Sleeping in a communal place was still a very unusual thing for Buchanan who was used to sleeping on his lonesome. Never too far away from The Officer that he wasn't within striking distance of any reckless enough to attack the elder but never too close. Not that, mind, Buchanan wanted to be all that close to The Officer. Buchanan had not needed comfort of presence through the night since he was a child and that was a habit that The Officer had quickly and painfully broke him of. He tried, at least. Each night he entered The Crook of the few wolves he knew and the others strangers, fidgeted and silently fussed, trying not to disturb his pack mates before he gave up, rose and ventured outside to sleep among the stars. That was what he knew, what he drew comfort in: the open sky. Then again, that was all Buchanan had, had after The Officer had lured him away from ...his parents he presumed. The truth was simple though: he did not remember the life he had prior to The Officer, as if it hadn't existed at all.

Never a heavy sleeper, Buchanan stirred awake at the sound of footfalls, ears erect atop his skull as he was instantly thrown into a groggy alertness. He rose, albeit with a yawn and intended only to investigate the scent trail to ensure himself that it wasn't an intruder. He recognized Banner's scent leaving The Crook, and for a moment he hesitated wondering if she sought the solace of being alone; but in the end decided to follow it. If Banner wished to be alone then he wouldn't push, and he'd respect her wishes but there was something unsettled about her patrolling the borders — for that was the direction that her scent had led him allowing him to come to the conclusion — during the cover of night by her lonesome.

He found her, easily recognized even among the shadows the dark, by scent but also by her eyes. The assassin gave a soft chuff to announce his presence, not wishing to startle her. “Mind some company, Banner?” Buchanan asked her, offering her a soft smile, though he kept distance, body low in submission, allowing her to decide if he stayed or if he left. Given her recent promotion, he wasn't sure if he should even address her so informally but he was unsure due to his honest lack of experience in being a genuine part of a pack and figured that if it was informal of him she would correct him.

Buchanan hadn't meant to startle her and when it was apparent that he had — displayed by the tension in her shoulders, her wild gaze as it settled upon him, and the hiss of breath she released when she realized it was him — his ears slicked back to rest against his crown, his steps faltering at the contemplation that his presence was unwelcome. She had not greeted him with aggression or hostility but he had came to expect such after years with The Officer. “No, no,” The assassin corrected her with a shake of his head and a tentative step towards her. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”

She responded that she would love company and his docked tail gave a few wags, his ears slowly rising from his skull as he moved closer with more confidence, though he remained hyper-vigilant to her reaction to his proximity, ready to back off if it appeared unwelcome in any capacity. “Which reminds me,” Buchanan breathed with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he joined her patrol. “Congrats on becoming Beta. I think that calls for celebratory, extra special bird feathers.” He informed her with gusto. Something exotic. Exquisitely pretty, with a multitude of stunning colors. A songbird, perhaps. “pevchaya ptitsa,” Buchanan murmured to himself in affirmation, unaware that he'd said it out loud (or that he slipped into his native tongue), as he contemplated the songbirds he'd seen thus far in Teekon Wilds and which one would be the best to present her with for the occasion.

Buchanan's breath stuck in his throat at the excited look that Banner offered him when he spoke of “extra special” feathers as a present for her promotion. He looked away from it's purity and radiance for a small moment — enough to catch his breath — before his gaze slid back to her, an easy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The assassin took a deep breath, as he paused a few steps behind Banner as she paused, mostly to calm the slight rise in the pace of his heart before he lowered his head towards the border markings, giving them a sniff before he scratched at them, leaving his scent from the glands in his paw pads before Banner continued forth and he jogged to catch up with her, slowing his pace when he caught her, ensuring not to walk beside her but not linger too far back, either. After all, they were holding a conversation. Of sorts. And no one wanted to shout ahead or behind of them to maintain it.

She asked him what language he'd spoken in and it took a moment for it to sink into Buchanan's mind that not only had he spoken out loud, he'd also slipped into Russian. This time, it was Buchanan's turn to look sheepish. “I, ah, I didn't mean to say that out loud,” He admitted, not that he'd said anything bad. “It's Russian. It is...-” He corrected himself quickly. “-was The Officer's native tongue. I slip into it, at times.” In truth, this was the most he'd ever spoken to another besides The Officer; and the elderly master hadn't been much interested in learning about who “The Ghost” was, or how he felt or thought; and Buchanan had been the perfect dog, obedient if only out of the desire to mollify his master. “For the longest time it was all I spoke until I was trained enough to carry out a mission.” Because age hadn't mattered to The Officer. So long as “The Ghost” had been able to kill and defend himself effectively (and Buchanan had learned quick if to avoid The Officer's brutality and cruelty) that was all The Officer had been fussed about.

