Sinful Behavior
Part 2/4

	That silence threatened to descend again, and I searched the small room for anything to break it, before it became as oppressive as it had been before.
	It ended up being my stomach that interrupted us, a pang of hunger making itself so audibly known, that even the wolfhound noticed.
	One corner of his muzzle twitched up.  “Our dinner is getting cold,” he said pointedly.
	“O-oh!” I blinked. “The soup!  I'd. . . hate to waste it.  It should have cooled down somewhat by now.”
	I headed over to the table, and he followed me with his eyes first, then slowly paced over towards me as I took a seat.  I began to eat the soup, not rushing through it exactly, because I didn't want to offend the man, but the air between us had grown. . . strange. . . over the last few minutes, and I knew it was probably best if I ate and got out of the older canine's hair-
	“Don't rush,” his words interrupted my harried thoughts.  He pulled out his own chair and took a seat again, giving me a gentle smile as he picked up his spoon.  “Please.  Honestly. . . I don't mind you being here.  I don't get company often.”
	The admission caught me off-guard, somehow.  I'd suspected the man was the lone sort, but I hadn't expected he'd confirm it so bluntly.  
	I gestured around the room, trying to make light of the moment.  We'd had enough heavy dialogue for one night.  “Well, maybe if you did more with the place,” I teased, “a little color. . . a few more places to sit.  A. . . table not made from a door,” I said, eying the surface we were eating on.
	He chuckled.  “Aye, I'll admit, I don't take much stock of my living environment's aesthetics.  It might need a woman's touch.”
	“What you need is a pay raise,” I said wryly.  “You should be worth more to your Lord than. . . this.”
	“It's an intentional choice,” he assured me.  “My career provides me with a good living.  It always has.  My  Lord, and his father-in-law before him, always saw to that.”
	“Then, why-” I blinked.
	“I send almost my entire commission home to my family,” he said, waving a hand.  “Or rather, I arranged to have my Lord's Seneschal handle that at home, before I left.  It means my children are well-provided-for, which is all I ever truly wanted from my service to the Denholme family.  Lord Denholme is aware of the arrangement, but he still tries to pay me out-of-pocket while we're here.  He isn't a stingy man, I assure you.  I've just chosen to live as I do.”
	“Why?”  I asked, perplexed.
	“After my wife died,” he said, and my expression instantly fell, although his remained neutral, “I found that I. . . was. . . trapped. . . in mourning her.  I couldn't pull myself from the mire of my own grief.  It began to affect my duties, and I sought a remedy.  One of the Priests I spoke to in our homeland suggested I embrace my ascetic roots again. . . force myself into a more orderly routine, and clear my environment of all distraction, so I might focus more on prayer.  Honestly. . . I was looking for any way to patch the wound at the time. . . but it actually has worked, to an extent.  Living with less, going about the necessary chores to live as I do, without real resources, accoutrements or the hired help I'd grown accustomed to living in Pedigree society has cleared my mind.  It gives me peace.”
	I nodded.  That actually made some sense to me.  Sort of like how I'd begun to find peace and enough time to sort through my feelings while I'd been doing labor aboard the Manoratha.  
	“And it's nostalgic,” he said, thoughtfully.  “It reminds me of the time I spent training with the church, as a boy.  Which was a more peaceful, less complex time for me.”
	“You don't have the same airs as the rich Otherwolves do,” I agreed.  I'd long suspected this man had humble roots.  “You're nothing like your Lord, in any case.”
	Johannes actually barked a laugh at that, surprising me.  “I'm sorry,” he said, holding up a hand, “it's just- you don't realize the irony.  Lord Denholme was. . . hardly born into money, either.  I'm sure we all must seem quite foreign to you, but trust me.  Were you from Pedigree society, you'd be able to tell.  He doesn't fit in well, even now.”
	“He's hardly humble,” I argued.
	“He certainly isn't that,” the man agreed.  “Not even when I first met him, and he literally hadn't even a shirt on his back, then.  But that's a very. . . very long story.  Probably best left for another time.”
	I shrugged.  “I don't really care enough about that man to hear it, honestly,” I admitted.  “He makes my fur stand on end.  Keep your story.”
	“Luther has never been particularly good with women,” the wolfhound muttered.  “Well, save one.  But she's a saint.”
	“She must be.”
	He arched an eyebrow, setting his spoon down in his now-empty bowl.  I was still working on mine.  “He is still a friend of mine, you realize,” he pointed out.
	I shrugged, swallowing a big chunk of carrot.  “I have some shitty friends too.  You have my sympathy.”
	The man gave a throaty chuckle at that, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.  “. . . thank you. . . thank you for that,” he said between laughter.  “I don't get the chance to laugh often, these days.”
	“That's a shame,” I said with a smile.
