To Be More (Slate/Gray Book #2)

One month ago, Jackson Territory…

“No,” Alpha Jackson growls. “We’ll tell them however much I want to tell them.”

“But wouldn’t they be more effective--”

“Something you should know,” Alpha Jackson says slowly, trying not to let her make him lose his temper like Silas so often had, “is that this pack prospers on the wealth and power that I fuel into it. I know how to run this pack, I know how we can reach the best possible position in the nation. Therefore, all my men will just have to trust me.”

Sylvia sighs. “So these men are to go about spreading rumors about a ‘healing wolf’? That’s all they’re supposed to pass on?”

“Well,” Alpha Jackson defends. “We don’t know how much the rumor will get distorted before it reaches the outer corners. If what we spread is specific and concise, it will get passed on much more effectively, to borrow your word.”

“And this can’t be done electronically?”

“Electronics can be hacked,” Alpha Jackson reminds her with irritation. She is testing his patience. If she doesn’t just give in and--

“Okay. I’ll book some flights.”

Alpha Jackson smiles. She’s learning.

Present day, Atwood Territory...

Gray spends a few days being mostly quiet and contemplative following her run with Slate. It was...not disastrous, but it went so far from what she planned. She mostly just hates that he’d been right. She wasn’t wrong to want to help him and she still wouldn’t use the word “use” to refer to what she’d been trying to do for Slate, but he did act as a bit of a barrier between her and her own trauma. With something else to focus on, she could pretend she was fine, but with nothing to distract her, she’s going to have to face a lot of things she’d rather leave in a bloody doctor’s office from three years ago.

Which brings her to the present.

Alexander looks at her with a little crease between his brows when she comes through the front door abruptly until she sits at their breakfast table and announces, “I think it’s time for me to get a job.”

Then the crease goes away from Alexander’s browline and his eyebrows shoot up instead. “Uh...are you sure? Because you know you don’t have to if you’re not ready, right?”

Aria watches them curiously, leaning against the counter in the kitchen. Gray nods firmly despite the butterflies in her stomach and says, “Yes. But I’m ready. It’s time. I’m not a wolf anymore, I’m a werewolf, and it’s time to prove it--and,” she has to add, “don’t tell me you don’t want to not have to get help from the pack to pay the bills.”

Alexander winces and looks ashamed for a moment, before he runs a hand down his face and sighs. When he looks back up, he looks a mixture of resigned and mildly impressed and squeezes her shoulder. “Good for you, Grace. Let me know if you need any help.” Then he hums in consideration and asks, “I can try to get you a position at the grocery store if you want?”

Gray smiles at the thought that he’d be happy to have her as a coworker, but shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. I’ll look around for a bit myself, but I reserve the right to take you up on that later if I get desperate enough.”

She winks at Aria to try to get some sort of reaction out of her, but the girl just rolls her eyes and buries her head back into the cereal cabinet. Gray’s smile fades, but tries not to let the moodiness ruin her high spirits. She needs to keep things light or else the crushing fear of the outside world will overwhelm her.

Alexander elbows her and sends through the bond, It’s not just you. Something’s up.

Gray frowns. She’s happy to hear that Aria doesn’t just randomly have something against her, but very unhappy that something’s bothering Aria at all. Have you talked to her about it? Gray asks back.

Alexander makes a face and shakes his head. Gray sighs. She’d be reluctant to go up against a moody teenager as well. Gray decides to try a new tactic. “Well, your birthday’s coming up, Aria,” she says aloud. “What do you want to do?”

Aria comes up for air with a box of Frosted Mini Wheats. She scoffs. “Why do we have these? No one likes frosted cardboard.” Alexander and Gray both wince at each other. Apparently they both like frosted cardboard, but neither of them is going to say it. “And my birthday’s next week? Huh, I hadn’t noticed,” she says flippantly with the kind of air that means she absolutely had noticed, but hadn’t wanted to be the one to bring it up.

“Do you want to get some friends together and hang out?” Alexander suggests bravely.

