Helter Skelter [Logan]

[Ari]

The city is no place for an animal.

There are others that have made their home here, have carved kingdoms out of brick and mortar; the stout cream wolf can smell them in fitful bursts, but cannot understand their comfort. The lights and sounds of Boston’s nightlife only craft fear and confusion in the pathetic creature; it does not know the peace of the forest, but that is an environment it craves instinctually. It is for this reason it skulks about in the shadows in the late hours of the night, wide-eyed and timid, but natural curiosity and complaining pangs of hunger have driven it from its preferred haunts of desolate parkland and empty back alleys. The wolf is not a bold beast, but it is only an animal, subject to little more than base impulse and need.

The hamburger it stole from a screaming woman some hours ago is but a distant memory, a flavor on its tongue that drives it forward. Leaderless and lacking in understanding or control, subtlety and discretion are meaningless concepts – in its search, the animal skitters beneath streetlamps and darts across roads, saved only by the hour and its unassuming form. A man with a leash and a kind voice balks upon assessing the wolf’s size, and the white monster gains some semblance of pride upon chasing him off with a bristling growl. It slips off yet again, newly encouraged, and focuses upon its goal with fresh intent.

Ahead the light grows, matched by sound and smell; the wolf slinks about the perimeter of the plaza warily, searching and curious, and ultimately drawn in by the rumble of its gut. Its attempt to sneak a slice of pizza from a table is thwarted when an angry man turns upon him, and he takes a bottle of beer to his hip for his trouble. Whining and soundly chastised, the animal retreats once more to the territory its human half knows as Boston Common, prepared and resigned to sulking itself to sleep.

And then, before it, stands absolution – and it smells delicious.

Loping down the path, the wolf rises onto its hind legs to place two massive paws along the rim of a trashcan; the object tilts as the white beast’s nose quests beneath the hinged lid. Behind him, his tail wags in a domestic display of pleasure. He knocks the trash over and presses his head inside, digging and scrabbling at the ground in an effort to wriggle himself inside and devour the contents – and it is only once he comes up short that he realizes he is stuck. Backing away, the wolf’s efforts to remove himself from the can prove ineffective. The lid of the trash comes loose from the bin, now soundly lodged around his neck; the animal panics, whimpering, and darts further into the park with the mad desperation of a wild thing in full flight.

Running, predictably, does not free the beast from its confines. It flees until fatigue overwhelms it, and at last resorts to simply pawing and writhing at the hard plastic about its neck. The animal doesn’t understand; it whines plaintively, its wild struggling abandoned as futile, and settles to the ground to heave out its exhaustion in labored breaths.

The majestic and noble wolf in its element.

[Logan]

When people ask what he does for a living, Logan never knows what to say. Killing problem werewolves is not exactly a standard occupation, and the last thing he needs is to have himself declared insane. The truth of the matter, however, is that life is insane. It has been insane since the day he was mauled. Knowing about werewolves before the fact did not mean he knew about werewolves. The lack of control was frightening. Feeling like there was a monster inside of him ready to throw his ideals and morals aside to feed had him looking down the barrel of his magnum more than once. Boston was where it should have ended but Boston is where it all really began.

Following orders, being subject to the whims and pull of the pack, serve as an anchor. Boston allows him to feel human. Boston grants him the freedom to stay in one place and try his best to play the part of Aaden’s guardian. But it is a freedom that can only be experienced within the confines of the city limits. He is too paranoid to stray out of fear that his wolf might begin to revert. Boston is freedom and Boston is a cage. It is insane.

His arsenal of weapons is tucked away in a locked cabinet hidden behind a false wall within his bedroom closet. Logan pops it open and checks over his magnum, makes sure it is clean and functional. As he does this, the man goes over a mental checklist. The wolf was last seen haunting the Emerald Necklace. It is assumed dangerous –shoot to kill. They are nearly out of milk, he should stop by a corner store on the way back – Logan has had issues focusing as of late.

Aaden is at a friend’s birthday party; he won’t be home until Sunday. Logan is gifted an unobstructed window of time to play the part of Nikolai’s trained hound, and he is determined to find the beast and put it down. The world is a dangerous place as it stands; Logan does not need more to worry about. Once less out-of-control werewolf in the city is one less potential accident. He is not doing it for the pack. He is not doing it for Nikolai. Aaden, though thankfully ignorant to Boston’s supernatural denizens, is Logan’s primary concern. He loads his gun, tucks it into his chest harness, and slips a jacket on to conceal it.

