only to awake in a garden divine. (Gale)

[Matthias Walker]

On a scale of importance, Matthias finds that he ranks somewhere above a wrinkled old woman he suspects from five seconds of (overhead) conversation is absolutely a hypochondriac and somewhere below brain surgery.

Or perhaps it’s the coffee that Silas really wants, and he has all the importance of a glorified cup-holder, but at least he is a tolerated cup-holder. Still, coffee delivered and doctor swept off by his nurses to cut open some man’s skull instead of entertaining Mattie in his office, Matthias leaves the hospital with the familiar restlessness creeping back up on him, unsettled and distracted by the lingering ache of his leg and the half-formed urge to hit the road again—just drive somewhere. He may be repairing his bridges with Silas but that does nothing to help the wanderlust when the doctor isn’t around, and Boston has become unexciting and normal.

Wandering the city can only keep him entertained for so long and the instinctive demand to do something is continually stymied by the slowly-fading limp. As he steps into the cold, clutching a lukewarm cup of coffee in one hand, he ducks his head against the wind, considers the merits of walking across Boston to visit Cesan instead. Or—

—or he can go to the library. Or go for a run, or get a job, or any number of things, all of which are perfectly viable and none of which strike him as remotely appealing. Everything is utterly mundane, domestic, ordinary, and where Mattie craved it only months ago when he was constantly moving from state to state, one hunt to the next…it’s fucking boring. There is nowhere he needs to be and nothing he needs to do except crawl out of bed before noon and eat and maybe get dressed. Everything else is optional and rendered uninteresting by extension of its lack of necessity, and Matthias is fairly certain that he might die of boredom in the interim of the moments that he stays for.

Of course, hunting would be an option, but doctor’s orders include not ripping his stitches open, and generally Mattie finds ghosts and vampires uncooperative in that respect (and most others, for that matter).

Impulsively he turns into a maze of backstreets, picking left and rights at random, and eventually finds himself on a rickety old street, coffee gone and fingers numb with the cold. A lone alley cat meows from a dumpster, and unaccountably disappointed, Matthias blows out a white breath and tucks his chin into the neck of his hoodie. Whatever inspired his wanderings has faded, and he goes only to the nearest coffeehouse before he yields to the promise of a hot drink and food and turns into the small shop.

It is dimly lit and empty, save for suspicious muffled sounds emerging from the back, and Matthias promptly turns on his heel to leave again, and finds someone else in his way. Momentary surprise turns into a casual grin as he makes to sidestep the man, gaze already moving on to the door, “Sounds like someone’s getting laid back there, I’d just go find a Starbucks or something if you want coffee that bad.”

[Gale Whitfield]

Annoying. Annoying. Annoying.

Who the hell takes their sweet time walking through the cold when they have an injury? Gale didn't need to be close to successfully tail this guy. The smell of cold coffee and Doctor Vincent wafted back to him from two blocks away. When he did risk pulling closer, he could hear the uneven footfalls on the pavement, caused by his limp. The guy was a walking hazard. A bright neon sign saying "Rob me! Mug me!" It was enough to confirm that whoever he was, he was not a werewolf—because the scent of fear and apprehension was rolling off of Gale in waves as he weaved in and out of decrepit buildings. Several times his own hunger made him fall back. He'd take a short cut, follow his nose, turn a corner and appear closer to the brown haired young man. But then he'd see the skin of his neck or the frost nipped expanse of his hand, and his stomach would growl and the hunger pangs gnawed at his belly.

But God led Gale to this man. He knew that Gale had suffered much in the past month. If there was nothing left for him to do on this Earth but one task, it had to be saving this stranger from becoming the Doctor's next meal. What happened to him those years ago… being attacked, turning, not understanding what was happening, chaining himself in his apartment and biting through entire blocks of wood while trying to prevent the neighbors from hearing his painful screams… it wouldn't happen to anyone else if he could stop it.

With that in mind, he jogged forward as the meatsack walked itself into a corner, the idiot. Now I can finally eat. I'm starving! the young man headed toward a dingy shop. Gale sniffed. More coffee? (He'd always been a tea kind of guy, never understood the appeal of coffee, though it did smell delightful.) But if putting up with another crowded shop meant potentially saving a life, it was a sacrifice worth making twenty times over.

