, and he is nearly embarrassed by the way his wolf jumps at the contact. The subtle gestures Liam demonstrates are all familiar to Jericho; the werewolf has used the same tactics during his own private ventures. What is new here is the fact that Jericho is on the receiving end of what he perceives as obvious ploys. His beast is both outraged and interested, and the animal is an electric-thrum within the man’s blood.

The werewolf shifts in his seat, edging closer to Liam. Their knees nearly touch and they are close enough that shared heat pools between them. ”I would not be here, otherwise.” A hand comes to rest on his thigh and it smoothes down the black fabric of Jericho’s slacks, until his fingertips are a feather-light presence against the other man’s kneecap. The esquire has always been a tactile creature and this innate trait was compounded the day Jericho awoke into the brotherhood of wolves.

To the unobservant eye, they appear as nothing more than two man chatting. Jericho knows better and he suspects that Liam has known since the onset of the night.

Liam’s feckless nature and niggling words have Jericho fighting a frown. He forces a smirk instead and through sheer habit, the brittle edges framing the expression fade into something naturally wolfish. ”You know as well as I do – pretty faces hide ugly truths.” There is something unnatural about Liam, something that has Jericho’s wolf on guard and yet ready to give chase. Contemplative eyes fall to the musician’s smirking lips and there they linger, as if trying to decipher words yet unsaid.

” Some uglier than others,” he adds as an afterthought. In that moment, Jericho looks up and there is something strange in his eyes, something that reads of surprise. It is rare, nearly unheard of, for him to voice a stray thought. The werewolf has his ugly truths and they continue to fester and decay in the corridors of his heart. He is quick to recover via a twisting smirk. ”And some prettier than others.” Fingers brush over the strong line of his jaw and Jericho tilts his head back arrogantly while dropping a knowing, mirthful look onto Liam.

The truth surrounding Liam’s existence is still a mystery, and Jericho’s curiosity is insatiable – he simply must know. ” Where did you learn to play?” It is not the question he wants to ask. There is something about Liam, an aura of otherness that has Jericho reluctant to take the direct approach. He will settle for twenty-questions and work his way to a conclusion breadcrumb by breadcrumb. The night is still young and his glass is still full; he has time, should Liam allow it.

[Liam]

Liam takes the dig with a roll of his eyes and another sip of brandy, "Is it music you want to debate then? By all means," He unfurls his hand in Jericho's direction, flashing his own canines, much more slender than the wolf's, but no less sharp for it. "Dazzle me. You'll be the first werewolf I've run into that knows the difference between alto and soprano." For the ears of those around him Liam has little regard, he was too old to be concerned with what a passerby may or may not hear--and enjoying his conversation too much to filter himself. He levels Jericho a significant look, gazing at him over the rim of his glass, unsure of what to make of him. "Frankly, you're one of the few I've met who knows the difference between his head and his ass." So was his assumption.

The aristocrat didn't exactly have to jump far to impress, as Liam's expectations for the breed on the whole were, until tonight, very low. But as always compliments eased the way and the fox recovers his cheerful air, feeling accomplished at drawing the words from him. "Thank you." He says crisply, grinning in self satisfaction.

Liam doesn't miss the subtle shift in place, but rather than flinch away from his touch, he moves into it, Jericho's warm palm settling over his knee. He was no stranger to challenges, sexual in nature or otherwise. The Irishman cocks a brow at him, humor coloring his smile. If this was the game he wanted to play, then he was more than happy to join in.

There is concealed irritation in that smirk, even something bordering on the edges of warning and Liam questions if he was too soon, placing his foot in the open jaws of such a trap. Remarkably human in some aspects, Jericho is far from safe.

As he speaks Liam wonders if he is talking about someone specifically, or even perhaps, himself. He meets the wolf's eyes, narrowing his own for a moment, trying to gauge the man at his side. What did he know of the struggle between human emotion and animal instinct? His own animal demanded little of him but the occasional run, and the occasional rut. But then he had been born into this skin, werewolves were cursed folk, and maybe that was what reaked such havoc on their minds. Something odd flickers across Jericho's face, a thread of thought he can not follow, and the fox drops his gaze to his half empty glass, lips pressed into a thin line.