He expects a long night as he trolls through the streets in his old pickup. It is an expectation quickly proven false when he catches sight of a large animal cutting through Boston Commons. Logan parks his vehicle, hops out and sets after the animal on foot. What he eventually comes upon is no growling and snarling beast, and the sight poses enough questions for the hunter to lower his drawn gun.

Grey eyes take stock of the exhausted animal, of the trashcan lid stuck firmly around its neck, and Logan huffs out disbelievingly. ”You can’t be my wolf.” Rumors painted the picture of an angry, vicious thing that was constantly on the prowl. All Logan sees is a lump of dopey, exhausted and dejected dog. ”You uh, need help there, buddy?” He knows that the thing is a werewolf and not a lost family pet, and yet he cannot help it, it is simply within his nature to help. The hunter kneels down and gestures for the animal to come closer with a flick of his fingers.

”Come here and I’ll get that off of you. Then we can both go home and pretend like this never happened.” Logan, thankfully, has outgrown embarrassing late night wolf adventures , but he feels for the guy – whoever he might be.

[Ari]

The werewolf has pressed itself beneath the bench of a picnic table by the time it first catches Logan’s scent. It freezes in preparation, ready to dash off once again, but the weariness in its bones wins out; the sudden and subtle whiff of pack it catches on the air reinforces its desire to keep still. A tongue flicks out over his nose and the animal growls, low and rumbling in his chest – a frightened sound of halfhearted warning made as he peers out from beneath his makeshift hideaway. It regards Logan with curiosity and suspicion, uncomprehending his soothing words, but ceases its defensive posturing when the man crouches down.

Its weight shifts, coiled to spring, and its ears pin back to its skull. There is indecision and bewilderment in its demeanor, a misunderstanding of a fight-or-flight mechanism that can’t quite work itself out. Even the animal’s brain can understand the implication behind Logan’s comforting tone, and his smell is encouraging – where the beast would flee normally from confrontation, here, it waits.

Pale gold eyes go wide, and the stout wolf pulls its lips from its teeth in a defensive expression of fear and intimidation; it does not lunge, but simply cowers with the obvious manner of a wild creature backed into a corner. That Logan makes no move for him is somewhat pacifying – after a moment, the animal’s ears roll forward once more, and he extends his muzzle slowly towards the patient stranger. The smell of wolf about him is entrancing and calming despite his human form, and though the white beast harbors a lurking fear of his own kind, the call of pack and authority is irresistible.

The animal approaches, all stiff legs and tucked tail; it simply melts to the ground when Logan grows reassured enough to reach for him. In the shadow of another, it is uncertain of its footing and concerned for its own safety, and so reacts by submitting unconditionally; the creature is rarely intentionally malicious, and Logan’s steady cool is an appropriate balm to its prior frenzied confusion. Despite Ari’s rather unhelpful impersonation of a puddle, the hunter’s efforts to slip the metal and plastic from around his neck are ultimately successful and not met with further aggression – the wolf, for its part, only gags and snorts and wriggles backwards before finally coming loose.

Suddenly freed, the animal bumps its large head against Logan’s knee before falling to its side, snuffling and kicking at the grass and dirt. He rolls at the hunter’s feet, paws flailing and tongue lolling, groaning in animalistic enjoyment – and comes to rest with that scarred nose pressed against Logan’s boot. Satisfied that it has found New Friend, the wolf huffs a sigh and settles, his thick tail sweeping broad, slow strokes behind him. With a lack of restrained reminiscent of an excited puppy more than a dignified animal, he scoots his body forward one wriggling inch at a time, pressing himself up against Logan’s legs, and whiiiines.

[Logan]

Making nice with strange wolves is not on Logan’s to-do list – far from it. He is supposed to put a bullet between an unknown beast’s eyes and yet here he is, sweet talking and playing the good Samaritan. Maybe he is losing his grizzled edge, and maybe raising a kid has turned him soft, but Logan likes to think it is his gut talking – and his gut says the white animal is nothing more than a whelp. It bristles and tries to act big, but Logan delivers only a resolute calm in response. He may have no mind for poker, but the hunter likes to think he can tell when a man (or wolf) is bluffing.

”Easy, easy – that’s it.” The animal’s front of aggression peels away and Logan reaches out to grip at the plastic edges of the trashcan lid. ”I hope your midnight snack was worth it,” he muses with a soft smile as he negotiates the lid off of the wolf’s head. Ben always said that he was a soft touch, and Logan, as of late, has not proven his brother wrong. The liberated animal makes every attempt to prove the whelp theory correct, and Logan can only chuckle at its behavior.

