Black & Blue [Jericho]

[♔ Jericho ♔]

The motel room is small and confining. Old dust drifts within stale air and the din of electricity in the building’s old wires is at a constant low buzz. Voices, muffled through the sheetrock and poor insulation, carry on in garbled conversation. Ponta Delgada is waking up and both residents and guests are preparing to meet the day. Paradise beckons and few possess the will to deny her call.

Jericho would like to take a rain check and reschedule life to continue sometime next week. His body is aching; not one cell goes without complaint. Breathing inspires an odd itch, moving causes blurred vision and a loss of equilibrium. Poison feels like the hangover after a particularly horrible drug trip. The werewolf surmises the comparison is, in fact, accurate. One too many reckless nights spent taking candy from strangers has—in a hilariously sad way-- taught Jericho how to ride out the after effects.

He lays on top of the mattress, fingers laced and rested atop his abdomen. The lights are turned off and the curtains are closed. The werewolf is not sleeping, but in the same controlled state of meditation championed by those who suffer from chronic migraines. A clear mind is a restful mind, and a restful mind helps ease the body into a lower echelon of pain. Simple, except it isn’t. Jericho’s thoughts wander and circulate around the odd inflection carried within Micah’s voice during an earlier phone call. Brotherhood and growing up together has offered Jericho insight into Micah’s personality that no one else is privy to.

Something is up and Jericho knows it.

To gallivant around in Ponta Delgada was foolish. To let his guard down was a grievous misstep. He expects some manner of retaliation from Micah, but Jericho can never know what. It has him on edge. It has his wolf on edge. The beast is a drunk but furious presence. Pride curdles and writhes until Jericho is nearly sick with a grudging acknowledgement of failure. Despite his mistakes, the werewolf trusts that the one familial bond to make it intact out of Boston, will again prove to be a lifeline. Micah will come. Micah always comes.

A knock at the door sends sharp debris rattling through Jericho’s skull. Bleary eyes slide open to greet the popcorn-textured ceiling with a hollow stare. He waits a beat before rolling into a sitting position, and the action earns a disgruntled groan. Bare feet meet the wooden floor and a hand runs over a stubbled chin, palm over mouth. It is time, as they say, to face the music.

Jericho rises and glides across the cold ground with the grace of an old man in want of a walker. He trips on the tail of a loosely tied belt from his borrowed motel robe and is propelled forward. The following loud and shallow thump vibrates through the door as he throws out a hand, scrambling for purchase. Jericho’s brain decides that quick movement is a bad thing, and for a moment he fights off a bout of vertigo. His forehead rests against the wooden barrier and patience is tested as the world slowly percolates into focus.

Lungs fill with a steeling breath as an ailing man prepares to face his brother. The door opens with the squeak of hinges to reveal a pallid looking Jericho. His skin is pale, there are dark circles under his eyes, and he is nothing like the groomed prince of Boston from memory. Words are his greatest weapon and yet here words choose to abandon the man in his greatest moment of need. He is faced not with his brother, but with the poor soul he left to pick up the pieces in Boston. Nathaniel looks healthy, strong, and it sends red flags up throughout the werewolf’s bestial mind.

He is in a state of weakness – easy pickings. While the human understands that there is a minimal chance that Nathaniel is here to do harm, the wolf feels otherwise. It cannot challenge when it does not have the energy, and it could not possibly hope to stave off a contender should Nathan’s wolf decide to capitalize on the moment. Honest shock wavers into an unsure expression, and it is clear by the way Jericho does not react to the insulting nickname, that Nathan has caught him completely by surprise.

”You’re…not Micah.” The perversely vapid observation seems to shake Jericho from his stupor, and he puffs up much like a flustered bird. Green eyes take stock of the suit Nathaniel has in tow and Jericho understands without really understanding. ”But you’ve come to do Micah’s bidding. How… interesting.” Throughout the exchange, Jericho has trouble making eye contact. Beaten by a trick only rookies would fall for – a spiked drink—and in obvious need of help, he feels more naked than any amount of clothing could hope to disguise.

It is through the insistence of his wolf that Jericho manages to briefly hold Nathan’s gaze. ”Come in -- and give me the goddamned suit.” If he is the Princess then he will act as haughtily as needed to fill the role. Once obliged, Jericho shoulders off the bathrobe and begins to dress. He means to do so quickly but is forced to slow down when both his bewilderment and body get the better of him.

There are a million of questions caterwauling through Jericho’s mind but what leaves his lips is this --

”You went to Micah first.” It is both an accusation and a question. He pulls at the collar of his dress shirt and fixes Nathan with a guarded stare. ”You should have come to me.” Then maybe this whole debacle could have been avoided. It is a theory with no foundation, and nothing more than the desperate act of a man too weak to bear the burden of blame.