	“Lifelong condition, I'm afraid,” he admitted.  “Although I won't deny it's gotten worse, of late.  But. . . no.  I'm just a dour man, in general.  You could blame it on church raising, I suppose, but I think it's simply my natural state.  Even when I was young, I was told- fairly often, in fact- that I had no sense of humor.”
	“That's alright,” I said, waving a hand, “I've been told I'm terrifying more often than I can remember, in various shades.  I suppose I do come off more intense than I realize, sometimes.”
	“Perhaps it's our eyes,” the man offered.  “Grey is such a neutral, depressing shade.  I've always envied those with a little color to their gaze.”
	I nodded, giving a half-smile.  “Could be.  If I look half as intimidating as you do when you glare, that would certainly explain a few things.”  
	“My family could make me laugh sometimes. . . my children.”  the man mused, staring off towards the window at the far end of the room.
	I watched him for a few moments, before dropping my voice.  “Why did you leave them behind?  I mean. . . ”  I paused, when he looked my way, “I don't mean why didn't you bring them here.  That's obvious.  I can't believe anyone would bring their children to this place.”
	“Most of the children in Serwich were born here, actually.”
	“That makes a bit more sense,” I said.  “But. . . still.  I-I don't mean to judge,” I said quickly, “and that's not what I'm saying, but. . . i-it just doesn't seem right for you to be here, to me.  No matter how compelling your duty to your Lord.  Maybe. . .” I sighed, but it needed to be said, “. . . maybe especially because your wife is gone?  Doesn't your family need you even more, now?”
	The man swept his gaze back towards the window, and I feared for a second or two that I'd crossed a line.  Said something that hadn't been my place to say.
	“I haven't been a real part of my childrens' lives for many years,” the man said, quietly.  “Since before my wife passed.  It became more and more clear to me, over time, that I had no place in my own home.”
	“Your. . . 'demons'?”  I asked, softly.
	The man nodded.  “I wanted my family home to be a safe, peaceful place for them to grow up, and feel loved.  Not a stage where the most important people in my life could bear witness to my moments of weakness, and violence.  I never wanted to bring those demons home.  I wanted something. . .” he swallowed, “something in my life to remain. . . untainted.”
	“I have trouble believing you'd ever be violent to your family,” I said.
	“It isn't intentional,” the man said, his voice neutral, clipped.  “But sometimes, I have. . . moments of panic.  Reflexes.  I've hurt my wife in my sleep, more than once.  And then I. . .”  he bowed his head, clearing his throat, “. . . I hurt my daughter, once.  Nearly broke her arm.  To her, it was just hide-and-go-seek.  But she surprised me, in a darkened hallway, and. . . .”
	He shook his head.  “The Kadrush, the jungles of the Dark Continent. . . they've all stayed with me.  Wherever I go.  I've simply never been able to bear it as my Lords have.  I'm not certain why.  I'd always thought I was a strong man.”  
	“Maybe it's the sort of work you do, or the amount of time you've spent in the field,” I offered, wanting desperately to help the man in his moment of doubt, somehow.
	“Perhaps,” the wolfhound said hesitantly, like he wanted to believe it.  “But regardless.  It is what it is.  No amount of prayer can chase these demons away.  They're a part of me, now.  I've learned to contend with them personally, but it's too much of a risk to inflict them on the ones I love.  For some time, I just limited the time I spent with my family.  It wasn't hard, with my charge being the protection of another family.  They still lived near, I still spent nights at home.  I was hardly a stranger to them.  But. . . .”
	He cleared his throat again, dipping his head for a moment.  “After I lost her,” he said, his muzzle twitching.  “The composure I'd fought to maintain for so long while I was home. . . began to fall apart.  And I know I'm not the only one who noticed.  My two eldest daughters began to insist something had taken a-hold of me, inside.  I cannot even say they were wrong.  These malignant spirits feed on our weakness.  And I was very weak, then.  Very weak.”
	It hurt me to hear his words.  His own family had told him he was possessed?
	“My eldest daughters are grown, now,” he said.  “They're both. . . very capable, wise young women.  And they've a staff of four to tend to the house.  For some time, I thought it was my responsibility to be there for the family, after my wife passed.  That I would be negligent if I abandoned my family at a time when they were already grieving, and we had two young pups to tend to.  I wanted to be with them.  I even went so far as to consider quitting the service of my Lord.”
	“What changed your mind?”  I asked, softly.
	“My daughters,” he said, eyes slipping closed for a moment, “were good enough to. . . be honest. . . with me.  My own children had grown afraid of me.  I was a dark presence in that house.  Even when I tried to show them my love, it was tainted.  I was a hollow, aching man, and even young children can sense that in a parent.  It was impossible for them to say. . .” he hesitated, then sighed.  “No child says outright that they're happier when their parent isn't with them.  But, it was obvious.  When Luther announced he'd be taking the journey to the Dark Continent, to this settlement, to finish what the elder Lord Denholme had begun, so long ago, it was like staring down the mouth of Hell, all over again.  I have never in my life known such dread.”
