Page 27 of Foxed Up

When he came to pick me up for work, I was ready. We'd agreed last night he would pick me up, since I shouldn't be driving my car into the undercover situation.

He pulled off his sunglasses and reared back a little, looking at me with his brows rising. "You're wearing that?"

"What would you suggest I wear, to go undercover as a poor and desperate shifter willing to take any work he can find?" My voice sounded crisp, and I gave him a stern look as he took in my outfit, looking far too closely.

He cleared his throat. "I didn't know you owned anything like that."

I wore jeans that were tattered to the point of being butter-soft and nearly threadbare, the knees worn so thin you could see light through the fabric if you held it up. The bottoms of the hems were tattered and dragging little threads. I'd sewn up a few tears in odd places: the thigh, the back pocket, near the crotch. The repairs weren't strongly visible, but they were there, and overall the jeans gave a rather disreputable, falling-apart air to the wearer (me).

They fit me well, and I'd had them since the last year of high school. I'd finished my growth spurt by then, and I'd never really put on any extra weight since. They fit me perfectly, and were extremely soft; I wore them for comfort. But they were not normally something I wore out of the house, since they didn't exactly give the impression of solvency and good fashion taste. They were comfortable jeans for slouching around and sitting curled up to read in, one step short of pajamas.

For my shirt, I'd chosen a tattered t-shirt that had seen better days. I usually wore it when doing messy chores or anything that might stain, like painting. It had a few holes and stains near the edges. Over it, I wore my oldest flannel shirt, which had a hole at one of the elbows and a couple of missing buttons.

What can I say? I cherish old clothing. I don't like to throw out anything that's still comfortable, and I really don't grow out of clothes anymore. I'm careful how I present myself outside the house, but inside, I wear whatever I feel like.

He cleared his throat and shoved his sunglasses back on. "You look like a homeless person."

"Thanks," I said dryly. I reminded myself I didn't care how he thought I looked anymore. "Let's get going, shall we?" I brushed past him, close enough to bump his shoulder when he didn't move out of the way.

"Wait, we should have breakfast first."

"No, I should be hungry. It'll be easier to behave in character and act desperate, if I'm hungry."

He stared at me. "Don't tell me you stayed up all night too so you could convincingly look hollow-eyed."

I shrugged. "I had to read the files anyway."

He just kept looking at me. I wished he wouldn't. I turned away first. I hated being judged by those eyes. He could be such a judgmental prick sometimes.All the time.

My throat felt tight, constricted, like I was choking on something after eating too fast. I felt hollow inside, emptied out, and it wasn't just not eating and sleeping enough.

"I'm worried about you," said Jon, his voice soft. There was real feeling in there, nothing fake. Despite myself, I heard it, believed in it. He cared. He cared at least that much… "Are you up to this?"

"I don't know," I said, his honesty drawing out my own in reply. "But I have to try." I glanced at him again, pasted a smile on my face that felt unconvincing. "Let's hit the road."

He gave the faintest of sad smiles, shook his head, and walked with me to his car. He got the passenger side door for me, and ignored my cold look. "Don't forget your seatbelt," he told me.

And then, against my specific instructions, he drove to McDonalds and ordered things off the breakfast menu while I sat with my arms crossed and my face hard in the passenger seat, in my threadbare clothes, feeling cold and insubstantial in the morning air.

"You don't have to eat it all," he said. "But you have to eat something. If you faint undercover or can't concentrate, we'll all be sorry. Go on."

The food smelled so good. I didn't want to give in, but my stomach was betraying me by growling loudly, complaints that even he could surely hear, with his non-shifter hearing.

He gave me a sidelong look, and parked the car and sat there with his hands on the steering wheel. He stared ahead, not at me, but he was definitely parking for the duration.

I picked at a breakfast sandwich, resisting the urge to gulp it down in two bites. It did taste very good. I hadn't eaten much the night before, either, and, heartbreak or not, dedication to the case notwithstanding, I was ravenous. I ate slowly.

Beside me, Jon sighed. I looked over at him, wondering what he was complaining about now. I was eating, wasn't I? He should be driving…

But he wasn't even looking at me, just staring ahead through the windshield bleakly. "I miss you," he said quietly. "I wish I could fix this."

Why? It was better that I knew now, before I dedicated more of my life to him. I shrugged, still chewing. A wrapper crinkled in my lap.

He looked over at me, a hint of anger in his eyes. He was tapping the steering wheel slightly, probably unaware of the irritated motion. "You know my son asks about you almost every night now? You shouldn't have charmed him that way if you were never coming over again. He knows something's wrong."

I liked children, and was good with them most of the time. But to say I'd charmed his son was a bit much. So was blaming me for the breakup, or whatever this was. I shrugged, still chewing. "Tell him we're not together anymore."

He stilled, hands and breath and everything. No movement at all. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, as if it hurt to breathe. He let out a breath slowly. "We're not?"