What he did not anticipate, however, was the man to suddenly spin on his heels and try to exit. Gale had already reached the door. He tensed and stopped walking altogether, standing up a little straighter.

“Sounds like someone’s getting laid back there, I’d just go find a Starbucks or something if you want coffee that bad.”

It wasn't like he needed to be told. He could hear it clearly and smell it, too. The distinct, disgusting smell of body sweat and pathetic desperation. "I don't want coffee," he stated simply, looking past him to the counter. He thought the rancid smell would curb his appetite. It didn't do a damn thing to help.

"I don't want coffee," he repeated, looking up at him. The authoritative tone he'd gotten so accustomed to using while with the department came back to him easily. Gradually he began to relax, the tension bubbling away and confidence taking its place. "Officer—ah, sorry. My name is Gale, and I need to talk to you. Now." That's right. He wasn’t an officer anymore. He could slip into the role, even after all the drunken nights and aimless days, but he didn't have the badge. The authoritative tone he used was empty. Meaningless.

"This place seems nice for a friendly chat… don't you agree? It's cozy."

Curling his hand into a fist, he pounded on the metal frame of the door. The sound resonated, as if the frame was hollow, and Gale determinedly kept at it for nearly a minute before stopping.

The frame was unfortunately left with a dent vaguely in the shape of a fist.

"Cozy… smells nice, too."

The smell of fear really was nice, especially when it wasn't coming from himself. It wafted from the back room like freshly glazed doughnuts. Absolutely delightful.

[Matthias Walker]

The man’s words stall Matthias’s movements around him to the door.

His statement is simple enough, but utterly out of place for someone who has just stepped into a coffeehouse, and Mattie, hands finding his pockets and fingers instinctively seeking the cold metal of the silver pocketknife in a smooth gesture, arches an eyebrow at him. And then the laughably paranoid response registers and his grin crooks a little higher as he loosens his grip on the pocketknife again, waiting for the punch-line—a man walks into a coffeehouse with employees fucking in the back room and doesn’t want coffee, and says—

“We do?” Eyebrows furrow again, the smile vanishing into an expression caught between challenging and curious. People do not need to talk to him, as far as Matthias knows. If there is anything he is good at, it is disappearing into the woodwork, slipping under the radar; it is a task made infinitely easier by nomadic, constant movement across the United States. Clearly staying in Boston comes with more negatives than Mattie had counted on, and the man’s almost-slip of Officer only serves to put him more on guard. He and the police have never exactly seen eye to eye. Still, apparently they need to talk and Matthias allows the curiosity to overrule caution, shrugs loosely until the man proposes they stay and he laughs out loud, throwing a glance in the direction of the back room.

Cozy. Right. Nothing like sipping coffee and listening to strangers go at it to set a nice ambiance.

—and, well.

Banging on the door fit to break it down is one way to take care of that.

Predictably, by the time the metallic echoes fade, the sound of sex is gone, too, and Matthias is amused and impressed enough to step back into the coffeehouse proper. Impressed and still on guard, fingers cupped loosely around the pocketknife. People rarely need to talk to him so badly for innocent reasons that they casually scare the shit out of people for the dubious privilege, “All right then. Probably a good thing you don’t want coffee, bet they’d spit in it, I would, Jesus.” He tilts his head, the laughter still bright in his eyes and the crooked grin, assessing the man for a moment, and then makes a vague gesture for him to follow, already turning towards a small booth in a corner.

No doubt it is intended for cozy dates, but Matthias suspects it will serve their purpose just as well. “Matthias,” tossed over his shoulder for Gale with a carelessness undermined by the sharp blue eyes that settle on the other man as soon as Mattie drops into the booth. “—nice to meet you, too.” He leans back, watchful, appraising, half-expecting Gale to be some random vampire looking for revenge for a lost lover or something—or maybe one of the werewolf pack, offended by his presence in Boston with Nate gone and Silas flightier than ever.

“So,” he offers, tapping his fingers against the sticky tabletop, “We need to talk about…the weather? The Red Sox? What’s up?”