	“Then why come here?”  I repeated.
	“Because my daughters didn't tell me not to,” the man replied simply, and it took me a few moments for what he'd said to really sink in.
	My chest hurt, when I realized what he was saying.
	“I told them that my Lord had called upon me for service,” he said.  “They were old enough to understand.  They'd lived through my first journey there.  They knew what I'd potentially be returning to.  And they. . . wished me well.”
	I ran a paw slowly up over my neck, through my braids and locks of fur, my eyes  on the table.  I hardly knew what to say to such a horrible, painful confession.  Anything I offered would be placating and hollow, and I knew it.  I'd lost my family, but. . . .
	To be rejected by them?
	“They had the best interests of my younger children in mind,” the man said, his voice rough.  “And I hear from them, as often as letters are able to get through to this place.  They say they are praying for me, and I know they are.  They never stopped. . .” he closed his eyes a moment, “. . . loving me.  But sometimes, we simply aren't fit to fulfill certain roles in our lives, anymore.  I make a better father at a distance.  They know I serve God and Country, and provide for them.  They are proud of me.  Most of them will never even remember the bad times, and that is for the best.”
	“Johannes. . . .” I said quietly, feeling helpless. 
	I'm not certain why, but something ever-so-slight, but not so beyond notice that my sharp eyes hadn't picked it out, shifted in the man's expression at that.
	“What?”  I blinked, leaning forward.  “What is it?”
	The canine gave me a long look, like he was only now seeing me in some way he hadn't, before.  “Nothing,” he said at length.  “I just. . .” he glanced aside, “. . . it's been four years since a woman's said my name.”
	I smiled softly.  “I'm sorry I kept forgetting it, when we first met.”
	He just waved the comment off.
	“But, why?”  I asked, confused.  “You don't seem hung up on titles, and you keep insisting you're not a priest-”
	“I'm a Knight Templar,” the man said, with a tired sigh.  “It's hardly a secret at this point in my life, and I know the Privateer already told you, so you may as well know what to call it.  That is the. . . 'official' title I was given by the Church.  Although I don't consider myself worthy of it any longer.”
	I rolled my eyes, not because I thought his comment was self-deprecating, but because I knew he really believed it, and that just made me want to slap the man even harder.  “That's. . .” I sighed, “. . . whatever.  But that doesn't explain what you said.  You can't honestly live this monk-like existence and have no acquaintances or friends.  No one was meant to live like that.  It's self-inflicted isolation.”
	“My life is on its downward slope, miss-” he paused, “. . . Shivah.  You may not be able to understand it yet, because you're young.  But, I'm actually quite capable of going about my days like this.  My time is spent either working, or in prayer, as it was while I was in training in my youth.  It's given me some much-needed time for contemplation, reflection, and easing the demons inside me-”	
	“That's bunk,” I interrupted him, and he looked surprised.  He opened his mouth to say something, but I interrupted him.  “And I'd know,” I said, firmly.  “Trust me.  There was a period of time in my life when I thought isolating myself from the people around me and cutting off all chance of future happiness while I,” I gestured uselessly with my hands in the air, “tortured myself with my own thoughts every waking night, was the only way I could live.  It didn't give me peace.  All it did was keep me stranded in grief.  I was miserable.  And so are you.”
	I stared the man in the eyes, daring him to contest my words.  But he didn't.  He just shut his mouth, and remained silent.  For a long time.
	“. . . I know,” he said at length.
	“Then why do that to yourself?”  I pleaded.  “You're clearly a more clever person than I, if you've realized it.”
	“I've just had more time,” the man murmured, “to realize it doesn't ease the ache.  Nothing does.  Nothing ever will.”
	“ 'So why try?',” I said, giving voice to his unspoken sentiment.  He looked up, again surprised, and I nodded, “It took me traveling halfway across the world, having fever visions with a vengeful bird spirit, and some kindly-meant tough love from a few very good friends. . . to realize that I'd given up on living anymore.  And to realize how foolish that was.”
	“I've hardly given up,” the man insisted.  “I wake each morning and perform my duties.  Zealously.  I still provide for my family, I keep myself healthy-”
	“That isn't living, that's. . . surviving,” I said with a sigh, then gestured around the room.  “This, Johannes.  This isn't living.”
	The man made an uncertain face at that. “Well,” I clarified, “I don't necessarily mean the vow of poverty.  I mean, I don't have a coin to my name, and I honestly prefer sleeping on the floor.  Better for my back.  And I don't particularly care about the. . . 'aesthetics'. . . of my living space either.” 