“I was thinking a songbird, maybe. I've seen a few colorful ones around.” He offered in explanation, in case she'd been wondering what he had spoken.

Banner commented on the Russian and he let out a soft laugh that rumbled pleasantly in his chest. She expressed her gratitude with warmness on his choice of birds but the conversation switched again, this time away from the topic of birds and onto him. He swallowed thickly, sticking to his silence as she asked him to tell her about him in a tiny voice. Buchanan wasn't quite sure that she was scared to ask him and if she wasn't that was ok; he was scared enough for the both of them. When he talked too much about things that had scarred him emotionally — his tail, for one — he had a tendency to suffer flashbacks. He didn't want Banner to see him like that: to realize that his compliance and control had it's own side of crazy and since Buchanan knew his triggers he tended to stray away from them as if they were the plague. Yet, it was a fair request that she made, even though she added in a murmur that he only had to tell her if he wanted to. He made a lot of vague references to The Officer and his past without ever willingly offering any explanations. Her curiosity was warranted and Buchanan knew this.

“Sometimes,” He began pausing to lick his jowls as they continued on with their patrol. “talking about things become triggers. Sometimes I get flashbacks.” As to how many triggers Buchanan had: he didn't know. He'd never spoken in length about his past with anyone before mostly because he'd never had anyone but The Officer. “The Officer took me when I was small, I was young enough that after a while I forgot my parents, forgot my name. He trained me, he...broke me and reforged me to how he wanted me: obedient, dependent upon him. Taught me how to kill and fight.” Buchanan's gaze fell to the ground beneath their paws, taking a moment to study the differences, needing the brief moment to remind him that, that was then and this was now. “When I was about six months old The Officer-” He swallowed thickly, around the air that stuck in his throat. A shudder ran down his spine but he focused his mind on his steps, on the sound of Banner's footfalls, his mercurial gaze wild for a moment as it sought her, trying to use Banner as an anchor to reality in the hopes that it might keep him from slipping into the memory. His breathing slowly became rapid and he fought against the memory, the flashback with a low grunt. The phantom pain in his docked tail had his teeth gnashing together — the ruined nerves in what was left of it were screaming. Buchanan fought against it, knowing that the only way to get past it was to confront his demons, to not let it and The Officer control his life anymore. He wasn't The Ghost anymore. He was Buchanan.

With a gasp Buchanan continued, “- The Officer docked my tail. It was his mark, his brand. To always remind me that he owned me, reminded me of my place as a peon.” Obviously, in some capacity The Officer had recognized that he would not live forever; and his brand was an effective reminder. “After the docking I was turned loose upon those he marked as his targets. I infiltrated, I lied and charmed and then I killed them.” There was no nice way to say it, no way to dress it up and make the ugly truth look pretty. He spared a look at her, wondering if knowing this, if knowing the truth would change how she thought of him. A strong part of Buchanan hoped that it did not for she had known to some degree what he was and what he had done. He'd said as much, vaguely. “All he had to do was say the goddamned word and I would do what he asked me, without question, without hesitation.” He had killed four wolves that he didn't know personally, that had never done anything to him simply because The Officer had told him to.

“The Officer made these tally marks for each kill. I'm missing one. It should be five,” Maybe he would figure out how to make it himself and carve it into his skin: the longest tally and the last. “My last mission went wrong,” Buchanan explained in a quieted voice, his brow furrowing with remembrance. “The Officer sent me to a pack and I infiltrated it easily enough. Except he didn't want me to kill, he wanted me to kidnap a small girl, barely three months old,” Buchanan had slipped into a whisper, his voice thick as he remembered it, trying to focus on their steps, on the familiar motions of patrolling, on Banner's presence again. “The Officer was an elder, though still fit and strong he had accepted his own mortality I guess. He meant for her to be trained to replace him. To continue on his work, to control me. She was small and innocent with big baby blue eyes and fur as white as down. I refused him. I wasn't going to willingly subject her to the same brutality and cruelty I had endured and whatever else he had planned for her. I wasn't going to steal from her the life she deserved to live. And The Officer and I fought and I ...I killed him.” Buchanan took a deep, uneven breath and peeked tentatively at Banner, half afraid of what he'd see in her face.