He reaches out to take the creature’s head in his hands and rewards it with a hardy scratch to the scruff behind its ear. ”I bet you’re some sort of super macho fella.” Logan realizes that this is entirely a one-sided conversation but something in the animal’s disposition compels him to talk. ”A professional tough guy by day, trashcan raiding pup by night.” It is an amusing image, one that earns a lopsided grin from the hunter. ”It could be worse.” The white wolf could be a blood thirsty, uncontrollable animal. Logan figures he should count himself lucky that the night has yet to turn bloody.

A sigh, a quick smile, and Logan gives the wolf one last playful jostle before standing up. ”Well, you stay out of trouble, tough guy.” He has not bagged himself a beast, but Logan figures he has earned himself a little good karma. The night has not been a total waste. ”And keep your nose out of places where it doesn’t belong, yeah?” Futile advice when talking to a werewolf locked in their animal state, but at least Logan can say he tried. He cracks a grin and heads back to his truck, thinking he is damned glad he has outgrown the phase of late night wolf-born wandering.

Logan slips into the driver’s seat of his vehicle when his cell rings. He checks its interface, frowns, but answers the phone nonetheless. ”Duvall,” he greets curtly and is immediately debriefed by an associate. They found the problem wolf, it’s dead, still keep an eye out for any strange happenings. They drone on and Logan listens attentively until something catches his eye. He swears he saw a flash of white. ”What? Yeah, no, I got it. Understood.” Logan prematurely ends the call and tucks his phone back into his pocket.

He pushes the door open and should the wolf be there, Logan engages it in a brief, disbelieving staring contest. He throws a look around, does not yet notice anyone else in the immediate territory. ”Ah hell, guy.” The creature does not seem too keen on heading home and that poses an issue. ”You’re going to get the both of us in trouble.” Grey eyes drop to the side thoughtfully. Aaden is gone for the weekend, some of Nikolai’s men are still on the hunt for stray wolves. He looks at the trashcan raider and shakes his head, leans back and pats the seat on the passenger side.

”Who wants to go for a car ride, good boy.” Logan starts to wonder at what point he thought treating a werewolf like a family pet was something you do, but chalks it up to the late hour—and a soft touch.

[Ari]

The man keeps making those droning noises, those soft and consoling words that the wolf cannot understand and yet is held in the sway off; he wuffs softly, leaning in to the offered scratches. Clearly this is what it had been missing – obviously this is what being a werewolf is about, and the hunger in its stomach is quickly forgotten. When Logan rises to leave the animal sits up and waits with his head cocked, the very image of the confused loyal hound left abandoned – and unfortunately for the well-meaning hunter, the wolf has other ideas. Once the man has disappeared over the rise back to the road, the white beast takes off; he skulks about in the shadows, darts between trees, and ultimately finds himself sniffing about at the driver’s side door to a worn Ford pickup.

He presses his head flat to the metal and pushes – and is only surprised when the door pushes back. Pale eyes seek out grey, and the animal ducks his head in an almost sheepish motion at having been caught, but his weight shifts between his massive forepaws with tense excitement. The universal gesture for c’mon up is greeted with the expected youthful exuberance, and the wolf crawls over his new companion in an undignified tangle of limbs before settling into the passenger seat – because he is a good boy, yes, and he does want to go for a car ride. It is probably the greatest day of the animal’s short and pathetic little life.

There is enough human memory and instinct left inside him to having him nosing and whimpering at the window as they pull away from the curb. Either Logan will give in and lower it for him, or the wolf will paw at the door persistently enough that he discovers the switch for himself; in either case, what results is a dopey-grinned canine hanging his head out into the night, tongue lolling. This is where he will remain, quiet and clearly content, until they at last arrive at their destination.

Ari trots at Logan’s heel like a well-trained dog, and regardless of any intentions the hunter may have had to see him off, the wolf persists until he’s wheedled his way inside Logan’s apartment – where he sets to sniffing about curiously, and with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. There is a newfound confidence that strikes him, and the animal puffs up cheerfully. The truck was his and this apartment is his and Logan is his. This couch is his – and he displays that ownership with zeal, climbing up onto the sofa and rolling about contentedly. Any effort made to remove him will be met only with a pathetic stare and a confused, betrayed whine, and the animal circles and shifts until the cushions beneath him are suitably (and arbitrarily) comfortable.

He huffs a sigh, places his great head on his forepaws, and settles in to sleep.