	The man gave a huff and a slight smile at that.  “You have to be the first woman I've met who feels that way.”
	“But my point is,” I said, “the isolation.  Living alone, spending so many years without anything but the necessary company, with people who won't even use your name-”
	“I said women,” he pointed out.  “I have several male companions who know me well enough to be on a first-name basis.”
	“The Denholme man,” I said.  “And. . . what?  Other military men?”
	The man seemed to think for a moment, then sighed.  “. . . aye, two of the other Captains of our fleet. . . and the. . . Privateer, I suppose.  Although he seems to prefer 'old man', these days.”
	“Don't despair there,” I muttered, “I don't know your age, but I'm fairly certain you're in better health than he is.  And likely to live longer.”
	“Forty-seven years,” the man replied, sounding tired as he said it.  Then, a moment later, in a quieter voice, “She would have been just turning forty, this winter.”
	I took a long breath, letting it out slowly, before murmuring, “He would have  been two.”
	The canine's eyebrows dropped in sympathy.  “I'm so sorry,” he said, and he sounded it.  “I can't even imagine.  I've never lost a child.”
	I lifted my shoulders, straightening my back and shaking my head.  “I will see him again.  And. . . I will see Grant again, as well.  In the next life.  We can all. . . we can all be together, there.”
	The man nodded silently, his own eyes gone distant.
	“. . . and it is they who are at peace, you know,” I said, swallowing.  “We're the ones who still have to. . . struggle through this difficult place.  They're happy.  Their struggles are over.”  I looked down at the table, my fingers tracing circles in the wood.  “That's the thought that gets me through the hardest nights.”  I glanced up at him, at that.  “I'm sure it helps you, too.  I saw your shrine.”
	The man only nodded, somberly.
	“Are those. . .” I paused momentarily, but he seemed relaxed, like he wanted to talk.  And this was honestly exactly what he needed.  What I'd needed.  “Are those all belongings of people you've lost?”
	“All but one,” he said.  “The flowers were a gift from the young lady of my Lord's house, before I left.  She and I planted that rose bush when she was barely up to my knees.  She is still alive and well, thank God.  But I do miss her.  She's like a daughter to me.  The diary was my wife's.  She was artistically inclined. . . used to sketch with charcoal and graphite.  It's full of pictures of our children.”
	“And the cane?”  I asked, curiously.
	The man's expression darkened somewhat at that, and he averted his eyes.  “It belonged,” he said in a low tone, “to a man I failed to protect.  My late Lord.”  He leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, ragged breath.  “The man I was charged to protect, as a Knight.”
	“Oh,” I said softly, “that's why-”
	“Yes, that's why,” the man said, an edge in his voice.  It wasn't anger, exactly.  More. . . self-loathing.  He let his arm drop, suddenly, and stood in one quick motion, tugging at the hem of his shirt until he'd freed it from where it was tucked into his britches, letting the length of it fall loose, and unbuttoning the top button as he headed for the fire.  I was simultaneously glad the man was more comfortable with finally being a bit less formal around me, and aware of the fact that he was probably hot because he was upset.  
	“I'm going to make some tea,” he announced.  “Do you want any?  I don't have sugar or cream, I'm afraid.”
	“I prefer it strong, anyway,” I said, then yawned slightly.  “Especially at this hour.”
	“You could head home, if you wish,” the man said, his back still turned to me.  “Or to whatever barracks or inn you call home.  I'm sure it's a more comfortable place to spend your evenings than here.”
	I stood, my arms crossed over my chest as I lazily made my way across the room.  I stretched the arches of my feet as I walked, sore from my ill-fated shadowing of the man here.  I'd had to scale a few roofs, and that meant shingles underfoot.  Harsh on pawpads.  
	“You wouldn't say that if you knew where I was staying,” I muttered.  
	“Oh?”  the man replied, with some evident curiosity there I honestly hadn't expected.  Did he actually care where I slept at night?  Why?
	I arched an eyebrow, and wandered a little closer to him.  “I stay aboard the Manoratha,” I said, and his shoulders tensed.  “With Admiral Reed.”
	He turned to face me at that, letting the kettle fall into place above the fire in the stove with a heavy clatter.  His brows were drawn low, and now I was certain of it.  He was upset.
	“I thought you said you and the Privateer weren't involved-” he began, in a fierce tone.
	“First off,” I responded, just as fiercely, “we aren't.  The man and I have an arrangement, that's all.”
	“An 'arrangement',” the canine repeated the words, with visible disgust.
	“Yes,” I said, narrowing my eyes.  “And secondly, I don't like your tone.  I thought you said you'd been working on not judging people for how they live their lives.  Seems to me you haven't actually made a lot of progress there, if something so wholly unconnected with you can make you this angry.”