Buchanan expected her to look at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Like one would look at a sword that had cut down too many lives to count: tentative, horrified, even. He deserved it. He deserved the fear and the disgust. He had done almost everything The Officer had commanded him to: loyally, without question. The little girl had been a ...fluke. A flaw in the system that had otherwise ran smoothly, without trouble. A single good deed did not cancel out all the wrong he'd done: to innocents that had never done anything to him to deserve their deaths by his jaws. There was never any evidence that they'd ever done anything to The Officer, either. It hadn't been Buchanan's place to question him for questions brought pain and pain brought suffering that Buchanan had selfishly not wanted to de with.

Buchanan's steps ceased as Banner quickened her pace so that she could stop before him, facing him. His shoulders stiffened as he mentally prepared himself to bear the brunt of her disgust, having convinced himself that she would think him despicable and was going to tell him he had to find a new home elsewhere. Yet, she did not. Her gaze sought his, and he licked his jowls as she spoke, fighting around the words that got caught in his throat when Banner affirmed that The Officer had deserved his death. Of that, Buchanan would never dispute, but it had been — at the time anyway — at a personal cost to Buchanan who had killed the only companion he'd ever known. The most wretched but closest thing to a father figure he'd had and had left himself as a lost omega without his alpha.

“It's not a life I'd wish on my worst enemy, let alone condemn an innocent child to,” Buchanan explained himself humbly, not quite sure what to do with her gratitude, nor why she was thanking him. Perhaps it had been some hidden paternal instincts that Buchanan didn't even know he had or maybe he just fancied the idea of protecting the innocent. Regardless, something had sparked his insubordination when he realized what was going on. He liked to think that anyone would have done the same in his situation; but there wasn't much time to contemplate it further as Banner had begun to move closer to him, and the assassin's breath had caught in his throat. “I can't change what I did for him, anymore than I can change that sometimes I liked being an assassin,” which was the worst part. He hadn't hated how it triggered his predatory instincts, indulged them like no other prey could. It was a gross thing, certainly not one that he was proud of.

He was babbling. God, he was nervous. It was kind of hard to imagine how she — so small and beautiful — could reduce him to an anxious flutter in his stomach. Yet, Buchanan, as perplexing as it was to him, wanted her to know him; even if she ended up hating him for it. “but I can look to my future, and I have a home and the chance to be more than a peon, an assassin and I owe it to you, so thank you.” He swallowed around the lump of butterflies that had fluttered their way up the strong column of his throat, lowering his gaze in a timid manner.

Buchanan watched as she paused as she sensed his anxiety and while he appreciated her initiative to give him space, how attentive she was to his body language, he wasn't trying to and didn't want to ward her off. The assassin was nervous because he didn't want to mess up, because that was the effect she had on him: restless butterflies in his stomach, caught breaths and timid, admiring glances. Buchanan wasn't sure how to process his growing affection for Banner beyond that he recognized that it was there; and the assassin did not try to linger upon it, nor analyze it. He simply let it be and take him where it may.

Buchanan studied her with mild curiosity when she spoke that he'd been more than just a peon before they'd met. While her tone was soothing and even he took her words to be formed out of confidence, assuming that she meant it when she said it. Yet, if that was true why had he strove so desperately to replace The Officer with Phippa? For reasons unknown to the wraith, she had not only failed but betrayed him. Abandoned him. Yet, without those unfortunate circumstances in his life: if not for The Officer kidnapping him and Phiipa betraying him it was possible that he might have never met Banner, and certainly if Phiipa wouldn't have left as abruptly and without preamble as she had he would not be here now. Or perhaps he would have. Perhaps, despite all of the possibilities it might have always led him to meeting Banner and to joining the Marauders; to this moment right here.

Banner had begun drawing nearer to him once more and Buchanan was still, patient. Buchanan's gaze lowered and held as she looked up at him, his inhale deep as she took a shallow breath and he felt the press of her nose against his shoulder. Not counting the gestures of comrade he'd received, it was the first actual touch that he could remember that was not of hostility and did not bear with it the brutality of punishment. It was a gesture that his instincts perceived to be affectionate. He released the breath he'd held for those few seconds in a contended rumble before he reached out — tentatively for a moment, only to gauge her reaction — returned it.

He felt her soft sigh leave her lips, as opposed to actually being able to claim that he heard it — felt it in the way her breath saturated his fur. It had been brief, for little more than a handful of seconds but it'd been enough. He felt when she moved her head, her nose moving from his shoulder to the side of his throat, her cheek flush with his shoulder. His own head moved so that his chin rested lightly against the junction between her shoulders. Her own mirror of his soft rumble caused a shiver to slither down the strong curve of his spine. His eyes closed as he reveled in her touch, in her closeness. This experience — of affection, namely — was a new sensation to him. To feel affection for another (for he would not cite the morbid admiration, fear and desire to please The Officer as affection) and be on, perhaps, the receiving end of it as well. It was a warmth. His racing heart. It was an electricity. It was small and lively flames patiently waiting to become an inferno. Whether he would survive the inferno unscathed or it would burn him he had yet to decide.