Aria growls and wrenches the door to the refrigerator open with altogether too much force. “I don’t have any friends, Zander.” Then she grumbles quietly, “And we’re almost out of milk.”

Gray looks to Alexander to see if he knows what she’s talking about, but he looks just as bewildered as Gray. “What do you mean you have no friends? Aria, you have Emily and Jenna and Ellen--and Sage,” he waggles his brows with a grin.

At that, the door to the fridge creaks ominously and Aria’s face when she peeks around the corner is thunderous. She makes herself let go of the fridge handle one finger at a time. She shoves the half empty jug of milk at Gray--who is very thankful the cap is still on--and storms off to her room. Over her shoulders she yells, “Like I said, I have no friends!”

Gray feels like she’d just been caught in the middle of a whirlwind. She’s sure her eyes are as wide as Alexander’s look. “Whoa,” he says.

“Whoa,” Gray agrees.

:::::

A couple hours later, wherein a very recalcitrant Aria can be heard huffing dramatically from her room periodically--though she rages at anyone who dares to ask her how she’s doing--Alexander finishes some schoolwork while Gray surfs the web for job postings on his laptop until there’s a knock on the door.

Gray smiles when she realizes who it is. Gray and Slate aren’t close enough to bond communicate and she still doesn’t have a phone, so when Slate can get a moment away from work, he drops by her usual haunts to see if she’s ready to visit Sara with him. He tries to be there every time she heals Sara now, though there have been a few days far in between that Gray has just gone by herself. She’d gotten frowny eyebrows and an irritated turn of the mouth for her troubles each time.

Alexander watches Gray curiously as she hops up to get the door, as he does most every time Slate comes by to pick her up or drop her off. She feels a pang of guilt for still not having told her siblings that Slate is her True Mate. Perhaps she should do that soon…

“Bye Alexander, bye Aria!” She calls over her shoulder. She gets a similar call of farewell from her brother and gloomy silence from her sister.

When she closes the door behind her, Slate is raising his eyebrows in the direction of Aria’s room, where she’s grumbling angrily to herself. Gray sighs and waves a hand. “She’s having a teenage tantrum. We’ll figure it out eventually.”

Slate shrugs and tilts his head back and forth as if to say, whatever you say. Then he adds, “Sage hasn’t been in the best of moods recently either, though he generally resorts to clinging and moping rather than anger.”

Gray frowns as she mulls this over. “Huh. Something must be going on in the teenage social sphere around here.”

Slate nods in agreement.

They’re quiet for a few more moments until Gray shyly admits with a mild tremor in her voice, “I’ve started looking at a few jobs.”

Slate makes an inquisitive noise and gives her a sideways look she can’t interpret. She goes on, “They’re all just somewhere in town near here. Something easy to help me...reintegrate, I guess.”

“Mmm,” Slate says. “That’s great.”

Gray smiles at him, grateful for his endorsement. It’s the little things with Slate, she’s learned. Many things phrased as statements are meant to compliment and many comments others would use as platitudes are nothing less than one-hundred percent genuine from him. “That’s great,” from Slate doesn’t mean the typical, “Okay, sure, I’m listening, good for you.” “That’s great,” from Slate means a wide smile and an effusive, “That’s wonderful, I’m so happy for you,” as would come from an average person.

Once they’ve made it to Sara’s house, Slate gives his customary two knocks of warning before opening the door for Gray to walk through first. “Hey, y’all!” Sara greets with a grin from the kitchen.

“Hey, Sara,” Gray smiles back. Somehow Sara must see on Gray’s face that her silent contemplation from the last couple days has resolved in a positive manner, because she looks relieved at the easy greeting.

“And Slater!” Sara throws up her hands in a demand for a hug. Whether or not Slate sees it, Gray is unsure, but she doesn’t miss Sara’s subtle widening of the eyes at the scars on his face. It’s not new, the scars now a month old, but Sara has known him for twenty-five years with a smooth face so Gray imagines how she must be startled sometimes, having forgotten. Either way, she recovers quickly and goes back to normal.