	“I'm not angry,” the canine growled, his very tone proving the statement a lie.  He gave a frustrated huff, and put an arm out to nudge my shoulder aside enough that he could move past, back towards the table.  Apparently so that he could go about clearing our bowls, as if that was suddenly a priority.
	“You knew I was working with the man before, and none of this hostility,” I said, eying him critically.  “Why the sudden hackles?”
	The man stacked the bowls and dropped both of our spoons in unceremoniously, and loudly.  “. . . I didn't realize you were sleeping with the bastard,” he said at length.
	And that marked a first.  I had never heard the canine curse before.  Not even when he'd first been injured.
	“I'm not!”  I reiterated, then glanced aside.  “Well. . . if you meant that literally, then yes.  I do sleep in his cabin.  But I've never let him touch me.  Not like that.”
	The man strode past me at that, on his way to the back room.  I could feel he was ignoring me now, and that infuriated me somewhat.  I didn't like it when people thought I was lying.
	“It's the only way I could stay on his ship!”  I called after him, as he disappeared into the back.  “He gets to. . . boast to his men, and all I required was that he keep his paws off of me, for real.  I don't care what he brags about.  The fact of the matter is, he's actually fairly well-behaved provided his ego is being taken care of.  He's yet to breech our agreement.”
	“We can't be talking about the same man,” the wolfhound's voice carried over from the back room.  I could hear him washing the dishes.  
	“You know,” I said, annoyed, “I know you hate the man, but I fail to see how he's really any different than your friend, the Admiral.  They're both strutting, arrogant peacocks with reckless habits and a complete disregard for acting decent towards the few people who actually put up with their bullshit.  They should both probably be more grateful for their friends, especially when we're defending them like this, to the point of arguing over it.  But they never will be, so why the hell are we getting ourselves upset over it?  That bloody ass would probably laugh if he knew he got you in a tiff.  And your Admiral seems the sort who'd just assume if you had a woman over, it was for inappropriate reasons.”
	The back room was silent for awhile after that, and eventually, I heard the clink of a bowl being set down.  “He knows me better than that,” the man said at length, although his tone was subdued.  “He knows that's impossible.”
	I finally crossed the room, and leaned against the doorway with my hip, looking inside to the canine as he dried his paws.  “That's depressing,” I said, dryly.
	“What?” the canine replied in an annoyed tone, with a sigh.
	“That your best friend assumes you couldn't possibly win over a woman,” I stated, bluntly.
	The man literally rolled his eyes at that, glaring over at me.  “I'm a poor church man.  And I'm forty-seven.”
	I shrugged.  “So?  You're an older man, not dead.”
	“I am well past my courting years, is the point,” the man muttered, shaking his hands dry and walking past me back into the main room.
	I arched an eyebrow at him as he went.  “. . . well, I don't know what that means, but I'm fairly certain it's an excuse for unwillingness, not inability.”
	“In this circumstance,” the man said as he removed the kettle, “willingness is what matters.  So your point is moot.”
	“Why choose to live alone?”  I asked, quietly.
	“I didn't choose to live alone,” the man snapped, regarding me for a moment with a quick flick of his eyes.  “I wanted to live out my life with the woman I loved.  She died.  God. . . took her from me.”  His voice faded somewhat on the last few words, and I winced at the pain I heard in it.  
	He sat down heavily in his chair, his elbows draping over his knees, posture slumping.  He didn't bother to pour the tea.  “She should be the one who is still. . . here.  Not me.”
	Again, I fell into a reservoir of my own memories.  It was like watching a mirror image of myself, just months ago.  At the height of my most self-destructive thoughts about Grant.  I remembered every single one of these feelings.  And how terrible enduring them had been.
	“What about me?”  I asked quietly.
	The man's eyes shot up at that, and even though the misdirection had been intentional, I felt a brief pang of guilt for having caused it.  “I mean,” I clarified, softly, “should I. . . bother trying to move on?  Find love again?”
	The man blinked a few times, then his expression seemed to calm.  “. . . of course,” he said at length.  “You're a young woman with a lot of potential in your future.  You shouldn't dismiss the thought of finding happiness with someone again-”
	“Why not?”  I interrupted, my voice monotone.  I kept my arms crossed over my chest, hip still cocked against the doorway, and gave him the best placid expression I could.  “What does any of that matter?  I loved Grant.  I loved my son.  I'm never going to find anyone who can replace either of them in my heart.  So. . . am I just. . . done?”
	“No,” the man insisted.  “It's not a matter of replacing them.  You'll never find someone you love the same way.  That doesn't mean you can't. . . .”  He paused, seeming to realize my game, then blew out a long breath.  He closed his eyes a few moments, then just shook his head, running a palm down his muzzle.  “You don't understand,” he muttered.  “It isn't the same, for me.”
