Page 10 of Dance in the Stones

They ate in comfortable silence, and that was strange too. Damon had lived alone for a very long time, preferring his own company when he wasn’t around his packmates. But having Redford in his space didn’t feel like an intrusion. It was almost as though the cottage had been waiting for someone else to help him fill the space. That someone being Redford.

/~/~/~/~/

That feeling persisted over the next few days as they fell into an easy rhythm that should have felt awkward but really didn’t. Mornings, they both woke early. Damon, because his hellhound nature meant he rarely slept past dawn. Redford, apparently, because gargoyles were the same. They’d meet in the kitchen, do their careful dance around the coffee maker and the stove, and then head out to the castle.

Working together came naturally too. Redford was stronger than he looked in human form, his gargoyle strength showing through, and Damon didn’t have to hold back as much as he normally would around humans. They fell into an unspoken partnership, anticipating what the other needed and moving together in sync.

It wasn’t long before the contractors noticed. “You two work well together,” the head contractor said on the second day after Redford had taken the spare room, watching them maneuver a massive stone block. “Have you known each other long?”

“Less than a week, same as you,” Damon grunted. The contractor raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t comment any further.

That evening they cooked dinner together. Redford chopped vegetables while Damon handled the meat, and again they moved around each other as though they’d been doing it for years instead of days.

Redford’s shoulder brushed Damon’s arm as he reached for the cutting board. Damon’s hand landed on Redford’s hip as he squeezed past to get to the stove. Each touch felt deliberate, even when it wasn’t.

“You’re a decent cook,” Redford said, watching Damon season the chicken.

“I had to learn. It’s not like you can live on takeout in the Highlands.” Damon glanced at him. “You’re not that bad at it yourself.”

“Centuries of practice,” Redford said with a grin.

Centuries? Damon paused. “Is it rude of me to ask how old you are?”

“Old enough to know better and young enough to do it anyway.” Redford’s mouth had a sexy quirk. “Over five hundred if we’re being specific. I know. I’m the old guy.”

Damon tried not to laugh. “My gods, you’re just a baby.”

Redford’s eyes widened. He clearly hadn’t been expecting that response. “How old are you?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Damon said, resuming his cooking. “Our master, Lord Hades, brought us into being as the first pack around the beginning of time. And we - me and my pack mates - spent thousands of years patrolling the Underworld before we came to live on Earth. I think I’ve lived here maybe a thousand or two thousand years, give or take a century or two.”

“Okay, point taken. You make me feel like a baby when you talk in terms like that.” Redford’s voice had gone soft, and Damon was sure he could pick up a fond tone.

“It just goes to prove age is just a number. It can make for an interesting dynamic though.” Okay, Damon was definitely laughing at Redford on the inside. Redford was clearly used to being the “elder” in the room.

They ate at the small table, knees occasionally bumping underneath, and Damon found himself reluctant for the evening to end.

They did the dishes together, another dance in the small space and yet another excuse for casual touches, before settling in the living area. Redford claimed the armchair while Damon sprawled on the sofa as they talked about nothing important - castle renovations, the weather, and books they’d both read. It was domesticated, very comfortable, and also slightly concerning - how much Damon wanted it to continue.

When Redford finally said goodnight and disappeared into the spare room, Damon sat alone by the dying fire. His hound was practically purring with contentment, and that just wasn’t possible for a hellhound to do. Our mate is here, safe and protected.

“He’s not our mate,” Damon whispered, but the words felt hollow.

Later that same night, Damon lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The cottage walls were thick stone, but he could still hear Redford moving around in the next room, the creak of the bed, the rustle of sheets, and water running in the bathroom. His hound tracked every sound, satisfied that Redford was close and safe.

“He’s not ours,” Damon muttered again. “We don’t even know him.” But that wasn’t true either, not really. In the handful of days since Redford arrived, Damon felt like he’d known him for years, centuries even. There was an ease between them that shouldn’t exist. And his hound was convinced, absolutely convinced, that Redford belonged to them.

Which would be brilliant if Damon was any other type of shifter. He could just say “hey, you’re mine” and they’d be sharing a bed. But hellhounds didn’t work that way. Redford would have to open the collar box, and Damon’s box had sat locked in his closet, untouched since Lord Hades had given it to him, way back when he first left the Underworld.

He should test it. He could. He could just bring the box out into the open and see if Redford could open it, or if the box would at least give some sort of sign. Java had said his box glowed when he carried his mate past it.

But what if Redford couldn’t open the box? What if this strange pull between them was just attraction, friendship, or his hound being weird about a gargoyle neighbor? What if it was something genuine and Damon ruined it by pushing too fast?

He grabbed his phone, thumb hovering over Lamont’s contact. His packmate had found his mate recently and would understand the confusion. Checking the time, Damon grimaced. It was nearly two in the morning, but Lamont had texted him at ridiculous hours before. He could use the pack link, but if Lamont and Ewan were busy doing other things… Yep, Damon would stick to the phone.

Damon: Hypothetical question. If you wanted someone to stay, even though you barely knew them, what does that mean?

The response came almost immediately. Lamont: It’s 2 am in Scotland. Go to sleep.