Angela
It was two weeks past her attack; the aches and pains were starting to slowly shift from excruciating down into only a little nauseating; getting up and down to use the bathroom still needed assistance from the good preacher, and cooking was absolutely out of the question. 

She spent most of her days and nights in bed, and she forced Abel to visit the library often to get her books to voraciously read. These days, it was likely she'd read most of the books in the library that pertained to fantasy and fiction— she ate the stories up eagerly. 

Night had fallen, and Abel had retired to bed an hour ago. It had been a long day; she was tired but she couldn't sleep, not for the pains that riddled her body. Thankfully, it seemed she was on the road to recovery— every day got a little bit better, a little bit easier. 

The window was cracked open that night; though it was a cold January night, Dimitra felt stifled and hot in her bed. She tugged at her clothes a little, desperate to find some sort of relief. A groan escaped her lips and she twisted to light the candle by her bedside in hopes to squint into the darkness and catch a few words of the book she was working through. Something about a dragon and a town— better than Abel's suggestion of *The Bible*... Which she'd read through three times now.
Marianne
To have liquor back in his toolbox was a freeing thing for Rhett. Moonshine was a salve for the festering wound of his empathetic heart in a town so full of pain. Sometimes the alcohol amplified the hurting, so much that he would hook an arm around a sufferer in the speakeasy, and listen to them talk for hours between sips. Sometimes the pain dulled down, so much that Rhett could dance and holler and sing on the pallet stage until the early hours of the morning, his voice hoarse the next day. 

So far, in dealing with his troubles over the rift that had opened between he and Alma, no amount of moonshine he poured into that void could fill it up. That hadn't stopped him from trying again and again and again since their fight. Hank told him to quit it, obviously alarmed at Rhett's sudden and hearty return to the bottle. When Rhett didn't feel like withstanding Hank's finger wagging he fled to Dimitra instead. She had a habit of encouraging his freer forms of self expression. All he needed was permission for self destruction, and as long as he disguised his self destruction as a search for a good time, Dimitra might sign off. 

Of course she'd been far less available to coach him in his bad decisions as of late, what with her near death experience. He brought her and Abel food from his aunts' kitchen regularly and spent time visiting when he could, plucking amateurishly at an old guitar the preacher kept around in attempts to entertain the patient. He was worried about her, but as was his instinct, he leeched her eternal good and peevish mood and presented it as his own when he was around her. 

Tonight, already having imbibed a few sips from the shine jar he carried, he made his way to Abel's, hoping that Dimitra was still awake and up for talkin' shit. He was happy to find her bedroom window open, which negated the anxiety he'd worked up over having to knock on the preacher's door at such a late hour. The snow crunched under his boots as he approached.

"Yoo-hoo!" Rhett called softly, cranking the window open enough for his face to fit through the opening. Soon after, he thrust in the shine jar. 
"I brought you somethin'. Kin I come in? Are ya decent?" His face was flushed from his buzz, and from his brisk walk in the cold.
_ _
Angela
The snapping of twigs and leaves underfoot by the window did make her heart leap a bit, before she saw the face of Rhett Sterling pop in. Her heart warmed, as it did for all her friends, and she sat up a little more in anticipation. It wasn't like him to turn up this late, not lately at least, and she was interested already as he thrust out a jar of shine as an offering like a man at a temple. "I'm as decent as I can be, sweetheart," She fluttered her lashes playfully, always the flirt even when she was in pain and injured. It was in her nature, and she knew that Rhett understood that about her. She was grateful for a friend like him; they fed off each other's bad behavior at times, and he never expected much of her. Her playful flirting and affectionate touches never held much bearing in him and she adored that; she knew where his heart lay and she just liked to be a playful nymph, whispering in his ear, egging him on when he needed that extra shove. 

As Rhett climbed in her window, she shuffled herself to the side and made room for him beside her on the bed, fingers outstretched to take the jar of shine. 

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" She asked curiously. "Not everyday that a handsome young man steals away into my quarters," Dimitra snickered to herself and peeked at him from the corner of her eyes. "And you've already had a few tonight, haven't you?" Dimitra flashed a grin and shook her head. "How'd you find your way here in the dark without tripping over your big feet?"
Marianne
Rhett laughed as he climbed inside the room to follow the moonshine, comforted that Dimitra retained her flirtatious nature in light of her numbered injuries. Clumsily, he landed beside her, puffing out a dramatic breath and leaning his head back against the wall 
"Abel asleep yet? Don't wanna wake 'im." He muttered, slightly winded as he shuffled the covers of the bed beneath himself to ensure he wasn't accidentally sitting on any of Dimitra's body parts. Last thing she needed was a stitch opened up from his clumsiness. He turned to watch her while she spoke, holding off answering her questions just to take in the state of her. She looked well, all things considered. 