	“Because of your age?”  I questioned.  “What does that matter?  You're still fit enough to be a soldier.  I think that means you're capable of friendly interaction with the opposite sex.  Or, hell, maybe just a few friends who aren't in the military?  I'm not saying you have to go out looking for a new wife, just-”
	“It isn't,” he said, cutting a hand through the air and looking up at me, “isn't. . . the same.  I was married. . . for almost twenty years.  We had nine children together.  I can't just. . . forget that.”	
	“You said yourself it isn't about replacing them in your heart-”
	“Maybe for you!” he said, raising his voice just slightly.  “But you can't. . . you can't compare young love to the kind of commitment my wife and I had-”
	“Oh, I can, and I will,” I said, with the hint of a growl in my voice.  “I'm sorry, sir, but you didn't know my lover, and you didn't know what we had.  And you have never been a mother.  So do not for a second go telling me your love meant more to you than mine did to me, just because you put more time in.”
	The canine dropped his muzzle.  “I didn't mean to infer-”
	“Yes, you did,” I snapped, then let my gaze soften slightly.  “But you're hurting. . . so I'll let it go.  You didn't. . . you didn't know Grant.  Or what he did for me.  I was a different person when I met him.  He did something for me no one, not even my closest friends, could do for me.  He showed me how to trust again.  He showed me there was real, honest good in the world.  And even now, even after losing him. . . I don't regret giving my heart to him, even if it meant sparing myself a lot of pain.  I got through everything, through a second loss of a loved one in my life, and still came out better for it in the end.  And I realize I will probably never love anyone as much as I did that man. . .” I took a deep breath, “. . . but he wouldn't have wanted me to stop trying.  Would your wife have wanted to see you like this?”
	The man was silent, a shadow cast over his eyes so that I couldn't see them, his bedraggled fur twitching along the draping tips of his ears.
	“Someday,” I said quietly, “I will love again.  Maybe. . . a lover, I don't know.  I'll be honest, I'm not certain I want to be romantically in love, again.  Maybe I'll have another child.  I. . . I don't know.”  I gave a soft sigh, then, forcing a chuckle through a suddenly dense throat, murmured, “I promise you this much.  It won't be Grayson.  That man is, at his best moments, amusing.  But that's all, I promise you.  He's too in love with his boat. . . and himself. . . to love anyone else, anyway.”
	“I'm glad at least you have that much sense about you,” the man murmured, his voice barely above a rumble.  He lifted his muzzle, rubbing two fingers over the bridge of his nose.  “You're a wise young woman, Shivah.  You deserve better.”
	“So do you,” I said softly.  I didn't miss that he'd said 'wise'.  “So,” I pressed, “is any of this sinking in?”
	“I'm a stubborn old fool,” the wolfhound muttered, then sighed.  “But. . . yes.  There's too much logic in your words for me to ignore completely.  Although I'm not really certain what you expect of me.  Luther's tried something similar in the past, and I was no better a study, then.”
	I scrunched up my muzzle at that, trying hard not to laugh.  “. . . the Admiral's talked to you about moving on from your wife?  Because, considering his 'preferences'-”
	“No!  God,” the man groaned.  “Nothing like that!”  He didn't miss as I put a hand over my mouth to stifle a chuckle, and then he looked even more concerned.  “God,” he repeated, “how did you even find out about that?”
	“I have a friend who's of the same persuasion, and he's very good at concealing the fact,” I said.  “Your friend is. . . not.  My friend caught on pretty quick.  Also I'm fairly certain the Admiral's trying to woo him, or something of the like, and I have to tell you. . . he's spoken for, by a man with a terrible temper, and that's going to end badly.  Like, 'bloody, dislodged teeth on the ground' badly.”
	“Lord. . . .” the wolfhound ground out, then just cut his hand through the air.  “You know what?  I don't even want to know.  I don't need to know about any of this.  That man can solve his own disasters.  I want nothing to do with this one.”
	“You and me both.”
	The canine shook his head.  “But that's all besides the point.  The fact is, I'm not a lone wolf entirely because I wish to be.  The nature of my work alone means there aren't many people I can trust to be on a personal level with.  Never mind that I'm a salty old codger. . . there's a reason I only tend to keep company with other military men.”
	“And me, now,” I pointed out.  “This whole night's kind of a step in the right direction.”
	“Minus the intended assassination bit,” the wolfhound said, dryly.
	“Are you still on about that?”  I mock-whined.
	The man gave a chuckle almost despite himself.  “It is nice to have the company. . .” he admitted.
	“Even though we seem to bring out the worst in each other,” I commented quietly, making sure he heard the apologetic tone in my voice.
	“Perhaps especially because of that,” the man said, just above a whisper.  “I know I don't. . . I haven't. . . even told Luther. . . about my wife, yet.”
