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It wasn’t the first time he’d asked to meet up. Every few months or so a crystal message would come through, or the occasional voicemail. Usually, these would go unanswered, ignored, or deleted outright; but for some reason, on that crisp fall day, Kristen couldn’t say no.
And that’s how Tracker found herself sitting in Krom’s Diner on a Saturday morning, staring across a table at Mac Applebees, one hand sitting on the stained wood table, swishing her (now tepid) black coffee in circles around her cup, the other in her lap, resting in the white-knuckled grip of Mac’s eldest and only daughter.
It had been over a year since Tracker and Kristen first met. The band at the Black Pit sucked that night and Tracker was about ready to leave when Kristen had wandered past, trying in her very particular way to order something at the bar that wasn’t alcoholic, but maybe looked like it could be, but just because she didn’t want people to think she was judging them, maybe with a lime in it, or something. Tracker had been fascinated by this girl, who couldn’t be any older than she was, hanging out in the dark, loud, dirty venue in her Harvest Camp t-shirt, leather bound bible clutched under one arm, shepherd’s crook staff on her shoulder.
Now, Kristen’s quarterstaff leans against the edge of the table. The fingers of her free hand dance up and down the smooth section of wood, worn from years of gripping it firmly, tapping out an inconsistent rhythm as she stumbles through the pleasantries expected in this sort of situation.
“And how have the boys been?”
“You mean your brothers who you refuse to come home and see?”
A squeeze of the hand. A slow breath. Tracker’s thumb starts rubbing circles into the soft patch of skin between thumb and forefinger.
“How have Bucky, Bricker, and Cork been?”
“They’re as much of a handful as ever. Cork still won’t stop asking when you’re coming home from your mission,”
Another squeeze. They’ve been lying to Kristen’s brothers about her whereabouts.
“and Bucky’s started acting up in church since you stopped attending.”
The squeeze grows nails this time, digging into Tracker’s knuckles. The circles stop and Tracker squeezes back. Another slow breath.
“I meant how were they doing? Like do they like their new teachers? How is Bucky adjusting to Oakshield? Did they have a good summer?”
And one last bit under her breath,
“Not how much you’ve had to parent them…”
“What was that?” Mac’s voice darkens slightly.
“Nothing…”
Silence. It continues too long. Kristen’s fingers disentangle from Tracker’s and now the nails dig into Tracker’s thigh. A middle-aged halfling woman approaches with a metal carafe and Tracker and Kristen accept more coffee. Mac covers his cup and declines with a curt nod.
“Thanks, Daisy”
The woman smiles warmly at Kristen’s attempt to ease the tension and pads off to a different table.
“So…”
A throat clears.
“I’ve been trying to get in contact with you for some time, Kristen”
“I’m well aware. Was there something you wanted to say?”
Another long pause, this time broken by a clattering of dishes at the busser’s station.
“Your mother and I would like to know when you plan to return home.”
This time it’s Tracker’s nails that flash as both hands grip her mug. These nails are longer than you would expect for a seventeen year old butch, sharper, more pointed, almost claw-like if you knew better. Mac doesn’t know better. Mac hasn’t said a word to Tracker since they sat down at this table, has barely looked at her since he arrived at the diner, doesn’t know a thing about her except maybe, if he’s cared enough to commit it to memory, her name.
Another slow breath. Kristen squeezes Tracker's thigh, closes her eyes and opens them again, now staring past her father and out the window to the gas station across the street.
“I’m not.”
“You’re not what?” The darkness edges in further.
“Planning to return to your house. Strongtower is home now. Has been since you kicked me out ten months ag-“
“Young lady…”
The tightest squeeze yet, Kristen’s nails dig deep into Tracker’s thigh. She shifts just slightly, letting that patch give way to tougher skin and a layer of fur.
“…we most certainly did not kick you out. Living with your… friend…Tracker… is an entirely inappropriate situation and your mother and I expect you to return home.”
