Chapter Five #2
Lamont: Pack link. Your hound’s been broadcasting satisfaction for two days. We’ve all noticed. So who is he?
Damon stared at his phone. He hadn’t realized his emotional state was bleeding through to the pack. That was embarrassing.
Damon: The gargoyle who owns the castle has moved into my spare room.
Lamont: And?
Damon: And nothing. Just weird how right it feels having him here.
Lamont: Have you tested the collar box?
Damon: No.
Lamont: Why not?
Damon: Because what if he’s not? What if this is just my hound being weird and I make it awkward?
Lamont: Or what if he is? And you’re wasting time being scared?
Damon didn’t respond. Lamont’s words were hitting a little bit too close to home. Lamont sent another text.
Lamont: Test the box. Better to know than wonder. Trust me on this.
Damon: Yeah, maybe. Thanks.
Lamont: Anytime. Now go to sleep before I tell the pack you’re being an idiot about a boy.
Damon smiled and set the phone aside. Through the wall, he heard Redford’s breathing even out into sleep, and his hound rumbled contentedly. He’d figure it all out tomorrow.
/~/~/~/~/
Morning came too early and exactly on time. Damon woke to the gray light filtering through his window and the smell of coffee brewing. He blinked, disorientated for a moment because he was the one who usually made coffee, before stumbling out of bed.
Redford stood in the kitchen, humming something under his breath while he scrambled eggs. He’d found Damon’s apron - the ridiculous one with the “Kiss the cook” embroidered on it that Lamont had given him as a joke - and looked completely at home.
“Morning,” Redford said without turning around. “The coffee’s ready.”
“Thanks, but you didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” Redford glanced over his shoulder, and he was wearing what Damon had called his fond look again, although, again, Damon wasn’t sure. Redford definitely looked more relaxed. “I figured I owed you a few meals since you’ve been feeding me.”
Damon poured himself another cup of the perfect blend of coffee, leaning against the counter, just watching. Redford moved efficiently through the kitchen, plating food, humming that same tune, and an ache developed in Damon’s chest – I want this.
He could imagine it all so clearly, having Redford in his life. Waking up every morning to find Redford cooking breakfast, evenings spent sitting together by the fire, every night knowing Redford was just one room away, or perhaps not that far away at all.
There was so much about Redford to appreciate - the way he laughed at Damon’s jokes.
The careful way he handled the castle stones, his humor and surprising kindness, the fact that he would spend three nights freezing in a caravan rather than impose on anyone, but then accept Damon’s invitation with such obvious relief and be the perfect housemate from that moment on.
Damon wanted him to stay, collar box or not.
“Are you staring at me?” Redford asked, although he was clearly amused.
“You’re wearing my apron.” It was the first thing that came into Damon’s head.
“It’s an excellent apron.” Redford set two plates on the table. “Very informative, or suggestive, depending on how you take it.”
“I think that’s why Lamont bought it for me. He thinks he’s hilarious.”
“Lamont?” Redford tilted his head slightly, and Damon wondered if he’d heard of Lamont before.
“He’s a journalist, quite well-known apparently, but he’s also my pack brother, one of them anyway.” Damon sat down. “He sent me that after I complained about his cooking once.”
“How many brothers do you have?”
“Technically none, but eleven in actuality.” Damon chuckled at the look on Redford’s face.
“Don’t you read your mythology? We were the original pack of twelve hellhounds, all brought into being to guard the Underworld.
And yeah, we all consider ourselves brothers, even though we were actually created fully formed, so no parents in sight. ”
“That must be nice, having that kind of connection.” A touch of sadness in Redford’s voice made Damon look up.
“You don’t have a pack, or a clan or whatever?” Damon tried to remember what Kolton’s mate had said about a clan…but then, thinking about it, Damon didn’t remember it being a positive connection, and it seemed that Redford might have come from similar circumstances.
“Gargoyles don’t really do pack. We’re more solitary unless we live in a clan, and I gave that up centuries ago.” Redford’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s fine though. I’m used to it.”
But it wasn’t fine. Damon could hear that in Redford’s tone. “You’re not alone here,” Damon said before he could think better of it.
Redford’s gaze snapped to his. “No?”
“No. You’re...” Damon trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence. You’re mine. You’re pack. You’re something important I don’t have words for yet.
“I’m here,” Redford said quietly. “For now.”
The words shouldn’t have stung, but they did. Damon took another bite of eggs, trying to figure out what to say and how to ask Redford to stay longer than three months without sounding desperate or completely insane.
His hound prowled beneath his skin, growing more agitated.
Tell him, claim him, tell him he’s ours.
Again, his hellhound half was jumping ten steps ahead, but maybe he should just come out and tell Redford about the collar box, about hellhound mates, and about the fact that his hound had been absolutely convinced Redford was it from the first moment, even though that wasn’t what a hellhound was supposed to do.
Setting down his fork, Damon said, “Redford, I need to...”
Redford’s phone rang, cutting him off. Redford frowned at the screen. “Sorry, I should take this. It’s work.”
“I thought you were on leave.” Damon really wanted to say something before he lost his nerve.
“I am, but…” Redford answered. “Stone here.”
Damon watched his expression shift from confusion to grim to resigned in the span of thirty seconds.
“I understand. Yes, I can coordinate from here. Send me the files.” Redford pinched the bridge of his nose.
“No, don’t pull him off the vampire case.
Use Thompson instead. I’ll handle the rest remotely. ”
The conversation continued for several minutes, Redford’s voice dropping into a clipped and authoritative mode.
Clearly, the sort of voice used by FBI special agents, especially those in charge of a task force.
When he finally hung up, even though it was still morning, Redford already looked exhausted.
“I’m sorry,” Redford said. “There’s a situation. A corporate corruption case that I was tracking before my leave. They’ll need me to coordinate a few things from here.”
“Will you have to go back?” Damon didn’t like the sound of that, simply because he didn’t know how he could convince Redford to take him along.
“No, I can stay here, but I’ll be on the phone and computer a lot for the next few days.” Redford rubbed his face. “I probably won’t be much help at the castle.”
“That’s fine. We can manage.” Damon stood, picking up the plates. “You do what you need to do.”
Redford caught his wrist as he passed. The touch was light, barely there, but it stopped Damon in his tracks. “What were you going to say?” Redford asked. “Before the phone rang.”
Damon looked down at Redford’s hand on his wrist. At the careful way Redford was touching him as if he wanted to hold on but wasn’t sure if he should. “It was nothing important,” Damon lied. “You’ve got work to do, it can wait.”