It is with the confines of unconsciousness that the animal peels away; layers of humanity are exposed as fur and claw retreats, twisting and coiling. Dull hazel eyes blink blearily in the sunlight as the man left behind awakens, feeling heavy and exhausted from a night of activities he can’t even remember; a headache pounds behind his temple, and his mouth tastes like trash and… hamburger. Grimacing, Ari sits up to the roil and churn of his unhappy stomach – somehow still hungry – and assesses his surroundings.

To the young werewolf’s ongoing dismay, it is not the first time he’s woken up from the wolf’s blackout in a foreign location. It is, however, the first time he’s been indoors, in an apartment he does not recognize. On a couch. Naked.

Ari runs his hand over his face slowly, eyes screwed shut – like if he can breathe in deep and open them again, whatever embarrassment he’s suffered will all just have been a dream.

[Logan]

It is one hell of a groggy morning. Logan is sore enough from weariness that for a brief moment, he thinks he has a hangover – then he remembers he does not drink. He swivels and his bare feet hit the cool wood of his bedroom floor. A sleep-slow mind keeps him bound to the mattress and the tattooed man run his rough palms over his face and eyes. A heavy sigh, and he stands and adjusts his dark-blue boxer briefs before making his way out. It is the weekend and Logan sets the sleepy cogs of his mind into motion, and goes over his chore list. The truck needs its oil changed and he promised Miss Jaworski that he would take a look at one of the building’s water heaters. There are things to do --

And a naked man in his living room.

He thinks – Oh, that’s right and holds his hands up in the universal give me a moment gesture. Logan disappears into his room and returns shortly with a stack of clothing. The werewolf keeps his eyes schooled on the stranger’s face as he hands him the old shirt and sweat pants. ”They’re probably too big for you, but it’s better than nothing.” That there is a strange, nervous looking man wearing his birthday suit in the middle of his apartment does not seem to faze Logan. ”Well, you’re no Mad Max,” he muses with a smile that suggests there may be an inside joke. The tough guy theory seems to have been debunked.

A knock at the door steals his attention and Logan leaves Ari to answer it. He cracks the door open just enough to slide his head out, and uses his body to block the interior of his apartment from view. In front of him, in all her five-foot-two-inch glory, is Miss Jaworski. The elderly woman wears a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses with a high enough prescription to make her eyes look comically large. She pulls the knitted shawl hanging over her shoulders tighter and narrows her eyes.

”Morning, Miss Jaworski. Is there something I can do for you?” Logan offers his best boy scout’s smile but the Polish woman does not seem convinced.

She places one of her small, thin-fingered hands on the door. ”I hear you bring dog here. Big dog.” Nothing goes on in this building without it being known by every resident come next morning. ”No pets,” she declares resolutely and pushes at the door.

”There’s no dog here – I know the rules.” Logan is saved the guilt because he technically is not lying.

”Let me see.” The woman declares.

”I really don’t think that’s necessary.” Logan simpers.

”Let me see.” For a tiny woman, she is surprisingly strong. She shoulders her way past and Logan lets her in by stepping aside.

Miss Jaworski is immediately greeted by the sight of Ari in whatever state of dress (or undress) he has managed. She recognizes the shirt as one of Logan’s and begins the age-old practice of jumping to conclusions. ”Where is the boy?” She turns her round face up to Logan and waits expectantly.

”At a friend’s for the weekend,” he mutters in return because he knows what is going to be subject of interest within the apartment building for at least a month. Miss Jaworski takes this tidbit of information in and seems to mull it over as she nods her head.

”Stop being so embarrassed. Is 2012.” She waves her hand dismissively and takes on a rather pretentious tone. Those brown eyes look between Ari and Logan, and the woman smiles like the cat that caught the canary – or like the hen that just stumbled on the juiciest kind of gossip. ”You have nice morning.” The tiny woman turns to leave and Logan opens his mouth to try and set the story straight. His jaw snaps shut; he figures it is pointless.

Logan slowly clicks the door shut then turns around to face his guest. ”So – how do you like your eggs?” Like there is nothing strange about the situation, and like he’s running a goddamned Bed & Breakfast out of his apartment.

[Ari]

When Logan finally makes his appearance, Ari is perched uncomfortably on the couch with a throw pillow settled discreetly in his lap, his head in one hand. He shoots the man a stricken look between his fingers, and his motion to speak – to question, to find some explanation – is silenced in a gesture. If there is a list of humiliating experiences his wolf has gotten him into, this is nearing the top; coping with the embarrassment of his condition on his own is one thing, but sharing the shame of his late-night activities with a stranger is another entirely. The werewolf accepts the clothes with downcast eyes when Logan returns, his weary brain still trying to simply process.

