Chapter 2: New Territory

“Hey, mutt. Where’s your Halloween costume?”

He puts his hands down on the kitchen counter, sighs. Lets the knife fall from his fingers. That’s important. If you’re tempted to use a gun, you put the gun down. Knives are the same. Discipline. That’s what he wants. Discipline, order. Routine. So familiar and comforting in a new and garish world. Some things stay the same.

“I’m wearing it.”

Her mouth curls. She takes a long step closer. A power move. They used to do it all the time, back in the base. Personal space, territory. It was all mixed up in power. Who had it, who wanted it. His eyes are level with her lips, but he doesn’t look upwards to meet her gaze. “Well,” she says, languid, relaxed. “Not that your face isn’t scary enough, but what are you dressed as? A hobo?”

“A werewolf.”

She laughs, a sharp, curt little sound with no joy in it. His temples throb. Yuki really is the worst kind of asshole – the kind who wouldn’t even be an asshole if she didn’t deliberately put the effort in. There’s a softer side to her. He knows it. He’s seen it. Her, nuzzled against him in bed, lithe arms draped around his neck, her mouth pressing sweet little kisses against his collarbone. Happy, and satisfied. If she were only like that all the time – if she could only lose her obsession with power and status – he’d be head over heels for her.

“Wolf-man, huh? That’s not a costume, idiot. It’s your occupation.” She takes another step closer. His skin tingles. Too close. “Besides, what kind of werewolf wears a shirt?” She draws her finger down his chest, stops just above his belt. “Take it off.”

He swallows, looks her in the eye. “No.” His voice sounds neutral but firm. Not afraid, not angry. Maybe it’ll work.

“No?” she repeats. “No? Who are you to say no to me? I’m your boss. You’re standing in my kitchen, eating my sandwich, and you have the nerve to tell me–”

“Actually, it’s my sandwich.” His voice doesn’t sound quite so neutral this time.

“Sure, sure. Your sandwich, made with my bread, my meat and my cheese, from my refrigerator. I wonder whose sandwich that really is?”

“Keep it then,” he says, almost snarls, and brushes straight past her, clipping her with his shoulder. He feels a touch of resistance, but she can’t block him. She’s taller but he’s heavier, by a fair margin. “I’m going out.” He can hear her voice saying something, but doesn’t listen to the words. He slams the door behind him.

“Tch.” The sound of the door echoes through a kitchen that’s empty apart from her. She wonders if Tomato and Mimyuu are laughing at her right now. “Maybe he really is a werewolf,” she mutters sourly to herself. “Definitely seems like his time of month right now.”

She waits a minute or two to see if he’ll come back. She hopes he will. She wasn’t expecting him to stand his ground, and she would almost admire it if it didn’t get in the way of what she wants. But as time ticks by without his reappearance, she decides to look on the bright side, and helps herself to her hard-won sandwich.

* * *

Ebimanyou Town doesn’t make sense to him. It doesn’t seem like it was planned. It just seems to have sprouted up, organically, a mess of streets that go nowhere. He remembers cities built like grids, every angle a right angle. You always knew where you were. He never knows where he is, anymore.

He roams the streets idly. Just getting to know them with his feet. Selecting landmarks, place names, businesses. It’s a long process. If he had anywhere in mind, he could get a map; they taught him how to read one in his military days. But this is his home, for the time being. His turf. A map won’t give him a home field advantage, and he needs that right now.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do when he goes back to the base. If he slinks in with his tail between his legs, he’ll probably be spared any trouble. Yuki will let it slide, because she’ll know he’s ashamed. She’ll know she’s winning. And she loves to win. But he’s not sure if he’s got the energy to walk in with his head held high, knowing that it’ll lead to a confrontation. Is it worth the fight? He’s not sure. There has to be a limit to her. A boundary. If he doesn’t set one, she’ll push until he breaks. That’s how it works. That’s how it always works.

He frowns, stops dead in his tracks. People on the high street ford around him, tutting. He ignores them, and slips out a battered pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket. He draws one out of the carton. Three left. He considers it for a moment, and puts it back. Never know if I’ll be able to get these again, he thinks. Gotta make ‘em last.