"I tripped plenty, but I appreciate your confidence." Rhett told her, grinning unabashedly at her compliment of *Handsome* As he took the jar of moonshine and stole an eyewatering swig. He kept the lid off should Dimitra want a sip.
"I had a couple drinks... A couple hours ago. I think." He told her, his lie immediately cracking his face into a smile. The boy couldn't fib to save his life, even about something so small. 

"I just. You know. Wanted ta check on ya. See if your hair was still curly," He reached out to twist a strand of her hair around his finger, making a face as though he were inspecting the quality, "Seems to be. That's a relief." He idly tucked it behind her ear and took another small sip from the jar, coughing nervously. He was here to talk about Alma, of course— here to get Dimitra's thoughts on the fight. He felt too self-serving to bring it up immediately upon entering, but the topic occupied such a great expanse of his mind that he was having trouble making an excuse for his visit in the meanwhile. 

"You're doin' alright then? Healin'-wise? The preacher takin' good care of ya?"
Angela
She took a sip as soon as the jar was opened; it was strong enough to make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end, but Dimitra drank it with ease. She handed it back and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, whipping her curls back and forth afterward in demonstration of her refusal to lose those signature curls he was talking about. 

"Abel's been asleep about an hour," She said, shifting so her arm slipped through his. It was easy to fall into something that sort of reminded her of her friends from back home; Rhett was very easy to get along with and very easy to talk to. 

"You're a terrible liar on all accounts, drunk bastard," She laughed quietly and prodded at his alcohol-flushed cheeks as demonstration. "And I'll also point out that I know you didn't come to just have a little chat about how I'm doing, because that could've waited til the sun was shining." 

But she would humor him anyhow. "The preacher is taking very good care of me, even if he's not taking care of me in the way I'd like," She said, raising her eyebrows a few times. "He's so gentlemanly about it all, too. It's sweet, if not a little maddening." She wanted to grab that man and shake him around, but alas... 

"But on the healing front, I'm feeling slowly better. I've been walking around the house and all— been thinking about making a break for it, taking a walk into town the next time he's got to leave to check on the church." Dimitra flashed Rhett a mischievous grin and squeezed his arm. "Can I count on you to keep quiet about that?" She asked, more rhetorical than anything. "Now..." 

Dimitra winced as she shifted to face him more. "Do you want to spill why you really came?" She asked, fingers making their way upward to twist his hair around her fingers. "You're drunk as a skunk and crawling in my window in the middle of the night, so it can't be good. What's the matter?" She asked, hooking her chin on his shoulder.
Marianne
Rhett whistled, low and quiet to express his mock scandal. 
"Here you are, tucked inta your death bed, and you're mad at this man fer not takin' ya inta his own." His brows were raised, a smile stifled at his lips. 
"I see yer point, though. He's gonna miss ya when you're back at your place again." He nodded knowingly, squeezing her arm gently against himself as she scooted closer. 

"I ain't drunk, by the way." He half-assedly defended himself as she poked at him, a dimple creasing his cheek, "I'm buzzed, that's all. I *Am* A liar, though. So." A sigh. He closed his eyes, smiling feebly to hear of her progress. 

"Your secret's safe with me. But I gotta say I disapprove. You gotta stay put, 'specially in this weather. We need ya back on the dance floor." Rhett opened his eyes again as he felt his friend shift, and he faced her as she faced him. He tilted his cheek to her touch as she reached for his hair, like a flower aiming its center at the sun. His eyes fluttered closed again like he couldn't watch her reaction to what he was about to say. 

"It's just Alma. We had a fight. It was big. 'N just after things were goin' so well." It was becoming clear that Rhett would need Dimitra to wrench the details from him. In his combination of drunk and bashful, he had taken on a stubbornly reticent approach to sensitive conversation. Maybe she could just keep playing with his hair and they wouldn't have to talk. Touch was healing on its own, but Rhett could unfortunately identify a sinking truth within himself that words would help just as much. 
_ _
Angela
She refrained from making a joke about how Abel could very well crawl into her bed instead of her into his, but there were more pressing matters to attend than proceeding to make sexual innuendos about the man who had taken her in. Was she terrible? Ah, well. 

The meat of it; Alma was mad at him, and of course Rhett was in pieces about it. It was also clear that the full truth of it would need to be dragged out of him— she tugged a strand of his hair before she continued to curl it around her fingers. "Well, go on. You not wanting to tell me makes me think that you're the one who was in the wrong." 