”Thanks,” Ari mutters, and manages to keep the sullenness out of his honest appreciation. He is not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth, and much like the night previous, Logan’s steady calm works as a suitable salve on his raw nerves. ”You don’t have to, but—“ and he makes a vague gesture at his own blatant nudity. ”—I guess maybe you do.” Because being clothed only in nervousness and a pillow is clearly the highlight of both their days. The younger man fixes the hunter with a crooked, confused smile at the missed joke, trying to play along. ”You’re—“

But there is a knock at the door, and Ari’s inquiry is cut off with a nervous start. As Logan handles the visitor, the werewolf dresses, but his natural curiosity wins out; he listens intently to their conversation, casting an assessing glance about the man’s apartment. It is all he can do to not wince and melt back into the couch at the mention of big dogs; any lingering doubts that Logan might not have known what he was getting into are quelled. The man’s nose is not as keen as his animals – and certainly not as well-trained – but with the pieces of the puzzle falling into place, he recognizes the subtle trace of wolf.

It should change everything. Logan is large, intimidating, scarred and tattooed – and very likely a werewolf. Every siren in the young man’s mind is screaming in warning, in paranoia and mistrust, and yet something in the hunter’s gentle demeanor stays his suspicions. Ari tells himself a criminal wouldn’t have bothered to dress him – wouldn’t be making nice with a little old lady – and simply resolves to make his exit as soon as possible.

He is picking at his oversized shirt distractedly when the woman makes her entrance. Pinned by her stare, all Ari can do is raise a hand in a bashful greeting, as frozen as a deer caught in headlights; he understands her vague insinuations, he knows how this looks, and a flush works its way up his neck and cheeks as she brazenly dismisses their mutual humiliation. If he hadn’t already ruined Logan’s day, he’s pretty sure it’s getting worse with every passing moment – and yet when the hunter rounds back on him, it is not at all with the frustration Ari expects.

”You don’t – I mean, I could really just use a ride home, I think.” Except Logan’s offer doesn’t seem to be one he’s allowed to deny – and Ari’s stomach complains loudly at the idea that he might continue to ignore it. He yields, sliding a hand down the back of his neck, and the coy glance he shoots the hunter is lit with a sudden hopefulness. ”Scrambled?” And presuming he hasn’t been lead on, he will follow Logan to the kitchen, where he proceeds to make himself simultaneously useful and scarce.

”I hope I didn’t get you in any trouble,” he mutters, searching the cabinets for plates. ”I don’t know what you did – but thank you. I think.” The heavy crease in his brow, his unwillingness to meet Logan’s gaze, they only emphasize Ari’s fear of addressing this topic of conversation – and yet politeness and curiosity both beg he handle it. Regardless of his embarrassment (and implications made by Miss Jaworski), waking here has been better than groggily coming to buck-naked in the park, and Logan has no reason to be so kind. Ari places the plates by the stove and leans one hip against the counter, arm extended in offering. ”I’m Ari. Sorry for – all this.” Whatever he did last night included. ”…Didn’t really expect to wake up on your couch.” Like he could have somehow prepared if he had; but at this point, Ari would take any attempt at conversation to stave off the awkwardness.

[Logan]

”Can’t let a man leave on an empty stomach,” Logan explains as he heads into the kitchen. There is no evidence of discomfort in the tattooed man’s disposition. He has an easy, gentle way about him that suggests he is a willing benefactor. Logan is not running a hostel out of his apartment, but paying it forward has been a family creed for generations. Besides, he feels for the guy; Logan has had his fair share of embarrassing mornings before he managed to get a handle on his wolf. He takes to rummaging through the refrigerator and places the carton of eggs on the counter, along with a pack of sausage and bacon. Protein, protein, and more protein – the able cure to a wolf hangover.

His chuckle vibrates his shoulders and he shakes his head. ”Nah. No trouble.” A series of cracks sees a number of eggs spilling their contents onto a heated pan, and the room quickly fills with the scent of breakfast. ”Looks like your wolf is a bit of a trash hound -- Got your head stuck in a lid, I helped you out, ”he throws a smile in Ari’s direction as he pushes the curdling eggs across the pan. ”I guess you took a shining to me. Followed me back to my truck and I figured, hell, I couldn’t just leave you there.” An honest explanation from an honest man – and Logan figures the guy deserves the details. He shovels the eggs onto a plate and turns to find Ari’s extended arm.