A thread of logic cuts through indignant confusion and embarrassment. Jericho’s cheeks flush red and he looks away, teeth grit. ”What are you doing here.” A better question, and one less weighted with difficult-to-indentify emotions.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

A stale breeze wafts out on a draft of displaced air, but it carries more with it than motes of dust and musty air conditioning; the hauntingly familiar scent of Jericho is a powerful memory, laced though it is with his wolf’s miserable outrage, and something inside Nathan shifts. Their last meeting is still a confusing twist of emotions at the back of his mind, locked away to spare him from further consideration, but the animal shoulders past mental barricades with a furious curiosity. It feels, it senses, and it remembers everything. Though the man presents a picture of effortless calm, the beast is a tense and writhing presence that draws the atmosphere taut with electric anticipation. Discretion is a human concern, and the wolf is hopelessly – and arrogantly – meddlesome.

Nathan expects to catch Jericho off-guard. He expects to find the werewolf nursing some lingering remnants of the previous night’s mistakes, and to capitalize on the prank. What he does not imagine is what appears before him: a wan and strung-out husk of a man normally known for his composure, one staring bemusedly back at him with hollow eyes and a shell-shocked air. A flicker of something resembling concern wells up in him, but it is displaced by the beast’s indignation. Someone has played with its things. It is fretful with a need to restore order, to understand. Jericho presents not as the predicted challenge but as an injured stray, and neither man nor animal can quite organize an appropriate response.

”That bad?” Nathan’s recovery is smooth, belying any brief uncertainty. However surprising his sudden appearance, it says more for Jericho’s mental state that the man stumbles even momentarily, devoid of clever words and concealing smiles – and Nate knows better than to dwell on it. ”I thought I’d cleaned up well enough,” the werewolf muses, running fingertips across his cheeks and directing a pointed glance in Jericho’s direction. His condition is sidestepped in a simple ploy and an amused smile. Deliberately breaking their stare, Nathan lets himself inside and hands over the requested clothing, the door shut and latched tight behind him.

He selects the room’s sole chair – an uncomfortable wicker monstrosity that creaks ominously beneath him – to settle in, lazily resting his elbow on an armrest and his chin in his hand. Jericho’s purposeful pace and fumbling motions do not go unnoticed, but Nathan averts his eyes; though the other man’s body is far from unfamiliar, there is more vulnerability here than that of simple nakedness. Pride is a fickle and easily wounded thing, and while he can feel the wolf pacing and whining with a need to test, to press and explore and question, his body language conveys only a subtle disengagement. Better to ignore the game than to play it; there are too many rules left to reestablish.

”I found Micah first,” Nate clarifies, blue eyes darting upwards to catch on green. As it is so often between them, what matters more is what remains unsaid. ”You were apparently indisposed.” Leaning back, the werewolf drops his arm and taps his fingers distractedly on the cracked wicker, matching Jericho’s stare with a tilt of his head and an open-mouthed smile. ”I promise his couch wasn’t anything special. You hardly missed out.” A stiff back and a dull headache are the least of his worries when living off scraps and kindness, and that nagging itch that necessitates he find a more permanent solution begins in his head anew.

There is too much happening at once, too many problems yet to solve. That thread of unease is disguised and buried deep, but Nathan knows the importance of it.

”Bringing you home,” he replies glibly. A bold stare follows the motion of Jericho’s fingers on the buttons of his shirt. ”You called. I came. Isn’t that how it works?” Whether or not he is referring to the literal or the metaphorical is deliberately vague. Jericho had, in some fashion, invited him here – it is certainly no fault of Nate’s that he hadn’t anticipated his arrival – and he had shown up in his own good time. That it had been the man’s only option is of no matter. ”Running errands for your brother, apparently. We were working that out when you called.” Again the issue is avoided, and Nate’s attention settles instead on the shaded window. Admitting his own failure regarding Boston is a concept that lodges in his throat, and he runs his tongue across his lower lip in thought.

Rising, Nathan steps towards Jericho and bridges the gap between them with a cautious hand. He says nothing, but there is a question in his gaze – a hesitance that waits for invitation – and a submissive slant to his shoulders. Given leave, the werewolf leans forward to adjust Jericho’s lapel, his eyes resolutely dropped to the action of his hands.

”Boston is fucked.” He smoothes Jericho’s collar beneath his thumbs, laying it flat, and ignores the unwelcome bitterness that marks his words. ”I let it go.” The wolf is more offended at the loss than he is, but it too has set its sights on greener pastures, hungry for stability. Nathan extracts himself before practical gestures can confuse themselves with fondness, and steps back to give Jericho a quick and approving once-over.

”That’s more like it.” A playful smile, a coaxing raise of his brows that gives way to an easy honesty. ”It’s good to see you.”

Even here – even like this.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Ego is a terrible monster and it hounds Jericho with a niggling declaration of failure. To be seen as anything less than perfect sends him spiraling into a wilting bewilderment, where nothing makes sense anymore. Nathan’s fortuitous arrival bears Jericho no relief; his shattered pride overwhelms the knowledge that he is safe now with a bitter pain. When the blue-eyed werewolf calls attention to his appearance, Jericho determinedly ignores it. For a man who embodies liquid warmth and uses it as a social tool, he is remarkably skilled in giving the cold shoulder.