Dimitra heaved a sigh and like a mother and her wild son, she brought Rhett's head down to rest on her shoulder for a moment. Rhett was as harmless as a fly; she couldn't imagine he'd ever want to hurt Alma or anything like that on purpose. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good if it was a *Big* Fight. "Can't help you if you're not telling me what's wrong..." She drawled, letting her head drop back on the pillow and her eyes closed a moment. "It's also for the best that you try and resolve it as soon as possible," She said softly. "Or else, hurt feelings only get worse." She would know.
Marianne
Far too easily did Rhett revert to a simple, animalistic state in his inebriation. Like a small, warm, touch-starved creature, he closed his eyes to Dimitra's curling of his hair, and when she guided his head to rest on her shoulder, he sank into the slump, pressing his cold nose to her neck. He allowed himself a few breaths in this configuration before reluctantly straightening again. 

"You're right. 'Course you are." He sniffed, subdued, "I am the one who did the wrong. I mean. I know I am." He was getting ahead of himself. Settling in for the story, he pinched a bit of the bedspread between his fingers and fiddled with it as he spoke. 

"It started at the Davis house. The ruins we been fixin' up, workin' on the cage project there. Alma brought everyone together. Told all the volunteers her paw was a monster. I'm sure you heard by now. Folks was upset. Alma wanted ta march straight over ta his office 'n put a bullet in his head, then 'n there. But folks didn't wanna be killers, you know? 'N they came up with all sorts a reasons not ta end him. Like: he could tell us who the other wolves are. 'N he could tell us about why this is all happenin'. 'N– I jus' don't know. At the start I knew she was right. I knew Mayor Cooper needed ta die if he was a wolf. But. The more other folks spoke up, the more it seemed like he didn't. That there were other ways." His voice grew dry from talking, and he got quiet for a second to rest it, deciding soon thereafter that he needed a sip from the jar he held, still unlidded. His whistle whet, he went on. 
_ _

"'N I thought that Alma would see it too. Folks were makin' real good points. I thought maybe she'd change her mind. We all voted on what we wanted to do, and I voted not ta kill him right away. Ask 'im some questions. But I was wrong about Alma, 'n how she'd feel. She ran out, all upset. I ran after her." His fidgeting with the blanket intensified, "I didn't know what she wanted ta hear. I realized it was wrong a me ta go against her. She's always right, you know? She's always so... What's the word?" The word was *Righteous.* Just. "She wants to keep folks safe. Protect people. I shouldn't'a voted with the other folks. I knew I shoulda stayed on her side but. I didn't wanna be a killer either, then." Truth be told, Rhett still agreed with the people who wanted to imprison Mayor Cooper, and was happy they'd gotten what they wanted. He'd forced himself to align with Alma because his loyalty to her had taken precedent over his own moral code in recent months. He was blinded by his desire to be loved by her. 

"She got real angry, though, Dimitra. When I told her I could change my vote. That I'd been... That I'd been scared. Scared a killin' her paw. She didn't like when I said I'd change my vote, 'n she sure as hell didn't like when I said I was scared. Said she didn't wanna talk to me til I was done bein' scared. Or until she was done bein' angry." He swallowed thickly, his heart rate rising as he recalled the argument, "'N I don't know how ta tell if I'm done bein' scared. I already told her I'm on her side, but she didn't like that somehow. Said I was 'flipfloppin'. 'N I don't wanna make her talk to me if she ain't done bein' angry." He sighed, "I jus' feel like I wrecked it all. I miss her. I wanna go back and have this all never happen." 
_ _

His tone took on a whining quality near the end of his speech, though it was still overall soft and repentant. It hadn't occurred to Rhett that one of the reasons Alma was mad at him was due to his method of remedying the situation. His flip flopping could only be read as an insincere attempt to win back her favor, while the trust was what had broken. 
_ _
Angela
As much as Dimitra loved to yammer on, she was also a good listener. She let Rhett get it all out, her fingers idly brushing through the hair at the nape of his neck, like he was a dog that needed to be soothed during a thunderstorm. She supposed it wasn't entirely wrong, with the way he curled into affection and seemed to whimper at conflict, but Rhett Sterling wasn't just some dog. He was a good man, and clearly, he hadn't intended to hurt Alma. 

"First off," She said, as Rhett's story drew to a close. "You haven't done anything wrong," Dimitra said, sitting up a little more. "And I think Alma knows that, too, but she's angry. You're allowed to be scared, Rhett— everybody is scared. You're allowed to disagree with her too, even if she disagrees with that. This isn't an easy decision to make." 