[Gale Whitfield]

When it became clear that a struggle was not forthcoming, Gale released an audible sigh of relief. The whole point of following Matthias was to keep him safe and alive. If he'd had to fight him, it would've defeated the whole purpose of this venture. That also means I'll be going another day without eating. Still, he could not help but be surprised. Not only did he accept the situation with a nonchalant 'all right then,' he also willingly turned his back, leaving himself open to attack. "That's disgusting," he commented dryly to his back. Gale didn't want to get too close yet. He moved a little further into the shop, allowing the door to swing nosily closed. It wasn't until Matthias sat down at the booth that he pulled away from the entrance and hesitantly followed.

"The Red Sox?" The closer he drew to the booth and to Matthias' seated form, the more the cursed beast seemed to deflate. It wasn't that he was second guessing himself or recoiling out of disgust. "Absolutely not." A growing part of him was overjoyed. He fought a smile and instinctively rubbed at his chest as his heart began to beat a little faster. This was not a Thanksgiving dinner or a snack but his body was reacting as if that were the case. A little magic could make his face appear as its usual human form to most of the populace, but it seemed no spell nor power would make his hunger for flesh dissipate.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…

But Gale was the evil one here, wasn't he?

He slipped into the booth across from Matthias, accidentally knocking knees with him. "Sorry," he mumbled under his breath, keeping his eyes downcast, unwilling to make eye contact for fear of losing control. For some time he was silent. The gentle rapping of fingers against the table was all that passed between them. How was he supposed to bring this up? No matter how he put it, he was going to come off as a stalker.

…for thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory..

"I'd like to offer you a job. When your recovery period is over," That limp would definitely keep him from doing anything for the police for a while. Then again, Gale was practically mauled and slept outside death's door for several weeks. Afterwards the police gave him his job back, though he was on shorter shifts and did less field work. "I have friends in the PD. Now, I know people generally don't trust us—them—but they can keep you safe. Train you. Arm you. Give you… useful connections."

Gale cleared his throat. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his gaze to peer at Matthias's face pleadingly.

… for ever and ever. Amen.

"Doctor Vincent. It isn't safe to be around him—he's not normal. You have to believe me," he seemed ready to grasp the other man's hands, but restrained himself. "I don't want to see it happen to someone else. That man can, and will, kill you."

[Matthias Walker]

The other man is slower to sit, and Matthias tilts his head at him with a slanted smile at the awkward small talk and shifting as knees are arranged and silence falls. For all that the man—Gale—needs to talk to him, he does not seem to be in any particular hurry to do it. Or maybe he really is a werewolf sent from the pack trying to figure out the best way to get phrase get out of the city nicely. Mattie drums his fingers on the tabletop another moment and then settles, waiting, curious enough to possess a modicum of patience. From the back room, a boy peers out at them, resentful and flushed, and vanishes again with a crude gesture when Matthias catches his eye and laughs under his breath.

No coffee for them, apparently, but neither are they being driven out, and that is more than good enough, considering. He settles along the backrest, gaze returning to Gale as the man gathers his thoughts and begins to speak, and—

—what.

There is something else going on here. Job offers rarely stalk people into empty coffeehouses; job offers do not even make a habit of appearing spontaneously at all. Blue eyes narrow at Gale, partly suspicious, mostly confused; whether or not he should be taking this seriously is beyond him, but the man’s earnestness is hard to ignore. Does the police department even do this, are they having that hard a time filling their recruitment quota? And why him anyway—surely there are people sans limps that they can wheedle into signing up. “Okay—” he starts, shakes his head, the smile incredulous, “I don’t know you, dude, I don’t—”

And then he brings up Silas, and Mattie sits up straighter. Oh. If this is about Silas, it changes things, but without knowing how much Gale knows, it’s fucking hard to figure out how much he is at liberty to say. Tongue-tied, Matthias licks his lips, eyebrows knitting together as he peers at Gale, frustrated with his inability to piece things together properly. Silas does not leave his apartment to shift, but that doesn’t mean he could not have been seen. Unwitting witness or hunter or supernatural vigilante, then, and that hardly narrows it down.