At this Tracker can’t help but let a low growl escape her throat, not because Mac refuses to acknowledge their relationship, but at the insistence, the unbridled entitlement, that the Applebees feel towards their daughter. Tracker and Kristen have talked a lot about Mac and Donna since she moved into Jawbone’s place last spring. About the way her parents used her chosen status for their own advancement in the church and their social standing. About how her brothers were so often her responsibility because, as a cleric, she was “just so good with them.” About the way everything in her life always came back to Helio when her parents had a say. How they couldn’t see her for her. How everything they loved about her was because she was chosen. And here was Mac, demanding she return home because it’s “inappropriate,” for her to live with people who actually care about her.
For the first time since they sat down, Mac’s eyes dart over to Tracker and she feels the full weight of his gaze as she meets it. Tracker is not unfamiliar with looks of fear and disgust. People don’t take too kindly to werewolves in most places and the Church of Sol has enough influence in Elmville that plenty of folks here don’t take too kindly to lesbians either. But the look of absolute loathing that Mac throws her way as she lets the deep, angry rumble rise in her throat, is more akin to the way he would look at a particularly gross bug than something he should actually fear.
Tracker knows that Mac is clueless, a border patrol paladin more used to taking orders than forming a single original opinion, but she’s still taken aback by the way his eyes linger on her without a hint of the self-preservation one would expect when sitting across from a werewolf. It’s a look long enough to really see how little respect he holds for anyone even a hint different than him. It’s also just enough time for Tracker to really take in his eyes.
Underneath the loathing, underneath the disgust, underneath the disrespect and fear of all things unholy in the eyes of Helio, his eyes are a deep green, with flecks of brown that turn almost gold when the light hits them just right. She can see how they would be strong and warm when turned on a subject he deemed worthy of his kindness. She can see why Kristen longed and worked and prayed for their approval for so long, why she never questioned them when she was young, why she was so afraid to find out what it would feel like to receive a look from him like the one Tracker is staring back at right now and it drives the growl further out of her throat and into her mouth and into her brain where it starts to turn into a familiar rage.
Tracker hates that this man hurt the silly, sweet, weirdo sitting next to her, hates that he can’t even attempt to understand the ways in which he’s hurt her, but most of all hates that he gave her his eyes, deep green with flecks of gold, strong and warm and bright and, just for a moment, she imagines her nails, turned claws, digging into his sockets and ripping them from his head. He doesn’t deserve to have given her anything, let alone Tracker’s favorite feature and she hates that if it weren’t for this despicable man, the beautiful, wonderful girl sitting next to her wouldn’t exist, that she has him to thank for her joy and her pleasure and her…love. Because it is love, what she feels for Kristen.
And all of a sudden she’s pulled back by a warm, rough hand on her thigh, a pair of perfect green and gold eyes, painfully lacking their usual luster, staring into hers, and Kristen’s clear, strong, level headed voice:
“Why don’t you go settle up for us with Daisy at the counter? I’ll meet you outside. I think we’re ready to go.”
Mac’s looking back at Kristen now, angry and confused and maybe actually a little scared (like he should have been all along).
“Where do you think you’re going, young lady? We aren’t finished here. When did you become so disrespectful that you would get up and leave in the middle of a conversation? This is what happens when you hang around with depraved, godless, heathens like this beast- ”
“Dad,” the word is out of Kristen’s mouth so fast, Tracker’s pretty sure she’s called him that out of reflex. It’s the first time she’s addressed him as such, in his presence or otherwise, in quite some time.
“I…we came here today hoping you had reached out to apologize…”
Both girls are standing now as Kristen launches into the speech she had planned and practiced with Tracker for days leading up to this. A contingency in case things went bad. Tracker had insisted on it once she was certain Kristen wouldn’t be backing out. Tracker grabs Daisy as she passes the table, palming her some cash for the coffees and a massive tip as an apology for Mac. She gives Tracker a wry smile and her eyes glitter with the silent promise of an extra large milkshake the next time the girls come in.
“…made your position clear. I will not respond to any future attempts to contact me. If at any point in the future you and mom realize how much harm you’ve caused me, you can contact my counselor, Jawbone, at Aguefort to set up a mediated conversation. Goodbye.”
