1) Updates will be sporadic. Chapter lengths may vary (some may near 5k words, some may be drabble-length [but I will never write anything that doesn't add to the story, I cannot express to you how very, genuinely much I hate giving readers filler, so I just don't, hence the varying chapter lengths and sporadic updates]).
2) As mentioned in the summary, this is a Canon-Divergent AU; what canon elements [characters, character deaths, major canon story-arcs, species-particular Fae mythos, etc.] do, or do not, carry over will become obvious as the story goes along. While line-breaks denote a change of scene (obviously), I also use them to denote a change in perspective within the same scene where the telling of the story calls for it (narrations is in 3rd person PoV, but will slant to favor a particular character within a scene).
*Rudaí Caillte agus Bunaigh (Irish-Gaelic) Loosely Translated [for the sake of the fic's intended title]: Of Things Lost and Found. Literal Translation: Lost and Found Things (as verified by GaeilgeRua).
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Lost Girl, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit, in any form, from this story.
A Wolf and His Kitten
She reminded him of a kitten. Small and fierce . . . with a disproportionate penchant for cuddling. He'd considered making that her nickname once or twice, had even nearly slipped and called her that a few times. The idea that it could be taken the wrong way—Kitten was one of those monikers that did lend itself to some sort of sexual connotation—had always helped him to not say it just as the word was about to fall from his lips.
Yet, now, as Dyson awoke to find Kenzi curled up in his lap with her head tucked beneath the crook of his neck, he could only think of how spot-on a comparison it was. The similarities would explain why her street-name had been Meow Meow. He was surprised the connection hadn't occurred to him sooner, now that he thought on it.
His brow furrowing as he tried not to chuckle at his predicament—startling her awake was a bad idea, something she'd picked up from Bo, or from living on the streets, he wasn't sure which—he looked around. Last he recalled, she'd dozed off on his sofa as he looked over the crime scene photos from last week's homicide case.
He must've nodded off not long afterward; the folder had dropped from his hand, its contents spilled out across the floor beside his chair. Dyson held in a sigh as he shook his head.
"Kenzi?" he tried in a whisper. When she didn't so much as stir, he said her name, again.
"Hmm?" was all she managed in a sleepy tumble of sound.
"Why are you on me?"
She shifted against him, stretching before settling back down. "Sorry. You're comfier than your sofa."
It seemed, just like that, she was falling back to sleep—if she'd even been awake just now, at all.
Frowning at his predicament, and pretty sure not a single person they knew would forgive him if he simply tossed her off him, he reached out his arm. Tilting, while trying not to jostle the little slumbering human, he tried to get his fingers on the closest of the photographs.
Unable to quite make it, he sat back and let out a huffing breath. Kenzi shifted again, trying to right herself on his lap.
Dyson slipped his arms beneath her, cradling her to him as he prepared to stand. She gave him shit for his uncomfortable sofa, he'd just turn and plant her on the chair in his place.
Making some small noise in her sleep, she buried her face in the side of his neck. She moved again, seemingly to get more comfortable. That was when it happened.
Her teeth scraped against the pulse below his ear.
And he froze. He knew she hadn't meant to do that—that she wasn't even aware she'd done it—just as she wasn't aware that the simple, accidental nip made him suddenly, painfully cognizant of his own breathing. Made him too conscious of the weight and warmth of her in his arms. And the tickle of her exhalations whispering across his skin only made everything more . . . acute.
Well, that was unsettling. As was the instant, unbidden picture flashing through his mind of throwing her down on the floor and tearing off her clothes.
Holding in a growl, he forced himself to sink back into the chair. He knew what that was. That little scrape from her teeth brought his feral side screaming to the surface.
The wolf in him didn't care that she was human, or even that this was Kenzi, for pity's sake. It recognized her as a warm female who liked to use her teeth . . . and he knew that was pretty much where his wolf's coherent thinking ended, everything beyond that was a haze of sweat-slicked skin and tangled limbs.
Well, to hell with that! He'd just relax, go back to sleep, and let this momentary lapse in judgment pass.
Nodding to himself, he settled her down against him as she'd been before—angry for a moment as he felt the need to steel himself from his wolfish side trying to make something out of that—and draped his arms over her. Closing his eyes, he rested his head back against the chair, willing himself to fall asleep.
"Some of what I smell better be for me."
Well, of course she expected him to wake up at some point. She simply . . . wasn't expecting that point to be when she was pouring coffee. Still kinda half asleep, the suddenness of his voice cutting through the apartment nearly made Kenzi jump out of her skin, only just barely missing spilling the hot, too-precious-to-waste liquid all over herself.
Gah! How rude did he think she was? Of course if she was making coffee and slapping together some form of—okay, not early morning, because it was probably, like, one in the afternoon by now, but some form of post-sleep—nourishment using the stuff in his fridge and cupboards, why wouldn't she make enough for him, too?
Rolling her eyes, she shouted back. "Of course I did. Jeez, dude. Loud much first thing in the morning?" Oh, wait . . . .
Appearing in the kitchen entryway, he winced as he rubbed at the back of his neck. She guessed his chair wasn't much comfier than his sofa, after all. "It's not morning, Kenz."
