Rory
It was a cascade of surprises, of the unexpected: Rory's gaze snapped towards the big man as he suddenly moved, wariness etching his frame as he fed off of the alertness the other exuded. Some old, forgotten gene of pack life screamed danger, danger and for a brief moment they were the sentinels, watching, waiting, taut and tense, ready to spring into movement and urge the others away.
He'd seen it enough time in horses and goats.
But there was nothing there; just the three of them and the furniture. Rory, far more trusting than Deimos, relaxed again almost instantly, lulled back into the atmosphere of warm baked goods.
Still, he kept half an eye on the bigger man a moment longer, again intrigued by him—who was he, and where did he come from? And what had hammered such reflexes into him? Clearly, he didn't want them to ask, for with the air of a cat pretending its botched landing was planned to go like that he turned back to his pumpkin.
Rory was willing to let it lie. He wasn't there to pry the secrets from their souls.
Instead, he focused his attention on the tray of baked delicacies slid to just underneath his nose. The scent was mouth-watering, carried up by the steam gently rising from them; Rory teased one off the edge of the tray, trying to not hold on to the scone for too long in a single place, for it was still quite hot. Juggling it with some experience he got it up to his face and took a bite out of it, inhaling through his teeth to try and cool it off a little.
And. It was. Divine.
He closed his eyes and made the most appreciative, undignified noise, savoring every moment of the bite. Ugh, it had been far too long since he'd had baked sweets of any sort; most of the time they couldn't justify using their flour for such whimsical things.
"They're amazing," he said, resurfacing from his moment of bliss; opening his eyes to watch Amalia try to bait Deimos into trying one.
He'd seen it enough time in horses and goats.
But there was nothing there; just the three of them and the furniture. Rory, far more trusting than Deimos, relaxed again almost instantly, lulled back into the atmosphere of warm baked goods.
Still, he kept half an eye on the bigger man a moment longer, again intrigued by him—who was he, and where did he come from? And what had hammered such reflexes into him? Clearly, he didn't want them to ask, for with the air of a cat pretending its botched landing was planned to go like that he turned back to his pumpkin.
Rory was willing to let it lie. He wasn't there to pry the secrets from their souls.
Instead, he focused his attention on the tray of baked delicacies slid to just underneath his nose. The scent was mouth-watering, carried up by the steam gently rising from them; Rory teased one off the edge of the tray, trying to not hold on to the scone for too long in a single place, for it was still quite hot. Juggling it with some experience he got it up to his face and took a bite out of it, inhaling through his teeth to try and cool it off a little.
And. It was. Divine.
He closed his eyes and made the most appreciative, undignified noise, savoring every moment of the bite. Ugh, it had been far too long since he'd had baked sweets of any sort; most of the time they couldn't justify using their flour for such whimsical things.
"They're amazing," he said, resurfacing from his moment of bliss; opening his eyes to watch Amalia try to bait Deimos into trying one.