Nathaniel projects a smooth exterior. He is eloquent and at ease, capable of offering smiles and humor-laced words. He is everything Jericho should be but can’t, and it is a monumentally frustrating reality. The hollow ache in his bones is nothing in comparison to the way his pride rages, and his wolf with it. Feral eyes snap up to meet blue, and the beast lurks discomfited as Nathan gives his explanation. For Jericho’s part, he seems to be teetering between thoughtful and unsure. The man before him is conquered territory. Rules were established that dictated the nature of their relationship and how their interactions were to proceed. The scene that carries on at present is a strict outlier and the things that were are no longer the things that are.

Change, Jericho decides, is only acceptable when he is the one that heralds its arrival. ”You and Micah had a sleepover.” There is a clue here to Nathan’s living situation but Jericho is too out of sorts to pick up on it. ”How sweet,” he deadpans with a false honeyed smile. That fake smile warps into an honest sneer and Jericho goes so far as to huff haughtily. ” You mean -- Micah commanded and you followed orders.” He is being contrary out of an immature bid to defend himself. That Nathan is even here is not due to Micah’s actions, but of his own, and Jericho knows it. He cannot rationalize it or understand it, and therefore he becomes a ball of porcupine needles ready to lash out at a moment’s notice.

His body condition is on the recovery but it only adds to the man’s withering demeanor. ”Good dog, do you want a bisc…uit.“ The petty statement loses its heat and rolls to a stop as Nathan rises. The man approaches and Jericho deflates. Weight shifts from one foot to the other and he leans away marginally, an action born from the wary nature of his beast. A moment passes, and a silent breath escapes between the cupid’s bow of his lips. Wondering eyes wander over Nathan’s face and Jericho ignores the way his heart rate picks up when the other werewolf reaches out.

”I don’t care.” The flat and detached delivery could make a sociopath wince. Boston is a place of broken promises forged by mad kings – who were nothing more than puppets themselves. The web of conspiracies and power there is so convoluted that Jericho is convinced it is only a matter of time before it all comes crashing down.”Let them have it.” They are words that echo Micah’s and in doing so, suggest that the brothers have discussed the matter and arrived at a shared conclusion.

Heat lurks beneath a thin veneer of calm, though Nathan’s proximity has sent Jericho into a sedate mode of being. The cat retracts his claws and he looks down, demure. His blood commands him to take comfort from the familiar, but a destroyed machismo keeps the man chained. It is not that Jericho thinks he is unworthy of the attention, but he does not understand how to accept it, not like this. Not when he cannot be the man Nathaniel remembers. Still, he wants. Fingers twitch and a hand rises to cover Nathan’s, but the action is cut short when the other werewolf pulls away.

The suit is a step up from the bathrobe but Jericho feels like nothing more than a man in costume. Nathan has seen beneath his mask and Jericho struggles to come to terms with it. In the end, he can’t, and so he falls to old habits and pushes the ball of frenetic emotion into a place of ignored things. When he is well, he will return to the role of charismatic socialite and they will pretend like this never happened.

Nathan’s words earn a small upturn to Jericho’s lips, but the expression vanishes. His weighted stare lingers on the dusty windowsill and Jericho appears to be fighting with something internally. He is not a damsel in distress. He does not need help. He is not given things – he takes them. The ideals of an egotistical man coupled with the delusions of an apex predator have created something remarkably fragile. Jericho turns his head to face Nathan, his eyes linger on the man’s chest. Jaw muscles twitch and his mouth parts to deliver --

”Are you here to stay?” His voice catches on ’stay’ and when his gaze flicks up to meet Nathan’s, there is something so close to hope there, that it is heartbreaking.

Jericho will allow himself this one day of weakness. Then they will pretend like it never happened.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Bitter words sting and prick a ruffled dignity, and Nathan is forced to suffer the defensive barbs with no option of recompense. Showing up at Jericho’s doorstep as Micah’s errand boy is not the striking first impression he had envisioned – though the humiliation of being drugged has his minor annoyance soundly beat – but the man shoulders on, brushing off each biting retort with the same calm patience. His averted gaze, the way he determinedly resists more revealing language of either words or body, they are born from a desire to reestablish some sort of order – to understand what new boundaries exist before he makes the clumsy mistake of testing them. In the end, the only one drawing attention towards Jericho’s pathetic state is Jericho himself, and Nathan grants him this allowance.

If he harbors some disappointment at the paltry reception, it does not show.

An ember of peace born from their brief connection smolders on even after Nathan steps away. The memory of Jericho is still on his fingertips, the wolf an impatient and whimpering presence twisting inside him; his expression grows pensive as he watches the other man, his breath drawn tight in his chest. There is a moment where the animal rises and he is gripped by an urge to simply touch, to provide comfort through the mutually understandable vocabulary of sensation when his words themselves can offer so little, but the action is stymied and smothered and soundly disregarded. Now is not the time to examine the strength or stretch of the threads that bind them, not even with simple gestures of affection that may have once been commonplace. The beast thinks physically and plainly, but the simplicity of instinct is lost in a wash of human complications.