"I know that better than most." He draws back to shake his head in solemn agreement. "Pretty faces, my friend, they'll get you every time." He had married one, and Liam could say the only thing more dangerous than pretty faces was the intelligence to match them.

The questions that follows is unexpected, personal and far as Liam can tell, absent of any underlying intentions. From a fox who's curiosity had often landed him in unfriendly circumstances, Liam is liable to answer. "From a neighbor of mine. I threw a couple rocks through his window when I was about nine and as punishment I raked leaves, cleaned his house, you name it for about a month." He shrugs nonchalantly, "I suppose you could say I had 'behavioral problems.' " Liam grins, air quoting the words with a roll of his eyes. The nuns liked to exaggerate; what was a few spitballs in their gowns?

"Music was just the cure for it. The man was an old blues musician himself and I took interest, he taught me, and here we are," Nearly sixty years later, but Jericho didn't need to know that last bit. Always trust the first words out of man's mouth, his mother had told him, for once you give him time to think, he'll rearrange it to suit himself and his needs.

A stretch of silence prevails and Liam orders himself another brandy, turning the questions to his drinking partner. "And how does a young wolf like you find himself so far from home? The lone wolf doesn't survive, far as I've been told." Most often, they went mad, tearing up the countryside and switching their diet from the local wildlife to the locals themselves. Thankfully, Liam was not so encumbered by the strains of family or thank the gods, heathen and all, pack.

What did it take to chase a wolf from his own?

[♔ Jericho ♔]

”I don’t doubt that you do,” is Jericho’s measured response. A handsome, talented and quick-witted musician likely has a black book full of pretty faces with ugly truths. Jericho takes a moment to appreciate the delicate but masculine features that comprise Liam’s face. Green eyes follow the curve of pronounced cheekbones and a whimsical thought strikes. He wonders how many hearts lay broken in the musician’s wake. A girl left back at home to wonder when and if she would ever see her handsome Lothario again. A doe-eyed fling in a past town or the next that reads too much into their brief coupling, only to have their aspirations shattered.

But painting Liam as the careless Casanova is the obvious choice – too obvious. The description might fit the story but Jericho knows the importance of reading between the lines. Liam shifts and Jericho’s palm lays flat against the man’s knee. Werewolves run a few degrees above the rest and Jericho hotter still. He knows Liam is aware of the physical contact and, by extension, aware of him. He is a jealous child demanding attention.

Liam recounts his story and Jericho is enthralled. Yet it is not a good-natured interest in Liam’s back story that has the werewolf leaning closer, but the kernels of truth that may lie behind those smoothly delivered words. ”Behavioral problems,” he repeats through the slow spread of a grin. ”And you’re so sure those problems are eliminated?” Nails thrill down Liam’s knee in brazen flirtation, and Jericho pulls his hand away with a laugh. ”It would be a shame if they are.”

Jericho surreptitiously breathes in and holds the man’s scent rolling at the back of his throat. He cannot decipher the musk but the werewolf knows Liam is different. Instincts garnered from his beast declare the musician not as brother but as something closer to prey. The violence that paints his thoughts red is missing, however, and therein lies the puzzle. If the animal does not want to kill its prey, then what are its intentions?

The quiet that falls between them is a contemplative one on Jericho’s part. His attention is fixed squarely within liquid gold of the shot glass held between his tapping fingers. Thoughts drift to Boston, to his brother, to the father he betrayed. Something brittle and made of ash falls heavy upon his shoulders. If he were a better man, he would name the weight for what it was --guilt—but Jericho instead claims it a nuisance and shrugs it off.

Mental respite ends when Liam decides to be direct, but Jericho does not immediately respond. Information is a gift not lightly shared, and trust is a mistake to be carefully avoided. His allies are few, his options fewer. Liam is neither friend or partner; he is a curiosity, a puzzle – a mental one-night-stand. Jericho should give him nothing.

”Opportunity.” Or he could give a morsel, a taste to whet a mental acuity as keen as his own. Jericho smiles as he drains the rest of his glass. A thumb runs over his bottom lip, collecting moisture and Jericho licks it clean while watching Liam with smirking eyes. ”Consider me an entrepreneur-- one looking to…establish a presence here.” The existence of the supernatural in Ponta Delgada is a quiet one. They are there but they choose to remain hidden, like children starved of the sun afraid to step into the light.