“Look,” he says, carefully, “It’s, uh, it’s sweet that you’re worried and all, but seriously, I can take care of myself just fine without the police. And you believe me, Silas isn’t going to kill me,” it may have been a legitimate concern at first, but not anymore. “So whatever you’re thinking, he isn’t—it won’t happen.” He hesitates for a moment, and then dismisses things like secrecy and propriety to lean forward, serious, the easy smile gone now, voice lower and sharper, “Why do you think he’s not normal—just a habit of yours to know things? That isn’t gonna hold up.”

[Gale Whitfield]

"You can't take care of yourself. You're limping. You're a walking target for people like the Doctor," his response was sharp and immediate. What did he expect? The likelihood of Matthias actually knowing about werewolves and what they were capable of when they decided on a target was slim to none. Gale hadn't known, hadn't expected. They were things from horror novels, movies, and an online game or two. "During the time it took for you to decide to come here, I could have killed you, or at the very least caused you grievous bodily harm. And I could have stolen your coffee too. If I liked the taste." As if to make his point clear, he suddenly kicked towards Matthias' bad leg. It was a swift, sudden movement, made all the easier by the small leg room provided by the booth.

It wasn't that Gale truly believed this man was weak—he was not. That much was easy to observe with the naked eye. But he was simply no match for a surprise attack from a werewolf, especially one that he trusted or let his guard down around. Especially not one that could casually get close to his person—like a doctor. Had Doctor Vincent treated his leg, or was it something he'd had for a while now? Maybe this doctor wanted a fair game, so he was healing him.

"I don't think he's not normal," Gale forced himself to calm down. Lashing out was only an invitation for trouble. But how was he going to get it through to this guy? Gale was a stranger. He'd come from nowhere, revealed himself as a stalker of sorts, and had ties to the police. It didn't matter that those bridges were currently smoldering ashes, remnants of a very public inferno that embarrassed the entire city of Boston thanks to his drinking and painkiller addiction. "I know he's not normal. I haven't seen it but I can smell it on him. The smell is on you, too."

Do forgive me for doing this.

With a nervous sigh, he leaned back in the booth, trying his best to relax. The rougarou closed his eyes, trusting that Matthias wouldn't use the opportunity to run away or attack him. Gale was still getting used to having to hide his 'new face' after all. The magic required to mask himself from humans wasn't his own; it was simply borrowed from Giles for the sake of convenience. Once he let it down, he prayed he could just as easily put it back up.

"Please do not panic."

The glamour would remove itself in an instant, but to Gale it felt like a thick tar was slowly draining off his head and onto his shoulders.

"How do I know that Doctor Vincent is not normal?"

Hopefully Matthias would jump. Hopefully he wouldn't take out his phone instead and snap a photo of him. Gale felt ridiculous like this. His head was all wolf, the same he saw in National Geographic magazines or at the zoo when he was a kid. The fur even lay over the collar of his black jacket, as if the rest of the wolf was somewhere in there. But it stopped there. That was it. His human hands twitched anxiously on the tabletop.

He opened his yellow eyes again and blinked at Matthias. Suddenly, the human seemed a lot closer. Maybe it was because his nose had extended into a muzzle, and his cold nose was almost touching Matthias's face.

"This is how I bloody know!" He growled, throwing up his arms in exasperation. "Do you believe me now, little man?"

[Matthias Walker]

Self-reliance (or lack thereof) has always been a touchy subject for Matthias, and while he can usually brush off the judgments of strangers, Gale goes about it bluntly enough to have blue eyes sharpening into a glare, lips thinning to catch the automatic intake of breath at the kick. How nice—a job offer made out of pity, then, but hell, being underestimated by a stranger off the streets is the least of his problems. The automatic I’d like to see you try is silenced with a patently fake smile that goes nowhere near softening the hard look he levels at the man. It speaks volumes that he remains seated; the statement should register as a threat, but Gale still hasn’t explained about Silas, and Mattie refuses to leave with his questions unanswered.

There is nothing normal about this kind of meeting, even for his skewed parodies of normalcy.

The smell.