Nathan does not know Jericho without the distraction of lips and hands, without the pretense of desire to hide behind. What remains when the mask is stripped away is frighteningly vulnerable, an emotion confused further by the new and largely unknown parameters of their relationship. Handling an injured and indignant Jericho when he hardly knows where their own familiarity stands is a balancing act he feels ill-equipped for; Nate’s teasing compliment earns only a fleeting ghost of a smile and then silence, and his smirk falters in the face of the other man’s stubborn pride. That he is overcome with such a drive to cheer Jericho up should read as concerning, but Boston’s wayward son has always inspired such willful ignorance in him. It is a blow to his ego and his hopes that he might not be good enough, that he is unwelcome—

Doubts and misgivings are broken in a statement and a stare, and Nate meets Jericho’s eyes – if only for a moment – without the masquerade of arrogance. Candor is so rare between them that the man’s tone, his glance, catch Nathan flatfooted. The werewolf runs his tongue across his lower lip in the following pause, a long beat in which he struggles to formulate an appropriate response. Honesty is a breeding ground for rejection, but he dares not drive Jericho further away.

”Micah seems to think I’d be useful.” A false modesty, one that rings with satire. His relevance is obvious and he is not a man to downplay his own ability, but as a justification it is hollow and empty; Nathan runs the pad of his thumb runs across the backs of his fingers, and has to look away before making a second attempt. ”And I can’t go back to Boston,” he continues, but it is the wrong opening, an excuse too wrapped up in evasion despite its truth. A brief and telling frown crosses his face. This is where he smoothes the conversation over with an easy laugh and a joke; this is where he falls back upon nonchalance and aloofness to drive the point home.

”Yeah. I’m here to stay.” Blue eyes find green in the dark of the shabby motel room, and what passes between them in a flickering moment is something solemn, something sworn. ”I’d hoped for a big welcome party, you know? But your brother just gave me some coffee and sent me here.” The moment is dispelled in a crooked smile and some gentle humor; Nathan reaches between them to run Jericho’s collar between his thumb and forefinger, and his expression runs fond. ”I guess you’ll do.” A dry and obvious understatement – as though merely adequate could ever describe the other man – and he shrugs before turning away.

”Come on. I’m supposed to get you home, or something important like that.“ Away from this filthy motel, away from the exposure of soul it has harbored. Micah had made it fairly clear he was meant to bring Jericho to him, but Nathan has always had a knack for conveniently twisting rules to suit his own ends; without a set timetable to work around, he is willing enough to follow Jericho’s lead. ”—I might need directions,” he admits, brows knitted together as he makes for the door. Nathan pauses only to slip a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket and extend them in offering, and when they exit to the bright morning outside, the hand that hovers inconspicuously and protectively by the small of Jericho’s back toes the line between professional and affectionate – and possessive.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Vulnerability is a grievous sin and the man’s wolf howls its dissent. A maw breaks open, teeth leak venom and the beast breathes fire, stoking a heart’s furnace kindled with shame and regret. Jericho despises the way Nathan renders him so raw and open. It is far too real for a man accustomed to shallow relationships that never survive past a night. Still he waits for an answer that he hopes is positive. To be denied an affirmative reply would be a crippling blow, and as Jericho realizes this, his demeanor grows closer to unraveling. He is a boy made from thatch and thread, and Nathan pulls at his seams through the simple act of being there.

No one, save for Micah, has ever had any control over Jericho. The werewolf would wonder over this if he had the faculty of mind, but he does not because he is reeling. Drugs linger in a stressed system but they are a poor excuse; the world is off-kilter due to human and personal reasons. Reasons that Jericho is not yet ready to confront.

”Micah has always been a good judge of character,” Jericho relents and it appears his hackles have deflated completely. His body is too drained to entertain the fitful argument spewed by his animal half, and Nathaniel is granted a pass. Shoulders slant as if a weight has been lifted, and if Jericho’s eyes shut briefly in relief, it is an action he will not acknowledge. ”Good,” a muttered word as he looks up to meet Nathan’s stare. ”We could use the help.” There is a compliment carried in the lightly delivered words. Jericho offers his first real smile of the morning and for him, the amiable-- if muted-- change in demeanor the only apology that Nathan can expect.

Nathan reaches out and this time Jericho does not lean away. His hand rises to cover the werewolf’s forearm near the wrist, and he neither pushes or pulls – he holds. Direct contact is a shock to his beast’s system. Its constant baying dies down into a sputter, then silence. Jericho exhales and watches Nathan’s lips form words that nearly go unheard. The sudden arrival of calm translates into a natural high, which has the added effect of alleviating drug-born pain. Jericho blinks and the moment is broken when the other werewolf pulls away. ”It’s good to know that I am an adequate prize,” Jericho deadpans but he does so in good humor. ”Your pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

Twice has Nathan traveled great distances at his behest. Jericho cannot be certain of what the werewolf is chasing, but the story stings bittersweet like the fairytales that entertained him in his youth. The knight riding off to meet his prin—Jericho chops the line of thought off at its head and delivers Nathan a sharp look. ”And don’t you ever call me ‘Princess’ again, you ass.” Despite his words, Jericho smirks as he snatches the offered sunglasses away.

Meeting with his brother is an exercise in patience that Jericho is not willing to go through – not until he has had adequate time to pull together his thoughts, and to stop feeling like death warmed over. He is preparing to inform Nathan of as much when they exit into the morning light. Instead of speaking, Jericho is rendered stupefied because there, leaning against the borrowed car, is Micah. Legs crossed and looking disgustingly cheery, the older Malik brother offers a two-fingered wave.