	“I gathered,” I murmured.  “How long has it been?”
	“Four years, ten months,” the man sighed, his hand rubbing at his knee.
	“Johannes,” I said with a bedraggled edge to my voice.  “That's. . . half a decade.  Your wife is waiting for you, but. . . there's no need to fill that gap with misery.  She won't mind if you find a little happiness between now and then.  A few pleasant diversions, at least.”
	“Oh?” the canine snuffed.  “Is that what the wolf is to you?  A 'pleasant diversion'?”
	I shook my head, blatantly ignoring the aggitation in his tone.  “Not as of yet.  But have I considered it?  Maybe.  Do you think me less of a person for wanting to be close to someone like that again?  It's a natural desire.  There's children, friendships, and. . . that sort of companionship, and I'm only lacking for two of those, and only really wanting for one.  At least for the moment.  You have two of three.”
	“I'm an old man,” he repeated, as though he was getting tired of reminding me.  “I don't want for the third any longer.  You can't understand because you're still young.  I can get by fine without. . .” he gestured at nothingness, in the air, “. . . that. . . form of companionship. . . these days.”
	“You're a terrible liar,” I muttered.
	“I'm not lying,” the canine insisted.  “Not everyone has the same needs.”
	“That's true,” I agreed, “but you're still lying.”
	“The only woman I have ever been attracted to was my wife,” the man said, vehemently.  
	“You're attracted to me,” I countered.
	 “Excuse me?” he nearly choked on the words, leaning back in his chair.
	“Oh, please,” I muttered, letting my arms fall at my sides.  “The too-chaste way you handled me at the door?  The way you bristle every time I bring up Reed?  Lying doesn't suit you.”
	“I beg your pardon,” the wolfhound coughed.  “But that was. . . chivalry.  A lost art, to be sure, but- and I hate Reed for entirely separate reasons.”
	“Fine, then,” I said, with a sigh.  I hadn't wanted to bring this up.  “But that doesn't explain the scent on you I catch whenever I get close.”
	The man stiffened visibly at that, and didn't seem to have a response.  He looked like a child caught stealing from the pantry.  At length, he managed something.
	“You're not accustomed to canines as well as your own people,” he insisted.  “You're misinterpreting-”
	“Grant was canine,” I countered, and the admission seemed to shock him.  That's right.  I'd never told him much about the husky.  I strode forward, reaching down through the V neck of my simple cotton dress to pull something out.  I didn't miss the way the man nearly flinched when I dug around in my chest fur.  
	“Calm down,” I muttered, tugging free the locket.  “Gods.  The way you stiffen up around women, it's a wonder you haven't burst yet.”
	The man opened his muzzle to object, but at that point I popped open the locket, and hung it in front of his face.  He peered at the small trinket, hesitantly reaching up to take it in a paw and look at it.
	“That's a drawing one of his sisters did.  Of her and him.  It's the only likeness I have any more,” I said quietly.  “And. . . it was drawn by a seven-year-old.  But.  I don't know.  When I look at it, I can still see him, clear as day.  The love she had for him is there, and that's the best way to really capture someone, I think.”
	The man's gaze softened a bit as he slowly released the locket, and gave it back to me.  I shut it, and tucked it back beneath my dress.
	“I always assumed he was one of your own people. . . .” the man murmured.
	“No.  I was married, once,” I said.  “But, he was a terrible man.  I'm not too ashamed to admit, he may have soured me on my own kind.  He nearly ruined my trust in people, entirely.  But. . . Grant reawakened that in me.”  I looked down at the wolfhound, tugging at the edge of my dress, perhaps a bit self-consciously.  “Does it bother you?”  I asked.  “Grant. . . always thought it probably would.  Bother his own people.  My being with him, I mean.”
	“No,” the canine said, in a gentle one.  “I've. . . I wanted children, so I married canine.  But the Pedigree doctrine has never been one I've believed to be God's word.  I've met too many people, good people, who were non-canine, to believe they shouldn't all have an equal chance in life.”  
	He cleared his throat, and glanced aside.  “That being said,” he mumbled, “I've mostly just never. . . met many felines who found companionship outside their own species.  Your kind tend to keep to your own.  Mine are honestly more known for 'wandering'.”
	“Is that a more polite way of saying your men like exotic women?”  I asked, mostly keeping the teasing tone from my voice.  Mostly.
	The man just grunted an assent to that, and busied himself with leaning over the table to begin pouring the tea.
	“. . . do you like exotic women?”  I asked, because it had to be asked.  And he seemed to have expected it was coming.
	“Don't play coy,” he muttered, in an irritated tone.  “You know very well how stunning you are, I shouldn't have to flatter you.”
	I actually laughed, at that.  “Oh-ho. . . 'stunning'?  That's quite the admission.”