A messiah, he is not, but Jericho sees the possibility of salvation here in this land of parishes. ”Paradise rings hollow when you have to disguise your true nature.” Liam’s nature remains a secret and the way Jericho looks at him says as much. ”I’m sure you’d agree.” Chance is one game Jericho has no taste for. He prefers methodical planning and clearly projected results and consequences. Cutting ties with Boston was a leap of faith. Coming to Ponta Delgada was a leap of faith.

He eyes Liam and thinks, why not go for broke and leap again.

”Would you consider yourself a gambling man?” It is a leading question and an obvious one at that. Jericho has something up his sleeve, terms or conditions, and he wants Liam to be aware of it. He wants Liam to be curious, to bite, to take a leap of faith.

The cupid’s bow of his lips pull back to reveal a wolf’s grin.

[Liam]

"We all have a few don't we?" Some more than others, but who is he to point his finger and blame? Liam grins at the pleasant warmth on his knee and the small thrill Jericho sends racing through his flesh. Men weren't usually on the menu, but he knew how to appreciate beauty and the werewolf is definitely that. Maybe one a few degrees above the rest was just the way to chase out the cold. Still, that curiosity might very well be the one to kill him and Liam isn't done with this old world quite yet.

Mindful of his place on the food chain Liam settles for simple flirtation, the sweep of his fingertips against Jericho's thigh, leaning in too close for just friendship. In another decade these under the table gestures might have been all they dared, for fear of persecution in the streets. Whether the world had truly progressed in any manner, Liam doubted, there would always be fear of the different and strange.

One could change public thought, but human nature was another beast entirely.

He isn't buzzed yet, it takes a little more to do that for the old Irish, but being in Jericho's presence is alcoholic in it's own right and with the wolf by his side Liam decides it might be best to keep his wits about him.

The aristocrat only assures that suspicion as he lays out the cryptic beginnings of a plan. There is a hushed quality to his voice, as if he is sharing something truly grand, and it may just be the liquor and the excitement of the unknown in each other, but Liam believes him. That he could be capable of staking a claim on this island. The old fae and a handful of others could do that, make you believe something that you might not otherwise. In Jericho, it seems only a natural talent.

He rolls the words around in his mouth like good wine, choosing to disagree on the benign rather than let the wolf know the extent of his interest. "I don't have much to disguise myself." Liam taps his fingers on the bar counter, miming a song that exists only in his mind. It annoyed Jethro sometimes, his jittery tendencies, but she had never seemed to complain when his hands roved over her bare skin and he danced notes up her spine. "As prevalent as your kind tends to be, I have to say mine is much more adaptable." Helped in part by how rare they were. It was the odd shifter he stumbled on, and besides his own family Liam can count on one hand the number of times he's met another fox. Werewolves were another story entirely. "Predators exist among humans sure, but the type with teeth tend to draw more attention." He smiles graciously at Jericho, throwing a hand palm forward. "No offense meant, but you know it's true."

Of course, Liam takes the bait.

There is adventure promised in Jericho's words, as well as equal parts danger, but it's been years since something truly earned his attention and he sees himself reflected in the man's green eyes. A young man overflowing with ideas and charisma. There is something here and Liam is just reckless enough to want a piece of it. "What type of gamble are you offering, Jericho?" And what was it that he needed? Time, money, expertise? He had it all in spades.

The fox glances out into the amassing crowd, a cacophony of noise and clamor, certainty not the type of place to think through business deals. Wiggling his fingers into his pants' pockets Liam draws forth a few crumpled twenties and sets them on the counter. "If you want to take this elsewhere?" He rises from his chair with an easy grace, glancing at Jericho over his shoulder, mischief twinkling merrily in those old eyes.

"My place, or yours?" Keys jingle as they swing round on one finger. Liam tosses them into the air and catches them once, twice, three times, impatience visible in the hum of his body.

He had made a deal once with something far older and far wiser than himself, was Jericho willing to do the same for the sake of opportunity?

[♔ Jericho ♔]

”Of course not.” There is an undercurrent of frustration to his tone, a nod to his childlike need to know. But there is something to be said for denial and Jericho only finds himself all the more interested. Liam can keep this secret and Jericho will gentle at the edges of it until the threads fray and unravel. The musician will be a lesson in patience and it is a lesson Jericho would do well to learn.