Supernatural vigilante, then. There is no human that can place smells so accurately, and he almost laughs at his luck. Werewolf or skinwalker or shifter or whatever Gale is—trying to save the enraptured, unwitting human. Regardless of what he is, Matthias starts to shake his head, dismissive, half-incredulous because this is certainly a first, especially the job offer (and no matter that it sparks some interest; a job is a promise of permanence that surpasses just moving in with someone), is halfway to pushing himself to his feet with a goodbye on his tongue when Gale speaks again and his gaze snaps up to meet the other man’s.

“I’m not gonna—whoa, hey, you can’t fucking shift in the middle of a coffee—” The hissed protest dies halfway as Gale’s glamour vanishes, and surprise has him jerking back against the booth with a bitten-off “Jesus fuck—”, one hand going instinctively to the silver pocketknife. It remains, for the moment, concealed in his palm; when the shock dies down, curiosity reigns supreme and Matthias blinks, wary, suspicious, gaze sweeping over the canine muzzle and slitted eyes, the thick fur—the human arms and hands. The exasperated growling goes ignored in lieu of his careful visual examination of the once perfectly ordinary man sitting across from him, and when Mattie finally looks up at Gale again, it is with a frown furrowing his eyebrows.

“The fuck are you?” Not his most eloquent. There is a challenge to the half-slant of his mouth as he gestures with his free hand at Gale, eyes bright with the sharp confusion and curiosity. “This isn’t a werewolf thing,” he says, the words coming out more like an accusation than a simple observation, “I know, okay, I know exactly what Silas is, but this isn’t it.” This is, in fact, nothing that he has ever seen before, nothing his father had ever told him about, and he should be more afraid but for all the wolf’s closeness, the pocketknife is still cool and reassuring in the curve of his palm, and a job offer is not exactly the typical prelude to attempted murder.

Something clangs in the back room, and blue eyes flicker and then settle again. “Shift back,” Matthias says, sharp enough to be an order, “And tell me.”

[Gale Whitfield]

The human face is capable of expressing an amazing range of emotion, from sadness or anger to shock or disappointment. It was fascinating to watch the subtle changes in Matthias' face in response to his glamour dissolving so suddenly. Unfortunately, the face of a wolf, even if it did belong to something that was once human, was not made to make expressions. The shock and disbelief that overcame Gale when Matthias admitted to already knowing about Silas was, for the most part, invisible. The rougarou did sit up straighter, and his ears twitched and perked at attention. But as wolves were meant to communicate through body language, Gale had no way of showing how he felt—so it seemed as if he hadn't reacted at all.

"Shift back and tell me."

Oh? Had the noise from the back room scared him? Maybe the startle from earlier was wearing off and the two of them were just getting ready to go at it again. Gale shrugged.

With the way Matthias had asked what he was, Gale wasn't feeling too cooperative anymore. He wanted to stay this way just to spite him, maybe lick his face just to gross him out. But he knew the only person in danger was himself, and it was in his own interest to hide himself again. "Fine. Relax," he held up his hands, palms forward, as if to say wait. He closed his eyes again and concentrated, slumping back into the seat. In all honesty, Gale had no intention of explaining himself to anyone. It was unlikely Matthias could help him, so what was the point? Knowing wasn't going to be beneficial to either of them.

"Just… relax," he repeated, keeping his eyes closed.

He lifted up a hand and scratched behind his ear.

Slowly, Gale began to slump lower and lower into his seat. The booth felt too big. It was exposed. Matthias didn't provide any cover for him. He slid his arms halfway out of his jacket and pulled it self-consciously around the back of his head.

"I, uh."

He swallowed nervously.

"It doesn't seem like I can."

[Matthias Walker]

Relaxing is the last thing Matthias intends to do.

As Gale leans back in the booth, Mattie leans forward to make up for lost space, keeping the pocketknife cupped in his palm as he props his elbows against the sticky tabletop, watching intently. Silence is the closest thing he can offer to relaxation, and in any case, Gale seems to be talking more to himself than to Mattie. His gaze remains fixed on the wolf, catching the ruffles of fur with the man’s breathing and the quiver of whiskers, waiting for the—the illusion, he supposes, although there must be a more accurate word for it—to return, to change the canine muzzle into a softer human mouth and nose, recede the large furry ears and the thick fur around the neck.

