It was too easy for him to forget that deep within his master was a caged animal that took its territory and the property therein very seriously indeed. Alcuin learned very quickly upon purchase that his master was the antithesis of what he had come to expect from werewolves. Scott was not a violent man at the heart of it; he knew the measure of his power, his strength, and tempered it with grace and tenderness. Alcuin had never seen him utilize his abilities outside of the practical before, much less burst through the apartment door and throw his friend to the floor as though he weighed somewhat less than thin air.
He gasped sharply beneath his hands, which had flown up to meet his face mid-pirouette, and winced with sympathy at the dull sound Hermes' body made when he collided with the floor. For a single breathless moment, he wondered if his friend had come to harm – and then he spoke and the breath left him in a great gust. Of course the diavoletto would laugh in the face of danger. Of course he would. “Scott,” Alcuin stood up smoothly from his seat, his voice a great deal calmer than his thundering heart, and reached out to palm his master's cheek. “This is my friend, Hermes Euskopos,” he hesitated for a moment and then added, for the sake of propriety, “Hermes, this is my master, Scott McCall.”