It’s not like they’re good cigarettes. That’s the appeal. It’s the roughest tobacco he’s ever smoked, like running a whetstone across his throat. Makes it easier not to smoke another one. Before basic training he had roll-ups, but then he started running out of breath in the middle of drills. So he switched to something shittier, and ended up smoking less. Only to calm his nerves, in the end. He heard people smoked them unironically down south, back when down south was a place he knew anything about.

He’s still thinking about it when the door of the coffee shop next to him swings open, and a girl darts out of it and straight into his chest. The impact doesn’t hurt, but she’s got a cup of coffee in each hand and both of them end up going over him. There is a precious split-second where it’s not so bad, but then the scalding liquid soaks through his fatigues and it is bad. The next few seconds are very noisy. The girl is panicking, trying to mop his chest with a paper napkin. He mostly swears.

“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going. I was thinking I should get back to work, and… Are you okay? I’m really, really sorry, really I am,” she says, and she keeps apologising until he holds his hands up for her to stop.

“I’m… fine,” he says. It’s only a small lie. He probably swore more than the situation demanded, but he’s had a bad day. Sometimes you just have to vent. “Sorry. You aren’t hurt?”

“Oh, no. I, uh, think it… mostly went on you.”

He sighs, and looks her up and down. She’s a little taller than he is – everybody seems to be – dressed in a shop apron, a pale blue button-down shirt and a pair of caramel-coloured corduroys. Practical shoes, he notes. He never really got why women always seemed to look at somebody’s shoes first. Then he realised that if they were looking at them, they probably picked them with the intention of being looked at. It wasn’t about what they were saying. It was what they were choosing to say, and why.

The part that really grabs his attention, though, is the pair of soft, slightly droopy bunny ears atop her head. He stiffens very slightly, suddenly aware of his tail, his sharp-toothed grin. A rabbit bumping into a wolf. If he were in her shoes, well… he’d probably be all nerves. But there’s something calming about those ears. Pastoral, that’s the word. They remind him of the countryside, wide-open spaces. An escape. Despite himself, he feels his sour mood evaporate a little.

“Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t paying attention.” Truth. “It could have happened to anyone. I’d rather it happen to me, since I’m wearing a thick jacket.” False, but not very. He’d rather somebody else got scalded, but he can trust himself not to be an ass about it. Not too many strangers he could trust with that.

“L-let me make it up to you. C’mon, I’ll buy you a coffee. Or a tea! Just let me treat you,” she says. “Please?”

He frowns, lowering his head just a little. She seems a little pushy. But nervous, too. He puts his hand in his pocket, feels it land on his wallet. Empty, of course. He could probably do with something to drink, or eat, before he goes back to face the music… and she did say ‘please’. It feels like nobody ever says that to him these days.

“Ah… sure, if you like. Didn’t you say something about getting back to work, though?”

He says it carefully. He’s a wolf, and she’s a rabbit. If they’re going to get along, he needs to leave her an escape route. If she takes it, she takes it. If she doesn’t, she doesn’t.

“Oh, well… It’s not like I have a lot of customers.” She smiles ruefully. “If my regular needs me, she’s got my number. And I’d feel bad all day if I didn’t do anything to make it up to you.”

She grabs his hand, and in short order he’s marched into the coffee shop – fake teak, seats with red velour cushions, various ‘funny’ old-timey photographs hung in glass frames – and presented with a menu scribbled on a blackboard, full of strange and wonderful coffee preparations he knows nothing about.

“I’ll have what you’re having,” he says as they approach the counter. His stomach growls at him. He thinks back. He’s sure he had a few old coins stuffed in one pocket or another. “…ah, actually, do they sell sandwiches?”

“They sure do. Oh, hey Gina! Can I get two of the same again, please? And a panini.” She flicks her head towards him, looks him up and down. There’s a shrewd look in her eyes. “Probably something with meat on it.”

He smiles his thanks and sits down. Two of the same, she said. He lifts his lapel to his nose and tries to figure it out. Mostly coffee, from the smell, but there are other notes. Fabric softener, the smell of the tumble dryer… he isolates the scents one by one. Eventually, he finds it.