And…nothing. The man’s slump reads of embarrassment or guilt, and Matthias’s sharp gaze meets the yellow animal ones with a wordless question that needs no answer—the furtiveness in the way Gale tugs at his jacket is enough even without his admission.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding,” he says blankly, gives it a pause for Gale to fill in the punch-line, to turn it into a joke, and then, helplessly, “How do you normally—what, are you allergic to coffee fumes or something?” Either way, the clanging sounds in the kitchen have become decidedly deliberate, and Matthias is aware enough of the merits of secrecy to know having some random barista walk out on them with Gale like this is never going to end well. The streets are not a better refuge, but it is cold and damp enough that pedestrians are rare, and Mattie is well accustomed to keeping to alleys and back roads in his navigation of Boston.

“C’mon,” he pushes himself onto his feet and out of the booth with a gesture for Gale to follow, “We’ll find somewhere…uh, less stressful, I don’t know. You got an apartment or something?” There is no question of his coming or not; Gale is far from his responsibility, but Mattie is too accustomed to hunting to be comfortable letting him go off on his own like this—it is as much a part of his job to prevent other people from learning about the supernatural as it is to protect them. Besides, he still wants to know. He pulls his hoodie off over his head, offers it to Gale with a shrug—“Don’t think it’ll do much for the,” sketches a vaguely descriptive shape in the air in front of his face to indicate the canine muzzle, “But at least it’s got a pretty decent hood.”

His hands find his pockets, and Mattie cannot resist the lopsided grin. It is utterly inappropriate and he hardly knows Gale well enough to tease, but, “D’you get a lot of Little Red Riding Hood jokes? ‘All the better to eat you with’ and shit?”

[Gale Whitfield]

Gale was very tempted to suggest they walk out of there as casually as possible and pretend that he was simply wearing a realistic Halloween costume. It wasn't Halloween, but that didn’t rule out parties that required masks, or parties with a theme, or a myriad of other things. Nobody would buy it though. And if by some chance somebody did buy it, they'd be so amazed that they'd ask to take pictures, or to feel the fur, or take video from their apartment window and put it on the Internet. He opted to just silently go with whatever Matthias came up with.

"We can go to grandma's house," He grabbed the hoodie and forced it on over his jacket. It wasn't an easy maneuver with his muzzle getting in the way. Gale's head finally popped out of the collar; he quickly flicked his tongue out to hide evidence of drool. It was absolute torture to wear it. His stomach growled loudly in agreement. "She lives rather far in the woods, though. But she always has a lot of sweets and other baked delights!"

Hmph. Little red riding hood his ass. Nobody had had the opportunity to make any jokes yet. The only person who had seen him like this was Giles. But Gale wasn't about to share that Matthias was the first to poke fun at him.

"I have an apartment but it isn't close by. At least, I don't think."

It wasn't like Gale was familiar with this shit hole. He was pretty sure Matthias wasn't sure what the name of this dingy store even was. To get his bearings he'd have to find his way to a main road and that was, naturally, out of the question given the situation.

There wasn't much time for him to think about it. He was becoming more concerned about how appealing the idea of sinking his teeth into Matthias was—he suddenly sprinted forward and, after shoving the hunter roughly aside, he slammed the coffee shop's door open and rounded the corner. "I was cursed," he offered over his shoulder as he went, pulling the hood up over his ears as best he could.

[Matthias Walker]

“My, what big eyes you have.” The quip is casually lighthearted, accompanied by a flash of an easy grin as Matthias hooks his thumbs into his belt loops, watching Gale struggle with the hoodie. There are a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue, an insatiable curiosity to figure out what he is, why in the entire country and eight years of hunting Mattie has never so much as heard a whisper about this—but a dubious coffeehouse with disgruntled, sexually frustrated employees moping in the back room is possibly one of the least appropriate places in Boston to have the conversation. Well, getting rid of him now is going to be a task and a half, so Matthias is content to shrug off the vagueness of Gale’s description of his maybe-close apartment.