His eyes opened slowly with his perplexity when she apologized. It was muffled, spoken into the fur at his throat, but he heard it plenty clear. Unless this was an accident — and he did not think that it was if only because she did not pull away despite her apology — he didn't see the need for her to apologize. God, he didn't want her to apologize for this. Though Buchanan had always exercised caution and plenty of personal space he found that he didn't mind her invasion of his space. Hell, he liked it. “Don't-” Buchanan implored of her, his tone thick and gruff. “don't apologize for this.” Not while he was busy cherishing it, not ever, really, but at the moment he wanted to milk the affectionate touch for all it was worth in case it never occurred again and didn't want to be busy analyzing her apology for it.

As new as the gestures and touches of affection were to the assassin he was comfortable, which was kind of, but not really mildly surprising to the dark wraith. What was surprising was that he did tense nor move away for he associated physical touches with pain because that was all The Officer had ever given him: pain and suffering. Physical and psychological. He didn't necessarily fear being touched but he, as Banner likely remembered from their very first meeting, liked to maintain a comfortable level of distance between him and other wolves. Yet, at the same time, it didn't fully surprise him that he both allowed and enjoyed Banner's touch: simply because it was Banner and Buchanan knew that if it were anyone else he would have backed away the second he noticed them moving closer.

She made a noise that sounded content enough for Buchanan, who was glad that she didn't pull back, nor did she insist on apologizing for it. He emitted his own throaty noise when he felt her rub against his shoulder, reminiscent of the contented noise he'd released a short while ago. Buchanan felt a smile tug effortless across his muzzle as her eyes rolled up and met her gaze. Still the prettiest green he'd ever seen. Buchanan returned her playful “hello” with a grin and a soft “Hey,” leaving his lips in a tone that was huskier than he would have liked. It wasn't surprising that Buchanan wasn't sure what to say now, either, but as a man of many words this wasn't unusual for him. He'd spent his life leashed and muzzled and found now that even though he was free he still had little to say. Except when it came to Banner (who seemed to be the exception to a lot of things) who was the only creature besides maybe Phiipa that Buchanan had been “talkative” around; but Banner was an entirely different situation than the woman Buchanan had tried to replace The Officer with.

Despite that it could hardly be classified as intimate in any way other than innocence, it was the most intimate Buchanan had ever done before. Yet, Banner was special to him, even if he wasn't sure in what ways; perhaps it was because in a world that the assassin knew he was an anomaly she made him feel normal, even if this “normal” and “new life” was taking some adjusting to. He kept looking over his back for The Officer, found himself worrying that this — all of this, this happiness — was a beautiful dream that would soon shatter and he would wake up to the nightmare that The Officer had made of his life. It wasn't something that Buchanan could help. The Officer might have lost his corporeal body when Buchanan ended his life but the monster lived on inside Buchanan's memories, in the flashbacks.

“Ty takaya krasivaya” Buchanan murmured in Russian, at first, as it was the first time, realizing that once again he'd spoken his thoughts aloud. Though there was a slight flush to his cheeks, there was the deeper resolve that she deserved to hear it in a language that she understood. “You're so beautiful.” The assassin repeated to her, in the common tongue. Even if it brought a deeper flood of heat to his cheeks, though he was embarrassed only for the sake of not being able to anticipate her reaction, it was the truth as he saw it: and she deserved to hear it.

The moment was carefully cherished and unbelievably perfect to the assassin, for whatever it was worth. He allowed himself to steal it, to live in it with her, as if time had stopped ticking on outside of them — never mind that very little of the patrol they'd been running had gotten done. The world was faded, easily tuned out background noise to Banner. His docked tail gave a few, unimpressive and easily unnoticed wags as she let out another rumble, a low, noise akin to a purr of pleasure lingered in the dark wraith's throat when he felt Banner nibble his jaw. The bites were small, felt but had the very opposite feeling of pain. Buchanan purled out a low, throaty word in Russian; and had been about to translate it when a bat screeched overhead. The sudden onslaught of high pitched noise caused his ears to perk, alert and then slick back to his rest against his skull cautiously when she gasped and abruptly tore herself away from him. He felt her absence, and though it was not particularly chilly with the absence of her warmth he felt the echo of her teeth nipping at his jaw before that, too, faded.

