The Moderator’s branch was more paperwork than actual negotiation. Most complaints and situations could be resolved by letter and the police and Vanguard’s men would reinforce the declarations. People seemed satisfied with the majority of Rowan’s decisions, made from within the penthouse and offices alongside Don Idlewood himself. He had retreated from all classes and was learning directly from the Moderator now. He saw very few of the people he had learned and excelled with.

He missed only one.

But that one had made his position clear.

Every now and then when Rowan caught sight of his reflection in the bathroom, he noted how he had changed. His chest was larger. He was now 5’11, and he had taken on a very defined shape. He still had the face of an adolescent, which he doubted would change. When he turned eighteen he was going to be bound permanently to Don. He would look as he did on that day for as long as they both lived.

He grew apprehensive every time that thought crossed his mind.

It was rare he was called out into the field. Only if the situation was an emergency or the presence of the Moderator’s force was specifically requested. Rowan was removed enough from society that he felt uninformed about the times. When he was told certain things were going on overseas he felt he should have known sooner before going into situations. He’d been so wrapped up in what had been happening regarding the Red Cord that he hadn’t seriously been paying attention to politics and international affairs outside the organization. There was a war that had been going on since he was little that he’d had no clue about. “Don’t you own a tv or radio?” It took all of Rowan’s strength not to point out that Don didn’t have them. Don always said they had to remain unaffected by outside forces.

Still, he seemed to excel at what he did. How? Because he asked what the people who had requested negotiation between humans and inhumans what they were thinking in regards to current events, both in general and specifically. The more they talked and discussed, the more likely it was that he would be able to find a solution. Also, the closer he would feel to being educated on certain current happenings.

Don never let him go without an escort. He hated that that escort was often Aiden. They exchanged few words, only speaking when necessary. Aiden didn’t seem to listen when Tea asked questions outside the protocol, getting the individuals in question to talk to him more comfortably. There were benefits to building rapport before engaging in the necessary discussion of why Rowan was present at the time.

“You need to get to the point more quickly,” Aiden would criticize.

“Quicker.”

“What?”

Rowan stared Aiden dead in the face when the other questioned him. It was hard to maintain an air of disinterest around the other, even harder not to show him what he was still reeling over. He disguised it in the form of his authority (if he could call it that). “You said more quickly. The word you are looking for is quicker. And no, I don’t need to get to the point quicker. I need to take my time and settle these affairs fairly.”

At having his intelligence challenged, Aiden glared more often than anything. Sometimes though, he lost his temper and shoved Rowan into the nearest wall. Those moments felt like budding scar tissue to Rowan, stinging as it formed around the wounded area where Aiden had stabbed him in the back. Was it fair to refer to his declaration that Rowan may be killed in the future as a backstabbing? He thought so. Even though the rest of the organization outside of Don seemed to share in Aiden’s logic, he still felt the pain from it. Every time Aiden pushed Rowan away, he let the already mostly healed wound reopen upon impact. Just enough for another layer of tissue to seal it shut. The more this happened, the more convinced he would become that Aiden was never to be close to him again. The more this happened, the less likely it would be that it would hurt the next time.

When he wasn’t working with Don or dedicating his full attention to cases, he started visiting the medical and inhuman stations on the lower levels of the building. In the medical areas he became acquainted with the doctors who worked on inhumans, even questioning what they knew of his species. Most knew very little. If they spoke ill of him, they at least had the courtesy of waiting till he was no longer within ear shot.

He preferred the less human inhuman monsters to the other inhumans. Other inhumans who appeared just as close to looking human as he tended to either be quiet or take pride in their differences. It was a competition, of who passed well enough to be free of most discriminatory action. At least one female doctor had whispered to him after he’d been assailed by an inhuman poking fun at his golden eyes, “I don’t think you would enjoy being human any more than inhuman.”

He had to keep from scoffing, instead responding, “Why do you say that?”

“Humans can’t even get along with one another much less someone of a different species entirely.”

Race. Right. That was another thing Don didn’t talk about, another social issue being pushed he had been kept mostly unaware of. Mostly. “When I was little, we had to lie on my birth certificate because my mother was Navajo. They didn’t have a space for that.” The only reason he knew this was because Don had at least let him keep his identification documents. The doctor said nothing in response though. She went on to instead talk about a man who had been shot recently. A man fighting for his own equality.