Tracker’s hand is already in Kristen’s as she shoulder’s her staff and they turn to leave, not waiting for any response from Mac. He’s already talking, getting up from the booth and throwing on his coat to follow them out of the diner when Daisy steps in front of him. It’s quite a sight, the bulky human paladin, stopped in his tracks by a cheery halfling waitress who only comes up to his waist, staring daggers up at him as she twitters on about how she hopes he enjoyed his coffee and how she’s never seen him in before with Kristen and Tracker, the dears, and aren’t the two of them so lovely, always so polite when they come in for a burger or coffee and crullers with all their friends, just daring him to walk away and follow after the two girls as they leave.
Tracker and Kristen are out the door before Daisy’s even halfway done. They’re a block away before Kristen’s grip loosens on Tracker’s hand. And they’re at the bus stop, sitting on a bench before her slow, even breathing starts to break and Tracker sees her eyes, those perfect green and gold eyes, welling up and spilling over with all the tears she refused to cry in front of the man who gave them to her. Tracker’s rage has faded by now, but she still feels that buzzing at the nape of her neck where the hair stands on end as she pulls Kristen into her and holds her while she cries.
Tracker loses track of how many buses they let pass by as she sits on the cold metal bench, holding her girlfriend and by the time they catch one to ride across town, the sun has already peaked and the blessed moon is starting to slide up past the horizon. Kristen hasn’t said much since they left; she’s back in her own head, deep in there where she spends so much time introspecting and analyzing. Usually Tracker lets her spend as much time as she needs with her mind drifting, but it’s been hours and she’s still so quiet.
By the time thr bus drops them back in Ballaster, Tracker’s starting to worry. Maybe it was a mistake to go see Mac, or maybe Kristen’s upset with her for losing her cool. She was supposed to be supporting Kristen at the diner, grounding her, keeping her steady, but the minute Mac got to her, she cracked and got aggressive and let her base instincts take over. That’s when Kristen decided they should go, not when things were awkward, not when Mac made his intentions obvious, when Tracker got angry.
It’s on the stairwell of Strongtower, headed up to Jawbone's apartment when Tracker finally pulls on Kristen’s hand, turning her so they’re standing face to face. Tracker looks deep into Kristen’s eyes and knows she’s not mad, but also sees how deflated she is, how frustrated and angry and sad and afraid she is.
“Well…you totally understated just how much of a dick Mac is…”
A small smile plays across Kristen’s lips, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m so sorry he was so awful to you. You didn’t deserve a word of what he said. He’s bigoted and mean and such a jerk and -“
Before she can get any further, Tracker is pulling her into a long, gentle kiss. Tracker feels her relax into the embrace, eyes closed, breath slowing, and she tries to make it feel like a home, tries to make it feel warm and strong and bright, the way she feels when she looks into Kristen’s eyes. She tries to forget the way she felt looking into Mac’s, claws flashing across his irises in her mind's eye.
“You know - I would kill him if you let me. I could do it…quick and easy,”
And now the smile starts to reach Kristen’s eyes again as they part from the kiss, freckled nose scrunching up at the thought.
“I know you could.”
“I love you, Kristen.”
A small breath.
“I love you and I just want you to know how good and loved and strong and brave you are. Your dad is a piece of work, but that’s not your fault.”
Tracker’s hands are on either side of Kristen’s face now, eyes pleading with her to believe every word she’s saying.
"You two are connected by a pure coincidence, bound to him by blood, but baby, it's all relative. You've been in his fist ever since you were a kid, but you don't owe him shit even if he said you did.”
And Kristen nods, tears welling back up as she listens to what Tracker’s saying.
“I love you too.”
And that’s all Tracker needs to hear right now to know she’s going to be ok. And maybe tomorrow or next week Kristen will bring it up and tell her what was going on in her head, or she’ll sit down with Jawbone and he’ll psychologize with her about it and give her a worksheet that she’ll take very seriously because, “self-improvement is very important, Tracker, and Jawbone thinks this will help me get to the bottom of some of what I’ve been feeling,” but for now Tracker takes Kristen’s hand back in hers and continues to climb the stairs to their overcrowded, dingy apartment, to their home.