Dimitra was sympathetic to both plights. She understood the frustration and agony of Alma's situation, but the fear and the unknown of Rhett's. "Alma is... Complicated. You've known this from the start," She said softly. "Especially now." 

God knows, she'd had her own run-in with Alma; not with her anger, but with her uncertainty and fear. Dimitra hadn't taken it poorly, at least; Alma fleeing her house after they'd shared an... *Intimate* Exchange was a little bruising to the soul but understandable. Alma's emotions ran high, that was for certain. 

"She's upset because you doubled back immediately to make her happy. She probably would've been a little mad if you'd held your ground, but at least you would've been fighting for something." Dimitra explained. "It's not going to be an easy fix, I'll admit." 

She sat up a little more and winced, twisting to look at him seriously. "I think you need to catch her alone. Sit her down, explain yourself thoroughly and don't try and... You know, soften yourself to try and be easy. You say— you know, apologize for hurting her, but tell her your stance is what you believed and you stand by that."

Dimitra understood what it was like to be a strong-willed woman. God knows, she would feel the same way if a man decided to change his mind on something so big, just because it would please her. She'd be angry; it would feel like he didn't really care. 

"You're a sweet man, Rhett. You don't mean any harm; it's not in you," Dimitra said as she touched his cheek kindly. "Alma is scared. She needs you more than ever, but not to just blindly agree. It's okay to disagree, because I think she needs that right now. Someone to balance her out. If you think it's better to keep him for information, then say that. She's anxious, she's frightened, and she wants to pull a trigger willy-nilly because she thinks it's the right thing to do." 

Admittedly, Dimitra felt she would do the same as Alma— but she knew that, in her heart, getting the information first would be the *Smartest* Move. "Do something that makes her see you care about what she cares about, even if you don't always agree on the means. Does that make sense, sweetheart?"
Marianne
Oh, but Rhett Sterling *Was* Just some dog. He was *Nothing* If not a dog: begging at the door of anyone with a kind face and a soft heart for strays. Let him in, feed him scraps, and he was loyal forever. He could sit, shake, speak, beg, heel. Just ask. Just show him love, and he'll do anything. If he'd had a tail, it'd be wagging at Dimitra's touch. 

*You haven't done anything wrong,* She told him and his brow creased. As much as he wanted to believe her and be the man she saw him as in that moment, he knew he couldn't be. He must have done something wrong. He *Must* Have. Still, sitting with his discomfort, he listened. He wished he could take notes. 

As Dimitra sat up, he rose with her, adjusting his position beside her so as not to put pressure on any of her injured parts, which was difficult. She did have quite a few injured parts. She looked at him squarely and he tried to focus back on her, but his head was spinning with all she'd said so far. *At least you would've been fighting for something.* *Don't try to soften yourself.* *Don't blindly agree.*

Was that all what he was doing? Softening himself, and blindly agreeing? Placing himself back on the path outside the ruins, he recalled the argument. Immediately upon breaking free of the debate crowd, he'd remembered why he'd been on Alma's side, refreshed by her passion as she spun to face him. But, the crowd– he could remember that too. Fear and judgment and attempts at reason had swirled and gnashed in tones too painfully discordant. Rhett had thought he could make the dissonance dissolve by agreeing with it, only to be met by Alma's own barrage of frenzied music minutes later. Dimitra's advice seemed to guide him away from his instinct of fleeing chaos entirely, and instead encouraged him to harmonize with it. It was true that he couldn't run from loud places forever, clinging to the first person who offered a quiet sanctuary. He needed to find the sanctuary of quiet inside himself. 
_ _

None of this would occur to the Sterling boy tonight, for Dimitra was the sanctuary of quiet he'd sought, and he intended to fill the resonant chambers of his heart with her calm reasoning until he was soundless and ready for the world again. This process included feverishly agreeing with her advice, even though his drunken mind was still processing it. He sighed a cleansing sigh. 

"Yes, ma'am." Rhett nodded, closing his eyes and slouching down against the pillow so his face was aimed at the crook of Dimitra's neck. Her advice was spinning behind his eyelids like the flashes of bicycle spokes. 

"I *Do* Care what she cares about. I– I guess I thought that was how ta show her. She'll be so mad if after all this time that's gone by since we argued... If all I got ta say is that I'm glad for what's happened. Glad her paw's not dead." He briefly revived himself to sit up straight for more moonshine. His thoughts were getting that knotted sober feeling. He couldn't have that. He took a too-big gulp and coughed a bit, setting the jar on the nightstand. 
"I'on't like *Fighting.*" He winced, "Why do I gotta *Fight* For somethin' when I could–" *There.* There it was! He caught himself in the thought: *When I could just go along with the right idea.* Here, it became clear why a fight was a necessary thing, at least some of the time. It became clear how Alma would have valued a demonstration of conviction, even if it was in opposition to her own. 