Though Rowan had never heard his name before, he admired the man. He wished he hadn’t been sacrificed. It seemed that humans in general were unkind, especially when told that what they were doing was wrong.

It was hard retaining the things he learned. He had no one to speak to outside of Don nowadays. He didn’t like keeping everything to himself, so he started writing it all down. He kept journals. When he wasn’t working on cases, he was spilling streams of thought into his journals. The first sentence he wrote in every single journal was a mantra he had heard from both his parents. The mantra was difficult to say aloud, but he could write it. It helped. For some reason, it helped to write.

Maybe he wouldn’t forget absolutely everything from before . . . .

He was spending some time with a rescued sphinx mother and her litter, writing down his thoughts. He knew better than to actually talk to the sphinxes. As long as he was quiet, they wouldn’t question him. If they didn’t question him, they wouldn’t try to eat him for not having an answer to whatever questions they asked. At the very least they seemed to like the attention he showed, the energy he worked to keep in their wake.

Soon they would be shipped to Cairo where they would be treated by Kali’s people. She liked to keep Egyptian creatures in Egypt. She said it was only right, and Rowan agreed with her. Don’s only reason for not keeping the sphinxes here was because this wasn’t a research branch of the Red Cord. Otherwise, he would have argued he could provide for them just as well as any other.

Rowan scribbled these thoughts as he sat with the cubs, not reacting when he felt the mother start to lick his hair and nuzzle it. He only got shivers when she moved down to lick his neck. He squirmed, palms flat on his journal and ceasing to write as he tried to inch away. He clamped his mouth shut to keep from speaking, but the sphinx followed him. It took everything in his power not to ask what she was doing or why she was doing it. She nuzzled at his back harshly, pushing him forward. It was only when her forelegs wrapped around him that he broke and cried out for her to stop.

The Handler’s people had to come pull the sphinx off of Rowan then.

“Up until you spoke, she was trying to wrestle you like she would a female companion. Interesting,” one of the doctors declared as he addressed a scratch from the encounter on Rowan’s leg.

“Well that’s nice and all, but I really didn’t li—,” his voice cracked and he whined at the medicine being rubbed into his cut. He had to take several deep breaths to get his voice back.

And he had to keep from glaring at the doctor for jumping at the noise he had made.

“Also . . .,” the doctor trailed off, noting quietly so only Rowan could hear once he had picked out his words, “you’re bleeding.”

“Obviously,” Rowan responded, sighing at the sting of the medicine as the doctor moved to lay the bandages across the scratches.

“No, you’re bleeding. As in you may need a sanitary napkin.” It took Rowan a moment to process the statement, spoken so quietly it was like a secret.

And then he realized why it was bad news and went pale.

“Um . . . h-how exactly . . . am I bleeding?” Before the man reiterated that Rowan needed feminine products, he shook his head and clarified, “I’m a skinwalker. We don’t get th—”

“Skinwalkers are typically male bodied, so this is not something I am familiar with.” He gave an apologetic shake of his head as he finished patching Rowan’s leg up. Then he went digging through his supply drawers and pulled out a box of the napkins he had mentioned. “Take these anyhow. Restrooms are down the hall, you should be good to go.” Rowan took the box hesitantly, hands shaking as they grasped the cardboard.

He asked a bit fearfully, “Are you going to tell anyone?”

The doctor shook his head. “Patient discretion. This doesn’t leave the office.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, assured in that respect at least.

He didn’t feel ashamed stealing a plastic bag out of the trashcan to transport the box, but he did feel the panic setting in when he did use the restroom and discover that he was indeed bleeding. He followed the basic instructions to the best of his ability before heading back to the penthouse carrying his journal and the covered box close to his chest.

He sat on the living room couch and debated what exactly he was supposed to think of this turn of events. He didn’t have anyone to ask, or rather anyone he was comfortable asking. The only person he could think to request information from was the one person he wasn’t sure would answer him. Don was iffy on many subjects, especially those regarding his mother. He tried, but it often left him more downtrodden or irritable than before Rowan had asked. But this wasn’t something Rowan could exactly ignore.

He would need to get more pads eventually after all.