As soon as they get out of here and back onto the streets, Mattie is more than confident that he can get them to Gale’s apartment or to Silas’s, and, reluctant as he is to bring the man to Silas, any port in a storm. Wandering around like this is an option only for a lack of any others, and hell, who knows—maybe Silas can help.

“Look, man, just—”

—fucking bolt was not what Matthias meant to say, but apparently it is implied in the innocuous beginning of the sentence or Gale abruptly gets his own ideas. In the wolf’s wake, Mattie is left bewildered and biting back a curse, throwing a swift glance over his shoulder at the back room again. On cue at the sharp slam of the door, the back door cracks open and a girl, this time, peers out, meets his gaze, and goes bright pink. Matthias stares at her a moment, debates saying something, and then just prays there are no cameras before he pulls together the remnants of his dignity and steps out of the door after Gale.

At least the man had sort of waited, he supposes. The explanation, brief as it is, is met with an arched eyebrow, and Matthias is quiet for a moment as he falls into step beside him. The road is, thank God, empty; Mattie spends a moment mapping out the streets in his mind and then blows out his breath in a stream of white. Without the hoodie, Boston is unappealingly cold, and Mattie picks up the pace as much as he can, “Where’s your apartment? Roughly, I mean. Cursed by a witch?” The question is tacked onto the end as offhanded, but there is no mistaking the keen glance Mattie slants at the man. “Are they the one that did up that—the illusion thing, have you ever tried putting it up yourself before?”

[/font]

[Gale Whitfield]

The questions are met with a soft growl. There is otherwise no reaction from Gale, who continues to hold onto the hood with his hands for fear a gust of wind might blow it right off his head and reveal his ears, laying low and twitching in uncertainty and dread. There is also the drool to worry about; it's getting on the front of the hoodie and he doesn't want Matthias to see. He is a grown man, after all. Drooling like some babbling baby would look bad, even if he did have the head of a wolf and could use it as a (rather convincing) excuse. While thinking of a place to go, his thoughts touch lightly on a church or some other place of worship. The Lord would not let serious harm come to him or the young man he'd wanted to protect. Right?

"Nowhere near here," he said abruptly during their relatively silent walk.

It was difficult to discern how many people at any given time would be inside a church if the doors were open. He lived closer to the heart of the city. He was determined to die before he went back to Giles with Matthias in tow, so he did not even entertain the idea for more than a fleeting second. There was Dr. Silas of course, but Gale was not ready for Matthias to know that the two were already… acquainted. If Silas had not informed Matthias of a werewolf-like creature rushing with him through the rain while the both of them changed in Boston's streets, then Gale was not going to be the one to get him up to speed.

That left him with several risky alternatives. Risky in the sense that, he was not a cop anymore, so he was expected to casually forget that things like safe houses, which let the Boston Police Department work outside their legal jurisdiction, even existed.

Gale briefly takes note of Matthias' brisk pace and the visible puffs of air. The man is cold. He almost feels guilty. Almost.

"I don't have magic, I wasn't a witch. They did it for me so I could go out, so long as I behaved," Eventually Gale lowers his hands and stuffs them into the pockets of his pants. "I can take it down easily enough. I thought putting it back up would be just as simple. I thought wrong."

He slows his pace and lifts his nose tentatively, sniffing the air. Without warning he turns to the right and keeps going.

"Shitty Chinese food," He sounds excited. "I hated that safe house. A Chinese place was right up the block and it's food tastes worse than ass."

[Matthias Walker]

For all that his companion needed to talk to him before, he is patently uncommunicative now. Matthias does not exactly blame him; that Gale can talk at all with the wolf’s muzzle is impressive enough in its own right, but having the whole fur thing going on does put a damper on small talk. Still, he blows out a half-exasperated breath of white at the utterly unhelpful response, pulling his shoulders up against the cold, considers the merits of finding an empty warehouse. If nothing else, it will keep them from prying eyes and the wind until he can—do something.

Call Silas? Matthias doubts the werewolf will be happy about the situation, but Mattie cannot remember the last time Silas denied him favors, either.