”Logan,” he returns and gives Ari’s hand a solid shake. ”Now stop your worrying and sit your ass down – food’s nearly on.” Ten minutes later and Logan is piling a generous helping of eggs, sausage and bacon onto Ari’s plate. ”Hope you don’t mind orange juice,” the werewolf says as he pokes his head into the fridge. Logan takes a seat at the small kitchen table and fills Ari’s glass first. ”Haven’t had a chance to hit the grocery store yet.” It has been a busy week is his excuse, but Logan has been abnormally forgetful as of late. With Aaden elsewhere, his schedule is different – and Logan is a creature of habit. One upset in things-as-usual, and he tends to work at a messier level, if only fractionally.

He plunges a butter knife into the jar of raspberry jam and spreads a dollop over a piece of toast. ”Take your time,” Logan advises then takes a large bite of bread. He chews and does not talk until he swallows. ”There’s no telling what your wolf filled your belly with last night.” The hunger following a shift can be nearly painful, but Logan doesn’t want Ari to shock his system and make himself sick by eating too fast. He tucks into his own plate of food and if any awkward silences ensue, Logan seems oblivious. The dwells in conversation are used, on Logan’s part, to think and to consider his houseguest.

Boston is a tight ship with a policy that is a breath away from zero-tolerance. Logan was fortunate that Nikolai did not order him to be put down when his wolf threw him into a world of trouble. Granted, his transgression was far worse than a simple foray in Boston’s garbage ; but he wonders what would have been Ari’s fate had one of his colleagues found him first. Grey eyes glance in the younger man’s direction and Logan decides he does not like the conclusion to his hypothetical situation. ”You make it a habit of running loose like that?” His tone is that of a father or a mentor preparing a lecture; he cannot help it – it is in his nature.

”If you do, you shouldn’t,” he looks up to catch Ari’s eyes. ”And if you don’t – you should keep it that way.”

Breakfast complete with a well-meaning interrogation. Logan admits – he is curious.

[Ari]

Being reminded that Ari spends his evening as little more than a glorified dog – and one with all the awful penchants that entails – hardly improves his confidence. But Logan’s smile is infectious, and the man can’t help but simper along as he waits on their meal; when it arrives, Ari falls upon it with a hunger restrained only by ingrained etiquette. ”Juice would be great,” he replies between mouthfuls. ”—I’m just thankful for the hospitality. It’s not something you had to do.” And that says it all. Conversation falls to the wayside as he returns to his breakfast, gradually relaxing before Logan’s gentle charisma.

Where Ari may seem reserved, the lingering nervousness has dissipated; he appears quietly accepting of their meeting and the strange circumstances of their breakfast. It does not make him comfortable and it does not make him trusting, but it allows him to shoulder through the conversation while disregarding the lurking awkwardness. What’s done is done; and Ari will not repay Logan’s kindness by fleeing like a fool. The food doesn’t hurt, either – admittedly, since the inception of his other half, a full stomach goes a long way to settling his mind. Logan’s reminder of a comment is met with a creeping flush along the back of the werewolf’s neck. ”Nothing good,” he supposes; from the smirk that forms at the corners of his mouth, it is a pathetic attempt at levity.

Ari glances up to meet Logan’s eyes, and for a brief second, the first inclination of bite and resentment is reflected in his returned stare; it is an emotion abandoned in an instant as the werewolf drops his gaze to his plate. There is a fine line between well-meaning advice and direct patronization, and Ari is amiable enough – or simply indebted enough – to assume Logan’s curiosity is the former.

”No,” he begins evasively, firmly, pushing the last of his eggs around his plate with his fork. There is a pause, a chance for him to let the subject die there – but with a frown, the man presses on. ”—Not intentionally.” A revealing turn of phrase. Ari can feel the contents of his stomach shifting with the sickening admission, a hint at the melancholy he hasn’t had the heart to face. He distracts himself with another small bite. ”It just – it just happens.” Suddenly, painfully, at the drop of a hat. A minor inconvenience one day might rouse the beast the next – and when night falls, sometimes that presence is impossible to resist. Locked doors, restraining himself in his own home, it had only made the urges worse.

Waking up in a stranger’s apartment seems like a small price to pay to be free of the wolf’s call for a week – maybe two. Ari, in truth, has no idea how lucky he may have been.