Hints fall like diamonds and Jericho is quick to collect them. Whether Liam’s words prove to be gold or fool’s gold remains to be seen, but the musician demonstrates no evidence of misdirection. But a true manipulator is master at hiding his craft and the young werewolf teeters towards skeptical. He will not be drawn in by charming smiles and eloquent, attractively accented words – or so he claims-- but his body language suggests otherwise.

Too often Jericho’s mind, his intent, refuses to work in tandem with his body. A common affliction for any young and virile man, but the presence of the wolf compounds the problem by fueling it with animalistic hunger. ”No offense taken. It’s no secret that I enjoy being the center of attention.” Jericho runs a tongue over his canines as if to accentuate his point—whatever it might be. ”But I don’t think you’re being entirely honest.” He leans closer with hooded eyes and smiles as he declares, ”I think you have a set of teeth of your own. You just choose to hide them.” Not a wolf but something equally (more?) dangerous. The riddle remains and for now Jericho is content to let it sit.

At Liam’s query, Jericho only smiles. The club grows thick with party goers and the whirl of scents is enough to disguise what might be lurking within the fray. Loose lips sink ships and this is one that has yet to set sail. A change in venue is in order and Liam is first to suggest it. ”I’m not that kind of girl,” he drawls through a growing falsely-demure smile. Jericho is exactly that kind of girl – his record is five minutes from kissing a random man in a club to dropping to his knees in a bathroom stall – but this interaction with Liam is far less vapid.

”My place.” The declaration carries a tone of finality. Werewolves are excruciatingly territorial creatures and if a deal is to be made, it is to be made within the devil’s den. ”You’ll be an able chauffer, I’m sure.” He rises and together they glide through the undulating masses. Jericho cannot shake the sensation that he is being watched until the pair are within the cabin of Liam’s vehicle. The car ride is filled with minimal direction and Jericho’s whimsical suggestions as to what Liam might be. A demon like the Devil that went down to Georgia, perhaps. Or, Jericho’s favorite, -- a carnivorous, musical nymph. Anything Liam has to say to affirm or to deny is met with a laugh.

They arrive at a seaside apartment complex on the Eastern side of the city. It is non-descript and located in what would be considered a middle-income area. On the top floor, Jericho pauses by a door with a metal 8A bolted to it. Whatever ghost of indecision that stalled him disappears and they continue to apartment 10A. The key slides in, tumblers fall into place and Jericho allows Liam into his abode.

It is sparsely decorated, furnished with nothing but the mundane necessities. Jericho does not intend to stay there for long; once established he will find a space more to his taste, but for the time being the modest apartment suits his needs. It is clean, secure, and full of a decidedly human population. ”You’ll forgive the apartment-- I haven’t exactly moved in.” Jericho smoothly slides his suit jacket off and sets it to hang on a nearby kitchen chair. Fingers work to loosen his tie as he steps towards the window-lined wall. ”I’ve invited plenty of strangers home, but never one quite so…different as you.” The warm velvet of his voice dampens on the apartment’s poorly insulated walls. ”And never without the expressed intent of, well, fucking them senseless.”

Jericho turns around and leans onto the cool glass of the windows. Outside the city glows a fiery orange and she casts her aura into the relative dark of the apartment. ”A night of firsts, then—and perhaps for the both of us.” Feral eyes rake over the musician’s form, and in the low light of the living room, Jericho looks more wolf than man. ”You asked me earlier what kind of gamble I was offering.” He did not answer then but wrapped in the scent of sandalwood and familiarity, he is at leave to explain.

”Paradise. On our own terms.” A place without obligation. A place without rigid rules and manifest destinies where a son becomes the father, where the cycle repeats into perpetuity. ”A place where we aren’t sequestered into the shadows because of archaic rules established centuries ago.” There is a boyish wonder in his eyes, the dream of a child chasing his castle in the sky. ”I don’t know what you are – but I know what you’re not. I think I could use that.” Gazes lock and there is determined intent in the young werewolf’s eyes.

”And I think you could use me.” Protection. Money. Jericho has much to offer – Liam need only dictate his own terms and the esquire will, in his own way, work out means to oblige.

[Liam]

As always, Jericho is not far off the mark and Liam leans back in his chair invitingly, glass dangling between his fingertips. "Come closer and I'll show you my teeth." His voice deepens, and his laughter is as rich as they liquor they sip.