“Pumpkin spice?” he asks.

“Oh, so that’s what you were doing!” she says. “I thought you were checking your deodorant.”

He frowns. “Do I need to?”

“Not at all. You smell fine. I just thought… well, that you were doing the guy thing. You know how it is.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t. How is it?”

“Well…” she says, and hesitates a little, “most of the time, when you go out for coffee with a guy… the next time you see them, they’re covered in aftershave, going out of their way to impress you, that kind of thing.”

“Sorry. No aftershave. I’ve got a sensitive nose.” It’s a half-joke, and he gets a half-smile as a reward. A fair trade. “I can see why they might.”

“Because I’m cute?” she asks, the corner of her mouth twitching. Part of him wants to say yes, because she is, but he knows that’s not the right answer to give.

“Because you bumped into a perfect stranger and lost two cups of coffee, and immediately apologised and tried to make things right. A lot of people would just get mad at wasting the coffee.”

“I like to think people are a little nicer than that, on the whole, but I appreciate the thought.” Her nose wrinkles in amusement about something, but he doesn’t get the joke. “Ah! Our order’s up. I’ll grab it.”

She returns with two cups of pumpkin spice latte and what he would call a ham-and-cheese toastie, regardless of what the shop calls it. Ciabatta bread doesn’t impress him. He doesn’t know if it impresses anybody. He sets about the sandwich, washing it down with a gulp of coffee hot enough to make him wince.

“So, where are you from?” she asks. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“What gives it away?”

“The accent, mostly. But your face is a little different from people around here, too. Sharper.” She speaks like an expert on the matter.

“I see. Well, I’m from the North.”

“Which part?”

He smiles bitterly. “Just… the North.”

There’s a lot that he could go into. How he got sent here, suddenly, with no warning and no accommodations. How he got taken in by the Waruda gang at Yuki’s behest, because she just wanted the status of being a legitimate employer. How he misses his family, his sisters and his brother, and the foods he ate at home. But even if she’s a nice person, it isn’t fair to burden her with all that weight. It’d put her off her coffee.

“Do I get a question now?” he asks. He tries to make his voice playful, and just about manages it. “Why pumpkin spice? I always got told it was overrated.”

To be honest, he can barely even tell the difference in taste. He has a fine nose, but he’s too used to eating ready meals and quick, tasteless snacks; his palate has been left a little stunted. But it’s still a curious choice in that it’s not one of the traditional coffee types he’s come to recognise.

“Why not? It’s festive. I don’t really get to relax on Christmas – long story – so I go all-out on Halloween instead.” She sniffs her coffee, takes a long and indulgent sip. “Besides, I don’t get why everybody goes crazy over Christmas food anyway. Autumn’s got so many good flavours, all in season. There’s so much good stuff you can bake, you know? But then winter comes, and nobody wants to bake anything that’s not gingerbread. Not that I don’t like Christmas, but when it comes to food, Halloween’s way better.” She pauses, and narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Which do you prefer? Autumn or winter?”

“…Ah. A year or two ago, I would have said autumn. But I’m looking forward to winter this year. I miss… snow. It reminds me of home.” He takes another bite of his sandwich. It’s better than the coffee; pumpkin spice is hit or miss, but ham and cheese have never steered him wrong.

“Home?” she asks. She steeples her fingers over her coffee cup, as if warming them in the steam. “Tell me about it.”

Hesitantly, he begins. The great crossroads, the grey flagged stones, the languid but efficient cars that drove through the streets. The cold that stole between your bedsheets and wormed its ways into your bones, so your knees ached when you woke up. The warm summers, the wide open spaces, fields of wheat and corn bred for resilience instead of yield. Once he begins, he finds he can’t stop; the words he was groping for begin to tumble freely from his mouth, and all at once the true extent of his homesickness hits him. This is less a different country, and more a different world. He tells her about his mother, his brother and his sisters, the warm winter stew they used to make together, the old church with the carved buttresses and the four spires around the dome, as if the architect hadn’t known whether to make it orthodox or not –

“Oh! Is that the one that has a gargoyle on each side, but the one on front is missing the head?” she asks.