”—It’s not… like that for you?” Brow furrowed, the younger man finally chances a glance upward, questioning and hesitant but committed. He is not seeking a mentor – he has no idea that concept may exist – but Logan has made himself available, and Ari is emboldened by the man’s nonchalance. The idea of discussing this strange and otherworldly secret seems less taboo in the face of the hunter’s particular brand of acceptance. Logan, at least, seems to have handled this curse without losing some normalcy; he seems human. Ari’s policy of don’t ask, don’t tell has yet to reward him with that same benefit.

He rises from his chair with a scrape of wood over linoleum, and will deposit his plate in the sink before helping to clear the table. ”I don’t know what to do, otherwise. It just howls.” It is not a request for help; it is not a plea for further advice. It is simply a statement of fact, one accentuated by the telling firmness with which Ari turns the tap and cleans his dishes. ”—I’ve never hurt anybody,” he adds almost fearfully – and a touch defensively – like maybe he’s realizing Logan’s reason for asking. It does not enter his brain that it’s not other people Logan is worried about.

Ari leans up against the counter with a huff, running his hand through his hair. His fingers linger on his temple, and his narrowed gaze is locked on the floor. ”I never asked for this.” Bitter, frustrated thoughts – made all the worse for knowing Logan does not deserve hearing his grievances aired. ”But I guess no one does.”

Logan’s own scars are likely proof enough of that.

[Logan]

Logan knows what it’s like. The wolf creeps up on a man and has them running wild and reckless, driven only by frenetic instinct. Sometimes bystanders are caught up in the chaos, sometimes people are hurt – killed, even. Those are the worst nights and the worst mornings. A man opens his eyes and there is the guilt, there is the phantom knowledge that he has committed a heinous act. The taste of iron sits heavy on his tongue and the inability to remember is almost as bad, and maybe worse, than knowing the truth. There is a reason Logan has a locker full of guns, and reasons more concerning why he regularly goes out and puts a bullet between a wolf’s eyes.

Ari stumbles his way through an explanation and Logan finds himself hoping that the shy, awkward guy never gives him reason to act.

”It used to be,” Logan admits as he sets his fork down and leans back into his chair, contemplative. The morning light streams through the kitchen window and cuts a harsh focus onto the man’s broad shoulders and scarred, angular face. Lines that speak to both his growing years and stress branch out from the corners of Logan’s eyes, and in the sharp early light, he looks his age and more. A sage, he is not, but Logan has been in this game longer than Ari and for his part, the man possesses a few pieces of knowledge that he is willing to impart.

He offers Ari a slow, disarming and good-humored smile. ”Hell, I’ve killed more than my fair share of neighborhood pets in my time.” The statement is an effort to relate and though spoken in jest, it is not a lie. Logan can handle the past with a grain of salt and a chuckle because he is not one to dwell, not one to waste time feeling sorry over himself or over what could have been. He has his moments, like anyone else, but Logan is a learned and determined optimist. ”It’s not an exact science,” he sighs and the smile fades as he turns a weighted stare towards the ceiling.

Logan cannot tell Ari that everything will be alright because in most cases, it isn’t. In most cases wolves die like the animals they are, alone and rotting in the open – a feast for the crows and maggots to gorge themselves upon. The pack helps, structure helps, but the animal is always hungry and if anyone asked Logan, he would claim that the hunger was kernel of truth within the legends deeming werewolfism a curse.

”It’s different – for everyone-- it’s different,” he settles and drops his gaze back onto Ari. There is a clarity in the light-grey of his eyes that speaks to the certainty of his words. Logan believes what he is saying is the truth and it is information hard won over years of personal experience. ” Some guys figure out what the wolf is hungry for. Sex. Drugs. Gambling – and they keep it fed. It helps takes the edge off when the animal takes over, anyway.” He shrugs. ”I personally don’t like that approach. It’s too easy to slip up, you know? And it lacks discipline. So I guess I managed to find my own way of handling it.”

The thrum of his fingers against the wood of the table finds rhythm with the sound of the city drifting in from outside. ”An anchor. Something or someone important to you. Important enough that you can remember them no matter what.” He thinks, in that moment, of a young boy with Ben’s smile and Jody’s intelligence. The whole importance of his life summed up and carried within one fragile human being. Sometimes it terrifies him, mostly it gives him the strength to carry on no matter what. ”When the wolf starts acting up, you think of them. The sound of their voice. Their heartbeat. The way they smell. It helps. Well, it helps me, at least. Like I said, it’s not an exact science.”