On route to the apartment, Liam is unhelpful at best and misleading at his worst, skirting around the truth while giving Jericho just enough information to incite. He even asks a few questions of his own, rude ones like: Have you ever eaten any chipmunks? Handbags? Women's panties? Periodically turning into a hunger driven beast with no memory of your nighttime experiences seemed like something that would land one into interesting situations. It's amusing to think of Jericho's other half with his head stuck in a trashcan. The dignified man picking leaves out of his hair, buck naked in someone's backyard.

While his driving may leave something to desire, the conversation is bright, the underlying search for answers just enough to keep it exciting. Instrument cases rattle in the back and Liam decides that there could be no better way to spend the evening, following a wolf home to his lair.

The apartment is just one copy out of dozens, apparently he wasn't the only one who could hide when he wanted to, managing it in plain sight was all the more the challenge. Liam trails at Jericho's heels, preferring to have the man's back turned on him rather than risk his own. The door closes behind him with a soft click and here the musky scent of wolf is undiluted by the city or crowd. "I see that. Mine isn't much better, I'm sad to say." He draws a finger down the side of his nose, winking at Jericho's bold comments. "Maybe reeking more of wine and cork grease than sex, though."

Liam pouts for a moment, a boyish expression of innocence, the freckles dappled across his nose illuminated as he steps into the light. Outside the window, São Miguel is alive with the night, and beyond the sea endlessly shifts, the tides tugged to and fro at the mercy of the moon, not unlike Jericho himself. He reaches up, taking the silk of his tie between forefinger and thumb. The fabric is soft, warm from Jericho's body heat and Liam gives an experimental pull, free hand questing lower to the smooth metal of his belt buckle. "No mixing business and pleasure?" He grins, cheerfully invading the werewolf's personal space.

Even though, it isn't what he came here for and Liam draws away, eyes flashing yellow in the darkness. A certain uneasiness settles on his shoulders at the mention of paradise again. There was no such thing, he was sure of it, promised in the Bible or otherwise. He had experienced glimpses of it in his long life time and Liam had come to the conclusion that paradise existed only as that. Brief moments in time.

"A haven, for werewolves and the wee folk, and everything else that goes bump in the night?" He wrinkles his nose in polite disbelief, but philosophical arguments aside Jericho's offer is very real. An opportunity yet unexplored and a distraction from the things he could not solve. Maybe, even a way to find what he had lost. His son and his wife. Idle pipe dreams, but he can't help but wonder.

Liam considers, what there is to lose and gain and just who he was proposing to get in bed with. The local wolves wouldn't appreciate the competition and between the two of them, he was by far the easier target. At first glance, anyway. Jericho had avoided his question and a wolf didn't stray from his pack without reason. Something had happened to land him on this island and something had happened to implant this goal of paradise in his mind. There were no pure intentions when it came to a man like Jericho. "An interesting proposition." He shifts his weight from foot to foot, "Unique to say the least." He strikes a hand out suddenly, indecision vanishing into thin air. "You have a deal." He meets Jericho's eyes, long fingers curling over his palm and squeezing heartily, enough to roll his knuckles.

He closes the distance between them, wrapping his free hand around the werewolf's back, cheek pressed to his shoulder. "And, as a show of good faith, I'll show you what I am." His muscles tense and with a snap of his fingers Liam announces his only warning before Jericho is left with an armful of clothes and a squirming fox, bushy tail lashing as he claws at the suit for purchase, the Irishman's grin reflected in a gleaming row of teeth and a pointed muzzle.

His laughter echoes through the apartment, a trickster's satisfaction.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

The musician sidles closer, completely ignoring such niceties as personal space. Jericho does not seem to mind Liam’s proximity, no, he does not mind at all. Fingers dance across the fabric covering Liam’s side and though it is nothing more than a ghost’s touch, the gesture is tantalizing. Liam may be the skilled musician, the man with the able and dexterous hands, but Jericho is an artisan in his own right. ”Business first,” he chides through a liquid-velvet drawl that drips of teasing promise. ”Then we can decide how to spend the rest of our evening.” If Micah was there, he would scoff and grab Jericho by the ear for being so forward. Sleeping with strangers was one thing, but sleeping with potential new business partners—that was an unnecessary level of reckless.