”I see you’ve found my wayward little brother. Good. ”The brightness of Micah’s grin has Jericho on the defense. His shoulders tense – he knows his older brother has something up his sleeve. ”That means we can finally head out for breakfast. I know this brilliant little seaside café.” Brows raise and he tilts his head. ”That is, of course, if you are feeling up to it.”

Jericho feels like hell. His head is pounding. His goddamned bones hurt. Not to mention the mere thought of food inspires a flare of nausea. Micah is challenging him and Jericho is too much a fool to back down when he knows he is beaten. ”I’m feeling a bit peckish.” He follows the nonchalant statement with a shrug and a tight smile. Micah gives a responding grin, as if all is right in the world. ”Fantastic. Nate, you play chauffer-- I call shotgun.”

They arrive at the café, an exclusive joint that is accessible by reservation only. When they are seated at a private table situated on a patio overlooking the beach, it becomes apparent that Micah had this exact turn of events planned out. Jericho was to be brought directly to him – no detours—and he has ensured this. The trio take their seats, order their meals, and Micah directs the conversation towards small talk until they are left their privacy.

”You could be dead, you know,” he says conversationally as he forks a small morsel of ham into his mouth. Jericho looks up from where he pushes around his meal like a dejected child that hates his vegetables. ”But I’m not.” He responds with a sharp smile, as if Micah’s statement carries no weight. ”Only because they didn’t want you to be.” The brothers carry on in a tone that does not, in anyway, suggest they are talking about a life and death scenario.

Micah whips his fork through the air animatedly as he poses a theory. ”This was a warning. Their ‘we know you’re here and we don’t like it’ statement.” Eventually someone had to make a move and Micah finds it interesting that their shy neighbors finally decided to do something. ”They’re trying to spook us into leaving, which we won’t, because we don’t have that option.” He has begun the process of establishing a network of contacts and, on a more shallow level, Micah likes it here. ”No more mistakes. We need to establish some ground rules that everyone has to follow.” Micah delivers a look pointedly at Jericho before turning his attention to Nathaniel.

”Thoughts?” Three men at a seaside café chatting. The scene seems innocent enough, but if anyone were in earshot, they would understand that innocence has no place here – not among wolves.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Rejection, particularly when concerning the few things in life he actually desires, is an abstract concept that Nathan has little experience with. What his formative years had taught him regarding abject refusal had left a sour enough taste lingering on his tongue that he has structured his life around avoiding it; it is a gross violation of character to even acknowledge that Jericho’s approval means so much. A twisting amalgam of emotions born from both wolf and man is soothed somewhat by the attempted return to normalcy – by the smile that, finally, settles on Jericho’s lips, and marks the restoration of their usual humor. These are steps in a dance that Nathan understands. They imitate known patterns, familiar routines. They can pretend.

The blinding late morning sunlight cuts through unwanted thoughts, and subsequent self-analysis – or lack thereof – is abandoned in the flash of Micah’s knowing grin. Nate runs his tongue over his teeth in a brief and unconscious show of both discomfort and unease, and he snatches his hand back to his side as the conversation unfolds. The wolf feeds off of Jericho’s tension. It irrationally reflects it, amplifies it defensively, and is mollified only when the man steps away to make for the driver’s side door.

Nathan despises being predictable – and greater still is his hatred for being caught unawares. That Micah would have the forethought to imagine as much comes as both a surprise and a disappointment, but he files the information away for later. No matter the ultimate insignificance of the disruption, it is an exercise in the error of underestimation. Lesson learned.

Plans to take Jericho home are consequently discarded, victims of a prideful man’s wounded ego, and the would-be alpha’s prudence is again confirmed in their destination. Oceanside reservations; prearranged privacy. Jericho’s flare for the dramatic is echoed in Micah, however muted it might be, but the procedure earns a small token of respect from the detail-oriented werewolf; small samplings of potential leadership accumulate, and may yet prove worthy to an animal mind. Though their waitress is met with a charming smile if only for the prospect of a meal, the discussion’s eventual turn sees Nathan uncharacteristically quiet.

There is a level of detachment here that he should emulate, that he has never had trouble projecting in the past, but something sits discomfited inside him. While more important men speak, Nate’s eyes are on the café they are separated from by simple glass and drapery, his back to the ocean and his thoughts dark. Lulls serve as opportunities for reality to creep in. Otherwise ignored concerns wait for unoccupied moments to haunt him, rendered in sudden clarity by flagrant reminders: someone has poisoned Jericho. The danger in Ponta Delgada is rife and real, and though Nathan does not fear it for his own sake, it has certainly become his responsibility.

He is more worried over that than he had expected.

”I assume you’re taking the obvious precautions.” The café rendezvous is evidence enough of that, but it only speaks to Micah’s sense of discretion. Jericho is the weak link; Jericho is the easy target. Though Micah may be the bigger threat there is an inherent weakness in family, and it is one their enemies may have learned to exploit. ”There’s only so much you can do if they’ve figured out the game.” Nate places his fork across his plate and leans back, blue eyes pointedly avoiding the drugged elephant in the room. ”Lie low. Chalk it up as a misunderstanding. Back off and let them relax.” A shrug; rules are not his to establish, not without further understanding.

