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                Warwick sits at the counter at three in the morning waiting for Wolf to get home.
                Warwick touches the bowl close to him, three times, the tips of his fingers fluttering over the rim. He feels comfortable in his obsessive disorder - tapping the spoon handle on the tip twice, before spinning it and placing the lid firmly back on. With five flicks of his wrist he wipes the left over sugar crystals off of the counter, rubs the pad of his thumb finger on his right index finger, and sighs.
                This new habit he's developed – it’s odd, and it feels too new. Warwick’s not used to his own habits - two enveloped in other people to have his own - but this one is his. Only his. No one else waits up for Wolf. No one else cares.
                Train's breath rattles out of his chest in a snore - muffled by dirty pillows. Warwick pauses in his spinning of his coffee cup to glance at the sleeping man.

                Well, alright - he wasn't the only one. But he stayed awake. That was the point. Warwick tucks his pant leg under his toes and grabs the hem of it with them.
                Train beats in his mind as a blue calm - smoky, swirling in sleep and dreams of black and silver. Warwick watches as the colors move - reaching out with his mind and touches the edge of Train's massive, barley contained aura. It reaches back out, sluggish - returning the push. Warwick could, if he wants to, pull at that aura and jerk the other man awake. He could wrap it around him and squeeze, pulling it tight and drowning Train in sleep. He could rip it away; cut a hole out from the middle of bottom or top - change who Train is without Train even knowing.
                Warwick feels comfort - sleep - good dreams. He wrinkles his nose and pulls away - but not without touching Trains aura two more times for good measure.
                He feels Wolf before the blond is a mile from him. His senses - at least with his personal pendants - are strong and true and better than any Restraints Morgan could ever make. Warwick can feel Wolf in waves - exhaustion tired hungry man I'm hungry so close to home - soft beats of his heart and the heat of his skin. For a moment, with some concentration, Warwick feels the Monty's wheel in his own hands, feels the tickling sensation of fire in his chest, and the wonderfully soft feathers strands of hair that tap on his lashes.
                He pulls back with a breath. The air in the living room is suddenly still -
                "Wick?" Train mumbles, sitting up. His hair is sticking up in odd angles, inky black - eyes glittering gold in the night. "What-wha'tim 'ze it?"
                Warwick translated the words and taps the clock twice. "3:14:49."
                Train ‘hum’s, electric green annoyed - radiating it. Warwick watches it move out from Train and get stuck to the sofa – settling in. Train has always had this ability to stick around - on furniture - for longer than he was actually in the apartment. Erratic, deco colors that sting the eye. Warwick scrunches his nose at the thought.
                "Wer'z Wolf?"
                "By the mini-mart." Warwick slips off the stool and moves around into the kitchen. He starts making tea before Train asks for it. Warwick knows Train likes coffee, but they've had this fight too many times for words to be effective. Train radiates an annoyed yellow - Warwick raises his eyebrow and jabs a strong blue back at him. Train coughs, chest tight, and Warwick lets himself smile.
                It isn't noisy in his head at three in the morning. All silent minds and numb emotions – it’s lovely to be able to think. Train is chaotic static, his own ability humming to life - waking itself.
                Train's ability is a cat - a lion. It shakes is mane and stretches out - uncurling and waking. It hardly ever roars, but when the huge cat does, the foundation shakes.
                Warwick wonders who's thought that was. He hears Train stretch - bones popping in the other room - and knows it wasn't his. He would be surprise at himself for a thought like that.
                - pendent hits against chest, tapping. Warm leather creaking at elbows and thick boots protecting feet from snow. Harsh winds bite at the nose and face and ears, blown away by a huff of breath. Long mission this time, exhausted mentally exhausted -
                "Wolf's home." Warwick says over the noise of someone else. Train -
                - stand up in a rush of clothing, warm. The air smells like crappy tea leaves and old linins, cold night air God it's early -
                - Warwick shakes his head, his fingers traveling to his mouth to gnaw on a cuticle. The sharp pain keeps him in his head. Keeps it clear.
                Warwick feels himself open the door more than he hears it. "Yo - what are you two doing up?"
                A smile pulls at his face - comfortable. Train snorts and says something along the lines of 'waiting for you', but a lot more macho and a lot less pleading. Wolf laughs, kicking off his boots and hanging his jacket.
                If Train's a lion, the Wolf is a....well. A huge, red wolf - constantly burning and hot and aflame. Passion and warmth and home all at once.
                He feels them kiss. He doesn’t see it - and he knows they think he doesn’t know - but he feels their energies warm and mingle, suddenly intimate. Washing out all other colors and becoming complete. It's more of a feeling then color - love, or passion at least, washes of everything, a clean addiction to something. It feels tight in his chest and warm near his fingertips.
                Warwick is only slightly jealous the he, himself cannot kiss Wolf. But, whit this, he's close enough.

For Alana. and Lisa, kinda.....