	The man's ears twitched, and I knew he must have been flushing in them, I just couldn't see it.
	“But I was actually talking about other women,” I said, leaning over the table.  “I'm not trying to promote myself.  Besides, like I said.  I already know you're attracted to me.  I don't really need any more confirmation.  Your kind get a particular scent about you when-”
	“Why are we having this conversation?”  the man asked sharply, cutting me off and handing the cup of tea to me.  I set it down for now, it was still piping hot.  “All of this is better left unsaid.”
	“I disagree.”
	“Why?” he questioned.  “You're spoken for, and even if you weren't, even if I was willing to foster an acquaintance with a woman my age, more suited to me. . . I'd want to continue an acquaintance with you, which any woman would probably be suspect of.”
	“I'm not spoken for,” I muttered, “but go on.  I'm liking this whole 'acquaintance' idea.  Do you want to meet more often?  Tonight's been. . . interesting.”  
	“I don't see why not,” he shrugged.  “We work together, you're intelligent, dangerous in a way that's useful to my own ends. . . but my point is, why make that awkward?”
	“I guess I just don't see how any of this is awkward,” I shrugged.  I barely hid a smile.  “It's sort of refreshing, actually?  You're a really decent man.  I'm used to. . . less than decent men.  I'm kind of enjoying this.”
	“Enjoying what?” the man asked off-handedly, as he stirred his tea.
	“I don't know,” I admitted, thinking for a moment.  “Watching you?  You're so. . . I don't know, dignified.  I'm not even intending to, and I'm making you uncomfortable.  I've never made a man. . . squirm.”
	“I am not 'squirming',” the canine growled.  “And if you're going to keep toying with me, we're not going to be meeting like this again.  We should get back to conversing about faith, or-”
	“Dead loves ones?  No thanks,” I said, standing.  “And for me to be 'toying' with you, you'd have to be admitting there's something there to toy with.  So, there you have it.  Got you.”
	The man let his spoon clatter against the edge of his cup, releasing it and glaring at me from across the table.  I didn't resist the chuckle.
	“What's so wrong with being in good humor every once in awhile?”  I asked, openly.  “It's rare even for me.  Enjoy it.”
	“I think you're the only one getting any amusement out of this,” the man muttered.
	“Why are you even so ashamed?”  I huffed a laugh.  “It's out in the open, so just. . . take the teasing, and get over it.  Laugh at yourself every once in awhile.  It doesn't hurt.  I swear.”
	“I'm not ashamed, I'm indignant,” the man insisted, with an arched eyebrow.  “That you'd assume I have ill intent for you in mind.  I'm still denying that, by the way.  No matter what it is you think you. . . smell.”
	“See, but I wouldn't call it 'ill intent',” I said with a slight laugh.  “That's the attitude I'm talking about.”
	“You shouldn't regard physical. . . affection. . . so lightly,” the man muttered.
	“It took a long, hard struggle for me to regard it as lightly as I do,” I said, meaningfully.  “To not see it as terrible, and sinful.  Like you seem to.”
	“It isn't that affection is sinful,” the man stated.  “It's. . . the desire for it is inappropriate, in certain situations.  I would say most situations.  Like this one, right here.”
	“Why?”  I asked, blinking at him.  “I'm not offended that you think I'm attractive.  It's not as though either of us actually has intentions in mind, and I don't for a moment think you'd be inappropriate to me against my wishes.  If it doesn't bother me, why should it bother you?”
	“Because you're half my a-” he paused, then glared at me.  I was smiling, triumphantly.  “It doesn't,” he corrected himself.  “Because I don't.”
	“Think I'm attractive?  Oh.  Well now I'm insulted.”
	“You are impossible,” he grated out.  “And every bit a woman in mind as any other, regardless of how masculine your other pursuits might be.  Stop twisting my words.”
	“I'm just trying to make a point,” I said.
	“To what end?”  he asked, the irritation sharp in his voice, now.  It didn't sound angry, exactly, but I could tell I was wearing on the man in some other way.  It was interesting, hearing him lose his composure.  
	But he did have a point, I had to admit.  Why was I keeping this going?  Was I antagonizing the man for the sheer sake of antagonizing him, at this point?  I did have a  tendency to get too argumentative at times, just because I got caught up in things.  It didn't really matter if I was right, in this case.
	It's just. . . I really wanted to be, for some reason.
	That brought me to a jarring halt in my train of thought.  Is. . . was I. . . ?
	I stood, suddenly, catching him off-guard.  He watched me warily as I made my way around the table towards him, obviously wondering what my intentions might be.  To be honest, I was wondering that, myself.  What would I do if I was wrong?  What would I do if I was right?
	“I need to even the scales,” I stated, flatly.  “From earlier.”
	“What?”  the man questioned, confused.
	“Stand up,” I said.  “I'm going to search you.”