With a tightlipped smile, she held a mug out to him. "So I'm a little semantically challenged when I first wake up."
Snickering, the wolf-shifter shook his head as he accepted the cup.
As Kenzi watched him take a long sip, she felt incredibly awkward for a moment. When she'd woken up and was about to climb off him—moving carefully, because no one wants to accidentally jolt awake a sleeping wolfman—she couldn't help but notice he'd been in a, um, happy state.
She tried not to make a thing of it. Although, she hated that she did wonder for a sec, there, if that was why she'd felt so comfortable. Might've even been a few seconds of being reluctant to get up. But no, no. It had been a while since she'd gotten any, and it had been a pleasant feeling to wake up to, but she knew it wasn't anything to do with her. Getting morning wood was just a thing that guys had to put up with, and she guessed Fae guys who just so happened to be part wolf weren't any different.
Kenzi thought he must've felt her staring at him, because he met her gaze over the rim of his coffee mug just then.
His brows shooting up, Dyson pulled the cup away enough to offer a puzzled smile. "What?"
Her pale eyes shot wide before she blinked a few times in rapid succession. "What! What? No, nothing."
"How many cups did you drink before I woke up?"
She uttered a scoffing sound in the back of her throat before deciding that he had every right to be curious—she was acting weird, even for her. With a sigh, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter and clasping her own mug between both hands. "Shut up, this is my first one. I'm just waking up, still. Sorry. So . . . nothing new after I fell asleep?"
After she fell asleep . . . . Well, shit. For a little while there, he'd actually forgotten the 'terrible' images his wolf had put in his head about her. But now, as she stared back at him, bent over his kitchen counter—and it wasn't like he had never noticed that she had pretty nice curves considering how petite she was—he couldn't say he was surprised that it started all over again.
Blinking hard, he shook his head, trying to banish the mental picture of taking her from behind right where she was. Certainly didn't help that he could almost feel the rake of her nails in his skin as the version of her in his head reached one arm up to slip her hand around his neck. He could almost feel the brush of her hair against his hand as in that imagined scene, he curled his fingers into a fist, gripping tight the locks at the back of her head.
And the sensation of his teeth scraping at her throat as he shifted his hips to—
Focus! "No. Nothing stands out, yet."
She arched a brow, simply holding his gaze for a moment. He kept his features schooled, worried that he'd given something away just now; he couldn't put it past her to have picked up on his wolf's very intrusive train of thought. Kenzi had always been able to read him surprisingly well for a human—hell, better than most Fae he knew.
To his relief, she didn't seem to notice anything, only speaking into her mug as she lifted it for a sip. "Yet? You wanna give 'em another lookie? Maybe there really isn't anything, at least not anything that matters, in them. I feel like we've been staring at those pics for days, now, D-man."
He shrugged, reaching out to pick at the messy selection of scrambled eggs and nearly-burnt bacon. "Probably because we have? But it's not a matter of want. I have to. I know there's something I'm missing."
Kenzi gave a shrug of her own. "Well, maybe that's why we're missing whatever it is. We have been staring at the same thing for days on end."
His brows pinched together. "You're suggesting we need a fresh pair of eyes."
Her gaze flicked about the kitchen as she took another gulp of coffee. "Not . . . fresh, more like ancient, once-kingly, set into the one person we both know who can't call me short."
"Trick." He knew it wasn't exactly a far-gone conclusion—usually Trick was the first stop they made.
She rolled her eyes at the exasperation in his tone.
Sure, neither of them frequented the Dal as much as they used to, after everything that had happened, it was just wasn't the same. But it wasn't like Trick wouldn't already know what the situation was. His ear to the ground was as sharp as ever. If anything, the former Blood King was probably expecting them to drop by any time now. And while Trick didn't like to present himself as the worrying-type—though both Dyson and Kenzi knew he worried, all the time, about everything, he just hid it well—if they didn't put in an appearance soon, he might be concerned something had happened to them, too.
And he typically had enough to deal with.
With a sigh, Dyson nodded. "Yeah, you're right. I just was hoping not to have to involve him 'til we got a lead on Bo."
"Hey, I get it." She paused, finishing off her coffee in one long swig. With a satisfied sound, she set down her mug and straightened up. "I'll stop by the clubhouse and see if she's come home, you check in with Lauren, and then we'll meet up at the Dal."
When she moved around him to head to the bathroom, he hated that his head turned to follow. Hated that his gaze glued itself to her of its own volition. What the hell? He'd known her for years, had been in uncomfortably close quarters with her many times before last night. So why now?
His shoulders slumped. He hated that as he questioned himself, his attention had still been on her ass, and remained there until she disappeared around the bend in the wall that led down the corridor to his bathroom.
Only after he heard the door close behind her did he give himself a sound slap on the cheek. "Get a grip, Dyson," he said in an angry, muttering tumble of words.
Setting down his coffee, he went to retrieve the crime scene photos. He made an itinerary for the day as he went. Tried to scrape together a list of anything they might've overlooked, or not looked into enough, the last few days. Thought about whether or not he could get by today without grabbing a shower. Considered what drink he'd order when he arrived at the Dal.
Anything to focus on that didn't have to do with his wolf's idiotic notions.