Not that the doctor will be able to help with the issue of the illusion.

“Well,” he mutters, slanting a sideways glance at Gale—the sight of a man’s torso and shoulders leading to the thick fur and pointed muzzle of a wolf is startling even now, and the hunter’s mouth twists into a half-grin at the utter ridiculousness of it. Hunting has always meant running into people and monsters straight from horror movies; this is the first time he is reminded more of a cartoon. “That was nice of them. Hope you’re still friends,” as if most people are close friends with the witches that curse them to walk around hiding a wolf’s head under illusions.

He opens his mouth to offer Silas’s apartment to the man, only to be cut off by the abrupt change in direction and intention both; for a moment Matthias stumbles to catch up. Safe house is good enough a guarantee, although, “Slow the fuck down, we are going to the safe house and not a shitty nostalgic first date right, I make a point of not putting out first date—”

There are more pressing concerns than dubious first date etiquette, safe house or Chinese place regardless.

“—do you plan on just kind of waltzing in, what if someone’s around? Wolves can’t actually regurgitate living people, in case you were going to get creative, I’m pretty sure that’s a fairytale specific thing.”

[Gale Whitfield]

Gale did not immediately respond to the notion that somehow he and Giles would still be friends. They were never friends in the first place. Giles had been a stranger, and Gale was a desperate beggar. The opportunity to take a shot at Matthias and Dr. Vincent was there; after all, just as Matthias has no idea what his relationship with the witch was, he too didn’t know what kind of dynamic a wolf and a hambone had.

“I know where the safe house is because there’s a Chinese place on the same road. I used to go there for lunch,” he slows his walk, seemingly irritated at having to explain himself. It wasn’t as if they had much time to think. “Don’t forget who has the nose in this relationship.”

Hopefully that wouldn’t get Matthias started. He didn’t want to hear what big ears he had, or what big eyes he had, or what big teeth he had. (Though perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if Matthias was willing to play the part of the unsuspecting little girl.)

Did that make Silas the lumberjack?

“Since its a few days after the full moon I’m not at my prime, but I can still smell, hear, and see better than you can.” Gale shrugged lightly and nearly stopped walking altogether. He’d like Matthias to think of a better idea. And if it involved any doctors, Matthias could very well go on his own. “I think I could hear or smell a couple of guys sitting in an empty room with police radios and fried rice.”

[Matthias Walker]

“Maybe a shitty first date wouldn’t be so bad, since we’re in a relationship,” it is absolutely and utterly inappropriate to be musing about relationships or lack thereof with the cursed werewolf he is scurrying down the street with, but appropriateness has never stopped Mattie running his mouth before. The reminder of the improved senses is greeted with a shrug of acknowledgment; it isn’t exactly news to him, nor a surprise, especially with the whole literal canine nose that Gale has going on. The wolf’s steps slowing, though, earns an arched eyebrow and a mockingly grandiose sweeping gesture down the street, “Breaking and entering a police safe house, that’s always been on my bucket list, fantastic, lead on.”

It still has its flaws, and Matthias still has no fucking clue where to go if there are a group of disgruntled policemen sitting around listening to static and choking down shitty Chinese food, but it’s still a start and something to do instead of lolling around in the streets. They have yet to run across anybody else yet, but Boston’s a crowded place; it’s only a matter of time before some more intensive evasive maneuvers will have to be taken. And honestly, running up and down alleys with a limp and no goddamn hoodie has never been less appealing.

And yet, with that inspirational mental image of police in mind…

“So the job thing…” if it still stands, Mattie suspects that the other man has things on his mind that are nowhere near the realm of the offhanded job offer, and also that the whole roaming Boston with a wolf head was not part of the plan. He slants a glance at Gale, wonders absently if his connections hold up even with a wolf’s head instead of a man’s. Thank God for phones and emails. “If that’s still out there, I’d—wait, what division are we talking here, because I’d honestly rather deal with pissed-off werewolves every day for the rest of the year than sit around in a car eating doughnuts waiting for people to speed by me, y’know? Like, hey, running around with the big bad wolf wishing my fucking leg would work, this is fun. Sitting in a car and getting fat, not so much.”