”You should be thankful they even gave you a warning.” Vegas would have exterminated threats without a second thought; Boston had operated similarly. Such actions exemplify a degree of both power and paranoia, but there are conclusions that may be drawn from their absence. ”They don’t want to play. Either they’re making nice, or they don’t have the means to support other options.” The lack of infrastructure and organization is already apparent; law enforcement is harder to manipulate when it is not in your pocket. ”I’d like to believe the latter, based on what you’ve told me. Otherwise, what’s stopping them?” It would be as simple as a silver-knifed mugging – as a laced drink. There is no reason for either Malik to be alive save uncertainty.

Their waitress returns to refill their glasses; the conversation takes a polite pause. ”…silence makes them harder to identify, but gives us a good excuse. You tried to contact them. You failed, you’ve taken their warning to heart, and now you’ve given up.” Nate fixes Micah with a level stare. ”Playing it safe means they lack confidence, enough that you might worry them. We just need to buy enough time to find out why.”

That, of course, means plugging up any leaks for the duration it takes the dust they’ve made to settle. Nate’s gaze flickers tellingly to Jericho, but slides away just as quickly, disguised as he takes a lingering sip from his drink. Logical though it may be, it is an optimistic view of their situation and he knows it. The alternative is simply not a choice Nathan is willing to entertain.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Micah allows Nathan the floor and listens attentively as he explains his list of observations. He does not interrupt but nods where necessary in show of agreement. The Consigliere delivers abject truth unburdened by a blanket of obscurity knit from niceties and emotion – it is the kind of conversation Micah can get behind. Conversely, the bored look on Jericho’s face perfectly illustrates why the younger Malik brother is ill-suited for this specific kind of discussion. His cheek rests in a hand and he pokes at a plate full of eggs with a wrinkled nose. Jericho has checked out of the conversation and Micah stifles the urge to roll his eyes.

”They definitely have the high ground, there is no denying it.” Micah sets his silverware next to his neatly cleared plate. He dots the sides of his mouth with a napkin and tosses the folded cloth onto the table. ”And here I was thinking this was going to be easy.” Boston had the advantage of an old and tested infrastructure, and though the city was rotting its skeleton could bear harsh realities. Ponta Delgada is different. The wolves here lack any obvious organization. Micah has managed to pick up on a culture of sorts, one in which the unwritten rule of discretion is taken to a near fanatical extreme. Beyond that, there is nothing. The concept of living without a support system that works both the law force and medical centers to their favor is intimidating. They must tread carefully and they must take their time.

Lie low are the exact words Micah gave Jericho upon their arrival to the island. That Nathan should echo them now is enough to draw Jericho back into the discussion. Withering green eyes settle on the werewolf and he drops a fork to clatter distractingly on the glass plate. ”Yes, yes. I was roofied. We get it. Won’t happen again. Terribly sorry. Moving on.” This is all said with an air of petulance born from both a hurt pride and lingering illness. Micah raises a brow in his brother’s direction. ”Thank you, Jericho, for your valuable input.” A sweet smile is mirrored by Jericho who then replies, ”You’re welcome, asshole.”

Any further derailment is saved when a waitress comes to check up on the trio. Jericho turns his back to both Micah and Nathan, rests his chin on his palm and stares out towards the ocean. The older brother watches the younger for an unreadable moment before affording Nathan his full attention. ”They lack the sophistication of the packs in Boston and other large cities. Otherwise, you’re right – we’d all be dead by now.” They have been granted a pass and Micah will make sure that the native wolves regret it. ”We stay quiet, we play nice. We play by their rules.” Micah echoes and tempers Nathan’s words with his own. ”No going out and mingling with the mundanes. We stick to our own, we keep our heads down. We become boring, functioning members of society.” Blue eyes land on Jericho’s shoulders. ”Is that understood?”

Enough time passes to suggest that Jericho is playing the grumpy child, but when he at last turns to look at Micah, it is with a detached calm. ”What good is paradise if I’m not alive to enjoy it?” He shrugs. ”I’ll be a good boy, I promise.” The line is delivered to Nathan and is inundated with suggestiveness. This time Micah doesn’t bother stopping it – he rolls his eyes. ”Fantastic.”

Coffee runs bitter against Micah’s tongue and he quickly sets his mug down when a thought strikes. ”Mmm. We should address your need for residence. Not that I don’t love you bumming on my couch, but we need a more permanent solution.” Jericho opens his mouth but Micah raises a finger to cut him off. ”We live in a building populated by humans and their families. The wolves won’t touch us there, it’s too dangerous.” A life of luxury is less important when safety is on the line. ”There is a vacancy. I’ve checked it out. The apartment needs some work but I’m sure you’d find it adequate.” To keep his group under one roof seems a little like putting all his eggs in one basket, but Micah is confident that the barrier of humans is as good a protection as any. ”Now I’d like to offer this –“ His fingers dance around the rim of his coffee cup and Micah meets Nathaniel’s gaze.