Slate gives no indication of noticing anything--which doesn’t mean he hasn’t--and rolls his eyes, fulfilling her wishes. Gray sometimes wonders if he always treats her like this or if he’s especially indulgent and sweet because she’s pregnant. Gray hasn’t known Sara any other way, so she has no meter to gauge with.

“Come sit, come sit,” Sara gestures to the table in the kitchen. “I just made lunch.”

Slate breathes an amused laugh. Sara glares, the two of them having some sort of conversation through facial expressions and body language. It ends with Sara pouting and Slate rolling his eyes. Gray has no idea what has happened until Sara lowers a tower of pancakes to the table. Sara has cooked Gray many many pancakes before. She suspects it’s one of maybe a total of three things she knows how to make well.

“Nobody gets to make fun of the chef--”

“Unless it’s Jason?” Gray can’t help but wryly interject.

Sara cackles back. “Of course, of course. There are always exceptions.” She amends, “Nobody gets to make fun of chefs who are not Jason if they’re serving you food out of the goodness of their hearts.”

Slate raises his hands in innocence before lifting a fork and dutifully plopping a pancake or two on the provided plate. Sara smiles smugly before tossing her hair and taking a seat in between them. She starts breathing very evenly and intentionally, which Gray notices vaguely but doesn’t concern herself with. They eat happily for a few minutes--well, Slate and Gray do--until Slate freezes with his fork halfway between his plate and his mouth. “Sara,” he says slowly, “how are you feeling today?”

Sara stares at him with confusion at the stilted tone until she realizes why he’s asking. She laughs, but it’s kind of strangled. “I have the odd sensation of being greatly amused and having the desire to make fun of you, but also guilty and concerned. But I--”

Slate flicks his fingers and rolls his eyes. “Just choose to be amused. Continue.”

Sara glares, then sighs. “These days are so confusing.” Then she winces, gingerly resting a hand on her stomach, and says in a gentle tone, as though breaking hard news to him. “I’ve actually got a bit of an upset stomach...sorry, bro.”

Gray stifles a laugh by shoving a bite of pancake in her mouth. Slate has an unfortunately lopsided reaction to nausea compared to Gray. Sure, the tummy-turning feeling lingers with Gray for a while longer than most other things, but it’s mild and only uncomfortable enough that she’ll sit or lay still for a bit while she recovers. The only real lasting effect is a loss of appetite for a while. Once Sara had discovered this, she’d demanded Gray eat her full before healing Sara so she could enjoy her meal, and that Sara could wait a few minutes until it was her turn to eat.

But Slate...well, he seems to have an especially adverse reaction to the nausea. For some reason, it hits him much harder than Gray. Sara’s right about that confusion between amusement and concern. It’s undeniably funny to see big, strong, Slate get knocked down by what should be some average stomach flu symptoms, when he can take--and has taken--a bullet to the flank with hardly a blink.

“I could just do it myself,” Gray offers for the three-dozenth time.

“No,” Slate scowls. With a voice that seems to be forcefully injected with calm, he says, “I’ll be fine.”

Sara presses her lips together to stop a smile. “Don’t worry, Slate, just eat until you’re done and then we’ll go slow.”

He works his jaw and drops his fork, mechanically standing and emptying his leftovers before bringing the plate to the sink to wash it. He sighs deeply as he goes. “You know that doesn’t help.” He grumbles under his breath, “It makes it worse.”

Sara coughs a laugh into her fist. “You know this wouldn’t be so funny if you didn’t try to be so gruff about it. So you feel a little sick now and then--everyone gets knocked down. It doesn’t mean you’re not as strong and tough as ever.”

Slate breathes evenly and rolls his shoulders to undo the tension and suddenly everything is ostensibly fine again. Gray is always somewhat put off kilter when she sees him shake off unpleasant emotions so quickly, like putting on a mask. It makes her wonder how many times he’d been uncomfortable or in pain around her and she’d continued on like nothing was wrong, none the wiser.