And it wouldn’t be the first time.

Jericho watches with disguised interest as Liam mulls over the offer. There are few details to spare and the esquire is aware that his grand plan is nothing more than a pretty dream. The dream will grow into something tangible, something understood and real – he needs only time and manpower. At the age of twenty-five, he has all the time in the world, and with Ponta Delgada offering up such gems as Liam, Jericho feels dangerously optimistic. ”What can I say, I’ve always been a dreamer.” It is a blatant truth. Jericho spent the majority of his childhood living within fairytales about lost boys and found kingdoms, of heaven and true love. Part of his soul will always exist in that realm of make believe, and what could it hurt to bring a little of that fantasy into reality.

He only needs a ‘yes’ and when that yes comes, Jericho does not bother fighting his grin. ”Liam Fitzpatrick, I do believe you and I are going to be fast friends. ” The grin morphs into a smirk as the musician draws closer and Jericho gives a pleased rumble. A werewolf would never admit to purring but that is precisely the noise emanating from within the esquire’s chest. Two hands settle low on Liam’s back, only to glide lower and greedily cover the man’s ass. What Jericho assumes is a prelude to pleasure ends in an abrupt and bewildering second.

Wide eyes no longer stare into a human’s gaze, but at something decidedly smaller and furrier. In his arms is nothing but a bundle of clothing and a cat-sized creature. What follows is a moment in which there is no noise but the sound of Liam’s slacks tumbling to the floor, and then the room bursts with animal-like laughter. Jericho’s look of surprise fades into a bemused expression and he laughs. ”A fox. Of course – a fox. How could I have missed that.” Recounting the musician’s clever words and sly, compelling body language, fox should have been Jericho’s first guess.


”Micah will never believe this,” he muses as he rubs one of the fox’s ears between thumb and finger. In his blood there is a white-hot reaction, one Jericho attributes to his wolf’s need to understand, to chase, and to possess. While he is no hound, a fox is no less the perfect quarry. The grin he wears takes on a wild edge and he runs a finger under the fox’s chin. ”It is a pity, though. I had thought we were moving on to the pleasure side of the evening.” Liam is released onto the ground, along with his clothing, and Jericho takes a step back.

He continues to move until he is swallowed into the shadows that the city’s lights are too weak to dispel. Further, still, until he vanishes into an adjoining room. A beat, and then a sudden displacement in the air as something is sent sailing through the living room. A white shirt still warm from Jericho’s body heat lands directly over the fox and it is the wolf’s turn to laugh.

The musician –the fox—is left with a decision. Follow the wolf further into its den or play on the side of caution and leave.

[Liam]

The fox is a brazen creature and takes no heed to the fact that Jericho is just as capable of breaking his scrawny neck in two as he is scratching his chin. Liam crawls onto his shoulders, suit hooked between his claws as he balances himself on the new perch. Shifting so quickly was a skill that came with age and no small amount of energy, but it was all worth it for the sake of showmanship. The ear rubs aren't bad either and the little fox preens like a cat, rubbing his muzzle against the man's jaw. Hardly a terrifying creature, but Liam hopes he realizes the significance of just what he has joined with in the bonds of enterprise.

A wolf and a fox, an appropriate pair for the dog eat dog world of business.

He is too dignified to walk across the cold floor after him and Liam watches from his pile of clothes as Jericho slinks off into the darkness. A blob of white whistles through the air and he nearly jumps out of his skin, lassoed in the shirt. After a moment of frantic squirming he emerges from the collar, whiskers trembling and chattering pointedly at the lawyer, hidden away in his room. It was good to know Jericho had a sense of humor, but Liam preferred not being its target.

Ending the evening on this note seems like the easy way out, and Liam for all his years, has never been known to do anything easily. So he shifts, face flushed red with the effort of the change, skin bare to the chill. "You should have seen the look on your face." Liam crows, groping through his clothes for his necklace. It glints silver in the low light of the apartment as he tugs it overhead, the medallion a solid weight against his chest. St. Dismas, the patron saint of thieves, criminals, and all those seeking a second chance. Tonight of all nights, with promise heavy in the air it seems appropriate. São Miguel was a chance at redemption for him, even if he hadn't come to the island seeking it. Liam didn't know it yet, and maybe he never would, but it was a chance for Jericho too.