”—Any questions. Ask them and I will answer. There should be no secrets between pack.” Blue eyes shift to his younger brother. ”Jericho, too.” The younger Malik brother frowns at being volunteered but does not pose an argument.

”Twenty questions. How fun,” he deadpans. ”Just how I wanted to spend my morning.” Sarcasm has a name and it is Jericho Malik.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Sophistication is a clever word for the elaborate procedures that allow a man to be silenced without suspicion – but by any name, it is an important element that Ponta Delgada is lacking, and in that the fledgling group may find its foothold. No matter the advantages possessed by the locals, Nathan is arrogant enough to believe their trio is more capable. There is an innate sense of superiority that stems from the wolf’s metropolitan upbringing and the successes Nate has both witnessed and wrought in Las Vegas and Boston. In comparison, the naïve and introverted pack hiding here should be easy pickings; given time and proper planning, they can and will be undermined. Understanding the rules of the game means knowing how they are best manipulated.

”I can do boring.” It is far from the life Nathan would have preferred and the one he has otherwise known, but it is a small price to pay for the opportunity. Failing to heed his own advice, now given weight by Micah, is not an option; the wolf’s greatest instinct is for that of survival, and a few weeks to learn the city before making any leaps will only serve as a benefit. ”Functioning might take a few weeks.” He has never worked without a cover provided by the pack; sourcing and establishing something adequate will take time.

Jericho’s own retort and loaded phrasing are met only with a smug and encouraging twist of Nate’s smile. He masks it behind the rim of his glass and drops his eyes, sparing what has amounted to a business meeting from overt flirtation at the table – and in front of Jericho’s own brother. It may be a misplaced sense of decorum. Micah is already more than familiar with Nathan’s own brand of disregard for societal standards, though professionalism has somehow managed to rank rather highly on his skewed list of priorities. While Nate may prefer it only as a prelude to pleasure, the latter half of that equation yet eludes him, and so he has seized upon the former as a suitable distraction.

”I’m sure it’s an upgrade, work required or not.” There is little that would settle the animal more than a place to call home; though likely temporary, whatever small slice of territory he can carve for himself becomes a necessary kingdom for a vainglorious beast. In a foreign city, with alternate methods of control now out of the picture, every shred of authority counts. ”I’ll take a look and make arrangements. I’d rather be close by as it is – it’s easier to manage one building than three.” Having seen Micah’s spare apartment, Nathan has few hopes regarding the potential in his own, but his flight from Boston is one already themed by sacrifice and his thoughts are more focused on defense. Until greater resources are at their disposal, the advantages in confining their group to a single location outweigh the risks.

There is too much to do. Huffing a sigh, Nate leans back and toys idly with his cutlery, his eyes downcast and his thoughts briefly elsewhere. It is only a bold proposal that draws him back in; the werewolf’s eyes meet Micah’s and, in the moment of silence that lingers before his reply, his stare is fleetingly suspicious.

”There are always secrets.” Lies of omission are still lies. ”They say what you don’t know won’t hurt you, but I find that’s rarely the case.” If anything, Nathan makes a living off believing the opposite. ”You set me up, back in Boston, whether you meant to or not. Now, I’m willing enough to let that go – I won’t even ask, if it’s easier – but this.” He makes a sweeping gesture at the table, encompassing the island – all their scheming – in a single motion. ”What’s your plan, if all this works out?” An island paradise, a personal Eden – they are fanciful concepts that Micah fights for with a zealous fervor, but it is all human drive and emotion. Nathan’s gaze settles briefly on Jericho, and the wolf writhes in his chest. ”There’s more to running a pack than pretty words and big ideas. Where will you be when they run dry?” The wolf understands a different language entirely, one Micah has yet to truly speak, and its only other lifeline is spewing furious gibberish. Powergames are an entertaining distraction, but can only keep their heads above water for so long – his control requires more.

Nathan’s questions are not rhetorical; he craves no philosophical response regarding tradition or fate. ”Your go, then,” he adds when he has finished, words accompanied by a small and hollow smile. ”Twenty questions.”

The werewolf does not disclose information lightly. He does not speak of secrets and he does not share. Micah has purchased insight only through his willingness to provide the same, and Nathan considers the surrender mutual.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Micah does not shy away; he meets Nathan’s gaze directly. It is Jericho who gives a near imperceptible flinch. They set Nathan up and though Jericho deviated from Micah’s control by seeking the security chief out to warn him, the lingering guilt cannot be shaken. The animal creed of survival at whatever the cost rings hollow with Nathaniel so close, with him here to stay. Green eyes pass over the werewolf’s face and whatever Jericho wants to say dies prematurely. He remains quiet and as he always does when it comes to pack business, allows Micah the podium.

”We’ve remain hidden from the human eye for millennia and I admit, I’m stupefied as to how.” There have been countless slip-ups throughout history. The existence of supernatural myths and fairytales attest to those mistakes, and yet they remain as nothing more than stories. Humanity’s majority refuses to believe that beasts like werewolves and vampires are not limited to printed word and silver screen. ”But I suppose places like Boston are part of that magic reason.” Micah taps two fingers on the table to the rhythm of his thought process. ”Men and an organization at their disposal willing to do anything to keep the secret.”