Slowly, making it sound completely reasonable, Slate counters, “If I’m knocked down, I can’t be there when someone needs me. I can’t protect you if I’m knocked down.”

Sara and Gray exchange sad looks then. Suddenly nothing is funny anymore.

Even knowing the futility of the act, Sara feels like she can’t just let this go without trying, “Slate, you don’t always need to be one-hundred percent.” Then she says quieter, “And you know we’re safe, Slate. Nothing bad is going to happen. We’ve gotten rid of the threats, it’s okay to calm down now.”

Slate lets Sara get through her whole speech patiently while finishing drying his utensils. When she’s done, he avoids the real point and instead insists, “It’s not about being one-hundred percent. I don’t have to be one-hundred percent to be able to do what I need to. I just need to be capable.”

And that might be the saddest part of it all.

“Slate,” Gray says softly.

When he closes the cupboard on the now clean plate, he turns to Gray with an eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

Gray inhales, about to say something, but changes courses at the last moment and lets the conversation drop. “Let’s go to the couch. I’m ready if you are.”

Slate nods and leads the way to the living room. Sara squeezes Gray’s shoulder in thanks. It’s obvious she didn’t want to make a big production of things, she just...they all just want to help.

And he’s so hard to help.

:::::

The three of them settle comfortably on the couch. This time Slate chooses to draw some of Gray’s hair away from her neck and settle a palm on the skin of the back of her neck rather than taking her hand, movements as purposefully slow as ever so she has time to resist if she wants to. She shoots him a small smile before taking Sara’s hand. Gray looks between them, having sat in the middle, and asks them both, “Ready?”

Slate nods and Sara affirms, “Yep, ready when you are.”

Then slowly, painfully slowly, the nausea starts to settle deep in Slate’s stomach. His mouth salivates uncomfortably, but he makes sure to breathe deeply and regularly. If he’s being honest, Slate would probably rather they do it fast, all in one go and he can throw up and be done with it, but that would also force Gray to feel the same effects. Though he doesn’t think it would actually make her throw up, not with Slate taking half the burden, but still, this is her thing. He’s just here to share it with her so she’s not alone.

Slate closes his eyes and listens idly to the easy conversation Sara and Gray hold, catching up like they hadn’t been in the exact same position last night. Between four and five months is when Sara had miscarried her firstborn, so Gray is being extra vigilant. Since she cleared her first trimester, Sara’s morning sickness has faded some, but Slate is amazed at how much pain her body still retains. His back aches with no small amount of intensity right now, even sharing it with Gray. It makes him hurt for his mother, who dealt with the same thing all by herself. She was a pillar. He tries to be the same.

Absently, he hears Gray talking about using her brother’s laptop to job search and Sara teases her about being a “tech grandma” having been completely unaware of all the advancements made in the last three years. Slate’s mind starts to turn, a welcome distraction from the rolling discomfort in his stomach.

Hey Asher, are you going into town this week?

Immediately Slate gets an image of what Asher’s doing at the moment: making grilled cheese for Sage and Raven. Slate smiles in exasperation and fondness, but sends back a scene of him and the two girls in Sara’s living room. A visionary exchange of current events has become a customary greeting for the two of them.

Greeting ritual satisfied, Asher’s curious in response to Slate’s question. Not necessarily. The house probably needs a few groceries in the next couple days though.

Slate hums. Could you stop by the tech store while you’re there?

Uh, sure. Yeah, we can make a trip of it. What do you need at the store?

Slate half smiles at Asher. I’ve been meaning to get a new laptop. And upgrade my phone.

Asher frowns. No you haven’t. You’re up to something, he says certainly. What are you up to and whose body do I need to hide?

Slate snorts across the bond. No body. I just need a new phone and laptop. Get cheap ones though, I don’t need anything fancy.

Okay sure, pfft, don’t tell me, whatever, I don’t care.

Slate thinks Asher doth protest too much.