"She... Thought I was bein' spineless." He admitted, his eyes glazing over at the wall opposite the bed, "I... *Was* Bein' spineless." Looking back at Dimitra, there was panic in his eyes as the moonshine worked to dismantle the clarity he'd just resolved. 

"You really think she could forgive me if I... If I told her I stood by what I said?" His tail was between his legs. Here was the dog, come back with mud on his paws. *Will you still let me in?* 
_ _
Angela
She let the man beside her work through everything. She could see the way his eyebrows knit together, the twist of his lips, the clenching of his jaw as he tried to make sense of it all in his moonshine-soaked brain. "See? Pretty *And* Smart. You're a whole damn package, Rhett Sterling," She told him, idly brushing some hair off his forehead in a moment of minute affection. 

"I think Alma's probably been waiting to have this conversation since you two fought," She admitted, taking the moonshine jar away from him... If only to have a sip of her own. And by sip, she took a gulp, feeling it warm her from the inside out. "Alma cares for you, lover or friend," She reminded him. "She might have Charlie, but you're family too. Now, it must seem like you're some of the only family she's got left." 

She couldn't imagine how betrayed Alma had to feel— her father, a werewolf. Could her mother have known? She figured it had to be tense, if she was living with the Sterlings all this time. That alone meant she trusted them innately; of course Alma had been hurt and upset with Rhett. One of the people she trusted most had come across as a spineless boy who only served to nod his head and say yes to whatever she said just to placate her— and maybe some of that had a glimmer of truth, but Rhett Sterling wasn't a bad person. He was a good boy, with a good heart, and Dimitra was a sympathetic bystander behind a glass wall. 

"I think she would be more than happy to forgive you if you sit down and talk about this," She told him, letting the man settle back down and tuck in closer to her. "Because at the end of the day... You both want the same thing," She said, fingers back at their task of making little curls in Rhett's hair. "To keep this town safe. To protect people." 

Dimitra could feel her body getting tired, and she yawned a little. "And when you finally kiss and make up, I want to know every little detail, of course."
Marianne
Rhett let himself linger over Dimitra's compliment of *Pretty* For too long as he put off processing the more serious words that followed. He'd have to ask her more about that later. In his drunken state, the topic shuffled from his mind the second she swept his hair back from his face. He closed his eyes to the touch. 

"You're always so sure a what you're talkin' about. How'd you git so smart, huh?" He repaid her a compliment of sorts in exchange for the one she'd awarded. He was sure Dimitra was right, that Alma would be receptive to conversation. Alma was so patient. So understanding. He thought of her gentle hands hovering near his, both of them poised at the typewriter in the kitchen of the shack. She'd spent so much time pointing to the different keys, helping him spell out words he'd only ever spoken when they were writing letters to send for supplies from the city. 

He supposed that was all part of the shock of their recent fight: how those gentle lamplit nights looked, superimposed over the violent passion of the scene at the Ruins. This trial was just another way of knowing Alma. It was another opportunity to learn how to love her better. 

Rhett's eyes only opened again at the sound of his friend's yawn. Although he didn't want to remove himself from the warmth of her company, or from the diligence of her hands in his hair, she was a convalescing woman. She needed her peace. He gave a last giggle at her semi-crass suggestion before he sat up and swung his feet down to the floor, careful not to snag his boots on the bedspread. 

_ _

"Don't worry. If Alma lets me near her again, you'll know it. I'll be runnin' down Main Street throwin' rose petals in the air." He smiled, tired. He got to his feet with a slight stumble and stretched, unfolding his long limbs with a soft grunt. Turning to Dimitra, he leaned down again to press a warm kiss to her cheek. 

"I'll leave you be. Too much excitement is bad for your stitches." He muttered, smile still in place. 
"Don't let the preacher catch you with that moonshine, now," Rhett warned, taking one last healthy gulp before capping the jar and nestling it onto her bedside table, "That's for emergency purposes only, you hear?" He took a few clumsy backwards steps to the window, his parting words coloring his brown eyes warm.

"Thank you, Dimitra. Sleep tight, now." With that, Rhett turned and crept back out the way he'd come. Dimitra would be able to hear the muffled crashing of flora underfoot, and the quiet cursing that followed, as Rhett stumbled off into the night. 
_ _