Coming to the island in hopes of building a new life was an optimistic move, but Micah is an innate pessimist. The big picture, he finds, is always an ominous one. Some believe in Revelation, others in the end times brought by an errant meteor or nuclear fallout. Micah believes in the evolution of ideas and knowledge, and that reality does not bode well for the creatures that depend on humanity to survive and to propagate. They are nothing more than leeches, and Micah wonders where it would leave them should their host species decide to retaliate. ”But Boston was imperfect. And I am not going to fix what is broken.” He waves his hand to highlight the entirety of the Azores. ”It’s small here and an ocean separates us from the mainland. The farther away from the main human populace, the better, I say.”

Nathan voices his displeasure at the Malik’s lofty dream of paradise and Micah only smiles in response. ”Pretty words and big ideas draw people in.” Devout congregations stare with glazed eyes as their reverends spout nonsense about trials and tribulations. They dance with snakes, they refuse medical care because someone told them that the divine would save them. ”Belief is everything. Once people believe, they are willing to do anything for those beliefs.” Micah is not disillusioned; he understands that building a new pack will take dedication, perhaps even fanaticism. ”Practicality will come after, when our roster consists of more than two ousted brothers and a stray.”

The call for discretion was the correct one. To make any obvious moves now would mean suicide. Micah’s hands are tied until their numbers have grown, until survival has more weight in its favor. ”But you don’t think I can control the animals.” The statement is a bold declaration of what went unsaid. Jericho’s wolf is an ever-present force lurking behind a mummer’s façade. Micah’s beast is a ghost. He smells of wolf and yet the man gives no indication that he shares the curse. ”Not with pretty words and big ideas, at least. And you’re not wrong.” A tight line forms on the elder Malik brother’s lips and Jericho meets his eyes in a silent and drawn out stare. Communication passes between them but not a word is uttered.

”We have a question,” Jericho says as he turns to Nathan. ”But not one that we can ask on human terms,” Micah concludes. Both brothers watch the third and they know that he understands. A pack cannot function unless all parties are content. Men may give their leave where wolf chooses to be wary. An agreement must be reached in both languages.

”When Jericho is well, we will all have our answers.”

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Fervent belief and carefully crafted illusions make prey of lesser men. Micah speaks rationally of the world he tailors from smoke and mirrors, of the easy way followers are drawn in without daring to glance behind the curtain, but it is not enough for Nathan. His speech the night before had left him curious but skeptical, and the same holds true even now – but here, in the daylight and with a measure of comprehension between them, it is not spoken with the intent to sway him. Though Micah claims practicality must wait, Nathan is grounded by tangible truths that question acts of blind dogma.

”Then make me a believer, but give me more than words to go on.” Blue eyes are drawn up and cast out over the ocean, his gaze distant as his fingers trace the rim of his glass. The devil is in the details, and the wolf’s dedication to minutiae borders on obsessive. Nathan chooses not to believe in an elaborate dream but in the honesty of deeds. It is on this that he challenges Micah, both monster and man, to prove himself. If the would-be alpha wants conviction, if he wants the difference between human loyalty and animalistic zeal, he must first provide fact.

Nathan had asked the same of Jericho, once, and his requirements have not changed. No matter his own desires, he cannot settle to submit when his only evidence is talk.

”I don’t claim to think anything.” The line between assumption and theory is slim, but means the world. What sort of animal hides behind Micah’s refined mask is anyone’s guess, but Nathan is not in the business of making choices based on idle speculation; he has posed the question to alleviate any uncertainty, and it is up to the other man to make good on his own claims. Pragmatism begs Nate play this safely. He will not allow himself to unravel when dreams fail to materialize – or when they do, and fall short of expectations. ”I just prefer to be sure.” The smallest doubt can grow into an irreparable weakness; Nathan holds Micah’s stare deliberately before glancing to Jericho, his expression unreadable.

When the full moon rises and skin is shed, human predilections become meaningless. The man has sided with the Maliks out of desperation and a tangled web of emotions he prefers to leave unacknowledged; the wolf holds no such regard. What reliability it had known in Jericho’s pervasive authority is dashed, and Micah is silent. The hierarchies of Boston and Las Vegas had a complicated support system tied to structure and control that is lacking here, and for an animal that relies on strict authority or taking it, skepticism breeds discontent. It is not a vulnerability that can be allowed to linger, not with so much else on the line.

”When you’re well, then,” Nate agrees, his tone too casual and his smile missing the mark. His tongue runs momentarily over his lower lip as he draws his attention back to the table, affording first one brother, then the other, the weight of his gaze. The ultimatum is dangerous but it is necessary. The ruse cannot be maintained, not with Nathan understanding the nature of his own beast – the less stability, the more his control slips, and Ponta Delgada offers no sanctuary or outlet for the animal’s mad pacing. The wolf’s solution is pitifully rustic and certainly far from eloquent, but it will suffice.

Tensions are alleviated as Nathan eases back in his chair. He gestures at Micah with a tilt of his glass, his posture relaxed and his smile open, and both their bargain and fates are sealed in the sweep of his hand and an oath of a toast.

”To paradise.”