His eyes narrow, and she claps her hands to her mouth as if she’s let slip a huge secret. He can see her eyes moving frantically as she tries to think of her next move. He sighs, and puts his palm flat on the table, a gesture of calm. Whether it’s for himself or her, he’s not sure.

“How do you know that?” He taps his index finger on the table as he speaks. It doesn’t make a sound, but it keeps his hands busy. “You don’t look like the type to get into architecture.” Tap, tap, tap. “And that gargoyle only broke recently, anyway. Three years, tops. The head almost hit the priest when it fell off.” Stillness. “Talk to me.”

“Ah… ahahaha… I, um… I get around, you know? Lots of travel. You could say there’s almost nowhere I haven’t been.” She takes a sip of her coffee, holds the cup up in front of her face like a shield. It’s not warm, but she’s sweating.

“But why there? There’s nothing to see in that town. Just a quiet place in the country.”

“Ah… well, it was… what’s the word? A flyover. I stopped there just long enough to take a look around, and then, whoosh! Straight to the next destination.”

He muses on that. Something doesn’t quite add up, but he’s not sure what; it’s as plausible a story as any, although he doesn’t know why a girl like her would be travelling in such a cold land by herself. The tip of his tail is tingling, like it always does when he’s suspicious or obsessing about something.

But, he thinks, she doesn’t seem like a bad sort. She might be keeping secrets, but she’s an awful liar; he doesn’t think he has anything to be afraid of from a person like that. Everybody’s entitled to their own little secrets. After all, doesn’t he work for a criminal organisation? It’s not exactly like he’s in a position to judge. It’s going to annoy him, but the right thing to do – the only thing he really can do – is let it slide.

The silence stretches for half a minute before he speaks. “So… uh. You think you’ll go there again anytime soon?”

Her expression is still wary, but he can see a little bit of relief creeping onto her face. “A-ahh… maybe a little later this year, actually. Why?”

“Well…” He hesitates, takes a sip of coffee, and then ploughs on. “If it’s not too much trouble, could I ask you to deliver some letters for me? My family is still there, and I want to send them a bit of money. I can pay you. I just… don’t really trust the postal service, that’s all.”

“Ah,” she says, sagely. “Don’t worry. I have a friend who has that exact same problem. They always run.”

“That they do,” he agrees solemnly.

“Well, I guess I’ll have room in my sa – my suitcase for a few letters.” The smile returns to her face. “It’s good that you’re still thinking of your family first, even though you’re alone out here. You’re a good man, Jaune.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Nobody ever calls me a good man. Closest I get is ‘good dog’.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a good dog, either,” she replies, and stands up. She has, he notices, very long legs. Probably not the time. Definitely not the time. “I have to run, but if you take the third alleyway off of main street, you’ll find my shop. It’s called the R-bit Room. If I’m not at the counter, just ask for Aru. Drop by when you’ve got all your letters in order, and we’ll see about getting them delivered. Or, you know, just drop by if you want to chat. You’re always welcome!”

She beams at him, a bright and guileless smile warms him far more than the coffee managed to. A bouncing bunny, always in a rush, her face changing expressions as quickly as the wind. In spite of himself, he feels a little tongue-tied. “Um, thanks. Aru. I’ll do that.”

“Make sure you do! If you’re quick about it, I might be able to move my trip up a little bit,” she winks, and claps him on the shoulder as she walks past. “Have a good day, alright?”

She leaves her with a cup of coffee, a half-finished sandwich, and a little glimmer of hope for something good in the future. It’s probably more than anybody’s given him in months. A rare unaffected smile blooms on his face as he finishes a lunch he didn’t expect to have. He was right. She wasn’t a bad sort at all. Far from it. A little naive, though. After all, he thinks with a wry grin, she called him ‘a good man’.

He finishes his coffee and his sandwich, leaves a few of his old coins as a tip, and walks out into the street with a renewed spring in his step. He wonders what what he should do for the rest of the day, and wonders when Yuki will have calmed down. He wonders what kind of shop Aru runs.

It is only later that he wonders how the hell she knew his name.