The remnants of his food have grown cold by now. A car’s brakes screech from outside and Boston marches into the busiest hours of her morning.

Logan holds Ari’s eyes. ”I wish I could tell you that I could help, but this is something you have to figure out for yourself.” Truth was a bitter medicine to swallow, but Logan was not one to sugarcoat things – not when they mattered. He shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck with a tight smile. ”This is one hell of a way to start the day, huh?”

[Ari]

The horror of waking up in an unfamiliar location, blood in his mouth and his nose and crusted beneath his fingers, has not gotten any easier with time. Ari suspects that it would take more than a handful of shifts scattered across uncomfortable and painful months for such trauma to become routine; he is not a violent man by nature, and the simple thought of the wild thing coiled up inside him is enough to crumble his careful attempts at confidence. Even Logan – though he comes across as some master at this, a learned man imparting his wisdom to a pathetic wretch of a student – has killed his share of pets; Ari’s gut twists in disgust and displeasure.

Reason and logic dictate that the creatures his animal had slaughtered had not all been hapless wild things – and he finds the idea of murdering some child’s pet cat almost as offensive as having bitten someone. The man is more thankful than he might admit that Logan had found him. Awkward mornings and shared stories pale in comparison to what may have happened otherwise; the taste of rancid hamburger still on his tongue is a small price to pay for waking up indoors, warm, and relatively safe.

”I don’t think science plays much of a part at all,” he jokes lamely, point driven home with a wan smile. Though every instinct inside him begs he drop his gaze, Ari matches Logan’s stare beat for beat. It holds no threat of challenge and yet the wolf is on edge, prepared to roll belly up and whimper to save its own hide; while the man himself is not terribly disinclined towards such (Logan is, after all, an intimidating sort), the beast’s cowardice is pitiable. Ari certainly doesn’t feel like a monster out of a horror movie – but he knows that anger that lurks beneath his skin, that aspect of the wolf he can’t control, and despite its nature he worries.

Better that Logan not placate him with falsehoods, and he is enough of a realist to sullenly accept the truth.

”I wouldn’t – I don’t want any of those things. I don’t want to feed it.” He doesn’t quite have the heart to say he doesn’t think the animal wants any of those things, either – that it seems more inclined towards eating trash and soliciting belly rubs than posturing and dominating or craving some sort of fix – but Ari lets that further embarrassment stay hidden. Logan likely has some idea, having coaxed the miserable wolf home.

He suspects he is a markedly abysmal werewolf, and he does not find that surprising.

”I’m sure there’s a way.” The comment is meant to be off-handed, reassuring, but it falls flat. Ari pulls himself away from the counter and tears his gaze from where it had drifted out the window, brow furrowed with the weight of Logan’s words – with what lurks between them, unsaid – and he wonders just who has made such a home of the scarred man’s heart. ”I don’t have – someone like that.” His mother’s memory comes unbidden, but there is no solace for the wolf in her image. ”But there’s always something. It’s not like I’ve been at this long.” Excuses or explanations, the younger man can’t be sure. Smooth fingertips slide along the edge of the table distractedly, and a sudden homesickness grips at him, a longing to be around something understood, something comfortable and familiar.

The squeal and whine of Boston’s early hours drags Ari out of his memories just as surely as he does Logan, and though there is a dose of caution in the other man’s words, he manages an attempt at a shrug and a grin. ”I’ve had worse, really. Waking up on a couch is better than – well, the park. Or anywhere. Or covered in—“ Ari grimaces, cutting himself off, tongue running unconsciously over his teeth. ”Anyway, breakfast helps. This,” he waves his hand in a vague motion at the table, encompassing Logan and their conversation in a gesture, ”helps. You didn’t have to, and I – well. Thank you.”

His fumbling attempts at gratitude hardly make a dent in his debt, but Ari is not too proud as to let a good deed go unanswered – particularly when it is not the last thing he will ask for. ”I just – I think I should get home. Could probably use a shower.” His own clothes wouldn’t hurt, either. Ari’s charming grin is years out of practice, and hits more in the realm of pleading than coaxing, but it says enough for his improved mood that he tries. ”If I could bum one last ride?”

What further wisdom there is to be learned from the older man is confined to small talk and idle banter, an acceptance on both their parts that there is nothing more to be done. They will not meet again. Ari’s debt will go unpaid. Life will carry on.

Deposited before his shabby building, the werewolf manages a stammering goodbye, and Ari Lawson at last skulks home with all the grace of a walk of shame and none of the lingering satisfaction.