The moment had shattered at the heinous screech of the winged fiend. She moved quickly, oddly graceful he watched as she crouched low in a defensive position. His mercurial gaze watched her with cautious eyes, not unsure that she wouldn't attack him. He waited for her to cool off after she snarled into the darkness, to re-approach him but she did not. Though he heard her take deep breaths, Buchanan watched as her tail lashed violently behind her as she stalked away from him. Her body language sent off warning flags in Buchanan's mind: to exert caution. “Banner,” Buchanan called out to the Beta softly, rooted to the spot where she'd left him, knowing better than to attempt to approach her.

Silvern gaze assessed her, analyze her body language for changes noticable or subtle, the muscles of his shoulders tensing instinctively in preparation for possible aggression aimed at him.

Buchanan did not have long to wait for his voice to reach Banner and the assassin knew when it had, for when it did she fixed him in an intense, feral stare. He was calm, even while he was not certain that she was, even though it was possible that she could turn her rage onto him. He hadn't survived five fights to the death to not know that he could handle a beast of reckless abandon. Sure, they were the most dangerous: those that were uncontrollable and those that had nothing to lose. But Banner wasn't them and he could not even fathom the idea of hurting her: because he wouldn't. He knew that if she channeled her wrath at him, if she came charging he would let her. He could take it.

Seconds passed as they continued their stare off, and as each second ticked by Buchanan felt the nag of anxiety in his mind. He should have shrunk beneath the weight of her gaze, if only because she was his Beta but he didn't. Not out of insubordination but because he wanted her to see him, in the consideration that she might be able to use him as an anchor as he'd used her as he fought his flashbacks. He did not know if that was what she was suffering from, but regardless he sympathized. He lost control of reality and struggled to tell the difference between what was real and what was a memory.

A few more second passed and Buchanan watched as she came rushing back to him, pressing herself against his chest. The dark wraith accepted her back into his embrace without hesitation. So, she had demons. So did he. She accepted his, she accepted him despite the darkness that clung to his past. He'd done a lot of things he wasn't proud of and in Buchanan's mind she was still a saint, still an angel compared to him. “You're alright,” The assassin cooed to her in an attempt to be reassuring. “I'm not going anywhere.” He promised, unsure if it was necessary but he spoke it regardless.

A soft shudder rippled through Buchanan as he felt her bury her nose against his throat, and though he missed her presence again when she retreated from him, this time it was calm and clearly not a trigger reaction to outside stimuli he let her create the distance. Though he was far from cold, the begrudgingly familiar chill settled against his throat, where her nose had been buried mere moments before. Was it possible to miss someone's physical presence? Was it normal to crave that physical closeness? Buchanan didn't know. She spoke, claiming his attention as it was tugged from his contemplation, his mercurial gaze settling upon her. His ears cupped forth atop his skull as she made her inquiry. For a moment he was confused until she clarified that she was speaking of the walk, though she looked away from him. It was a curious gesture. “Of course,” Buchanan agreed in a soft voice, though whether they were talking about the walk or something else, or perhaps even both he didn't know but the answer would remain the same throughout all the potential meanings her inquiry could have held.

“We'll take it slow,” He gestured for her to take the lead with a sweep of his muzzle, lowering it. It was early (or late?) after all and Buchanan doubted they would run into any sort of trouble at the borders, besides as it was easy to assume that no one else was awake Buchanan didn't think either of them had anything overly pressing that required them to rush the patrol. He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly offering her a soft, reassuring smile.

Buchanan studied her when she looked down and away, having caught the slight lift of the corner of her lips. If they had not started a patrol he would have spent all night here with her, but they were supposed to be doing a sweep of the borders. He didn't feel guilty for the moment they'd stolen, not quite sure what it meant or where it left them; but there was a lot that they didn't know about each other and he was in no rush to define what was blossoming between them. Not that Buchanan truly thought anything she would tell him would ever change his mind about her: it couldn't be any worse than the atrocities that the dark wraith had committed; and regardless, she accepted him for it. "You're welcome." Buchanan spoke in a low murmur when she expressed her gratitude verbally,  his silvern eyes having watched as she turned her back to him. He took a small moment to stretch before he caught up to her as the pair continued their patrol. He almost suggested that she go back and sleep when she yawned, almost offered that he could finish the patrol on his own but selfishly he didn't want her to go, and anyway, if she wanted to exit out and go back to sleep she could, there wasn't anything leashing her to the borders. Banner kept on and Buchanan remained close as they continued on and eventually wrapped their patrol up in a comfortable silence.