A haven for themselves as much as others.

"Absolutely perfect--and I know what you're thinking," Liam kicks the remainder of his clothes off to the side, striding through the living room clad only in his necklace. It swings merrily around his neck and the shifter even takes a moment to admire himself in the mirror before continuing on his way. It was surprising the two of them could even stand in the same room together without their egos suffocating the other. "Red fox, right? Typical, matches the hair and all," He rounds the corner, finger shifting through the unruly strands in demonstration. "But nope." He pops the 'p', hip cocked against the doorway--as if he had lived here his whole life and this was a regular occurrence.

And if the night ended on the same note it had begun, Liam wasn't at all opposed to add wolf to the menu, at least this specific one.

"Sorry there's nothing to unwrap."

He gives Jericho the pleasure of viewing him as God intended and is eager to exchange the favor. Green eyed or golden, Liam couldn't care and he is grateful for the blessing of nocturnal vision, all the better to see him with, the slope of his shoulders and the graceful, but strong build. He is only a few inches taller, but far broader than the shifter's slender frame, made to fight, not run and where his own handsomeness might be more incidental, a catch of sharp eyes and soft lips, Jericho certainty earned his attention for a reason.

Liam leans down to grab something off the floor, tucking it gently around his neck with an imploring smile, fingertips smoothing along the edges of collarbone and muscle. "Leave the tie?"

[♔ Jericho ♔]

The wolf does not have to wait long before the fox is quick to join him. An ego purrs and self-directed satisfaction turns his blood to warm honey. Jericho is not accustomed to being denied and tonight is no exception—he always gets what he wants.

And tonight he wants Liam.

He is slow to turn around but when he does, Jericho is greeted by the sight of a doorway full of smiling trickster. A responding jump in his heart rate is indication enough that his animal half is also interested. Appreciative eyes scale the naked expanse of the shifter’s body and the wolf tilts his head before meeting the other man’s gaze. ”You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Gray fox instead of red, and a willingness to ante up when a predator ten times his size is his opponent – Jericho is, dare he admit, impressed.

Curious fingers secure around the medallion hanging from the fox’s neck and Jericho identifies it as some manner of religious symbol. His hand moves to slide up Liam’s throat, warm palm pressed flat beneath the man’s chin. ”Such a strange thing you are,” he whispers like an explorer that just discovered a new species. A nose tickles at the musician’s jawline and the werewolf inhales, drawing in that odd yet alluring scent. Lips settle against the trickster’s pulse and the wolf keys into the rhythmic thrum of Liam’s heartbeat.

His beast could swallow Liam’s whole and there is something obscenely gratifying about that. Jericho does not analyze the nonsense emanating from his animal – it is too wrapped in instinct to decipher. Instead he allows instinct to guide him and for the first time in months, a modicum of satisfaction rings clear from the werewolf’s better (worse) half. Teeth press teasingly into the pale skin of Liam’s throat, but Jericho pulls away before he can be registered as a threat. With Liam, with a fox, Jericho must learn how to speak his language. The musician will find the werewolf to be a willing and able student.

Jericho observes the banner of cloth hanging from Liam’s grip and a coy smile traces his lips. ”If you insist,” he gently allows as his fingers grip the cloth. In the next moment, Liam is robbed of his vision, a knot securely fastened at the back of his skull. The silk-smooth fabric is tight but not to the point of discomfort. ”You can keep the tie,” Jericho rumbles before he captures Liam’s chin between thumb and forefinger.

Their lips meet. Jericho kisses slow and thoughtful. It is an experimental gesture, one meant to explore, but there is no mistaking the heat lurking beneath. The werewolf’s body thrums with energy, with intent, and it is clear that he is holding back. The esquire, through upbringing and chosen vocation, is a master of words but it is through the communication of touch that he excels, that he truly communicates. The fox is prone in the heart of the wolf’s den, robbed of one of his senses. This is an exercise in control and, to an extent, trust.

”Tell me this is alright,” he implores hotly against Liam’s mouth, nails leaving white trails as they drift down the fox’s side. Jericho is a beast but he is not a monster – only when Liam gives him leave, will the wolf proceed.

[Liam]

and then they frolicked in the meadow and chased bunny rabbits together

*~*~*~*~