we're burning down the highway skyline [Silas]

[Matthias Walker]

Tracking the lunar cycle is so normal a part of Matthias’s routine that it has become mechanical, automatic, the cycle of waxing to waning, new to full memorized down to the hour of the rising and setting.

Living with Silas has not changed that. If anything, it has exacerbated it: Mattie suspects Silas must keep track, but Hey, so how ’bout the next time you’re going to turn into a big bad wolf is not exactly socially appropriate pillow talk, so Matthias keeps it to a bare minimum, considering. Still, whether or not Silas likes it, there have been secrets shared and relegating the wolf to a closet is neither healthy nor safe. Mattie is not exactly a werewolf whisperer, but it is Silas, and it was the wolf that attacked the skinwalkers (for him or despite him is arguable, but the point stands) and the wolf that allowed him to touch it, so yes, the risk is one he is perfectly willing to accept.

Besides, the curiosity burns brighter than the well-deserved fear. This is a wolf that may not go for his throat; this is a wolf that may tolerate his presence—but it still comes down to Silas, the way the man is convinced he is a monster. Never mind logic, the sacrifice involved in throwing himself at four skinwalkers in front of an armed hunter, the offer of a bed and a roof, the way the werewolf wears his heart a little askew on his sleeve: Purely by dint of being extraordinarily hairy and toothy once a month, he is a monster.

Mattie may not be a psychologist or of thoroughly sound mental and emotional health himself—every hunter has his damage—but that kind of thinking is so easily recognizable as brutally unnecessary.

Of course, if tranquilizing the wolf is necessary, it may not exactly do wonders for Silas’s peace of mind, which, yes, Matthias recognizes, but, again: Calculated risk. He gets it.

The full moon rises at seven-thirty.

It is seven-twenty when Matthias steps into the apartment, sets down the loaded tranquilizer gun on the counter with a neat click of metal on marble. It is a fairly small thing, less because of efficiency and more because there is simply no room for a larger gun in the mess of weaponry and personal belongings that typically resides in the backseat of his car. It does not bear mentioning that he also has a silver pocketknife in the pouch of Silas’s hoodie; it is simply a precaution—Mattie has seen far too many wolf attacks to happily lock himself into an apartment with a werewolf sans a weapon and a backup, and ideally he would have a Plan C, an ace in the hole, too, but for this, he will just have to make do.

Pulling an actual gun with silver bullets again is not an option.

“Hey,” he offers to Silas easily, flashes him a casual grin as he moves to greet the doctor with a companionable nudge. His plan is mostly wing it, but it can’t hurt to try and make Silas relax a little first. The quirk of Matthias’s grin is teasing, comfortable as he pads barefoot around him to lean against the counter (the couch is thoroughly shunned—Silas keeps promising furniture shopping but it hasn’t happened yet and Mattie is coming to accept that his hatred of the damn thing is going to remain until it is duly replaced), tilts his head in mock contemplation, “So, hey—how do you feel about a pink collar or something? With, you know, diamond studs and shit. Pretty little silver name-tag hanging off it, poetry embroidered on the inside?”

[Zephyr]

Before he turned, Silas never worried about the moon. He never paid attention to the moon. It didn’t matter. Now though, the moon means fucking everything, and he’s always been so careful. He locks himself up in the broom closet before he turns, and he makes sure that no one’s in his apartment.

Not even Nate.

He isn’t sure what the other man would think about his arrangement. He’s never shown much interest in finding out, and Silas is just fine with this. Nate is probably too engrossed in his own monthly shift to worry about Silas’, and while he wishes Nate would ask…just once, he isn’t open enough with even himself to just tell him out of the blue.

The wolf isn’t something he’s comfortable with, even after all this time. He hasn’t been a werewolf as long as Nathan or half the guys in the pack, but he’s been one long enough to know that he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t trust the dark furred beast that he turns into. And while Silas doesn’t actively care about anyone save himself and Nate and now Matthias, he doesn’t want to be responsible for hurting anyone if his wolf gets loose.

He’s seen enough werewolf movies to make this seem like a real possibility, thanks.

He deludes himself into thinking that the thing is better off in the closet. It can’t hurt anyone and it can’t get hurt if a hunter or even a well-meaning citizen with a gun happens upon it. Everyone’s safer this way, and even if the wolf is a little less than pleased with the arrangement, it isn’t like Silas particularly cares…or knows for that matter. Though, he can feel it sometimes. Recently, it’s been more active, rising white hot and desperate in his skull, blinding him at all the strangest times. He doesn’t know if the thing is restless and wants to actually be able to run for a change, but he isn’t interested in finding out.

Even if it pushes at him at every turn, he’s been strong enough to shove it back down, and he has to continue to be strong enough, because he doesn’t want it getting out. Not now when he has so much going for him.

So when Matthias suggests that Silas not only not lock himself in the closet during the next full moon, but he let Matthias be present while he shifts, the idea isn’t one that he ever pretends to entertain. He can’t help it. The shift is a personal thing. It’s terrible and agonizing, and it burns through to your soul and your so laid open and vulnerable in that moment…it isn’t something he’d want anyone to see besides Nate if it ever comes up. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Matthias…he does, and that’s probably what leads him to agree, no matter how grudgingly. He doesn’t trust his beast, and he isn’t thrilled that it might decide that Matthias will make a good snack.

He’s been antsy all day, casting restless glances at the closet. He knows even if he does go in, Matthias will just let it out after all’s said and done. As the time starts creeping closer, Silas gets moody and irritable and he just wants it to come already so he can get the damn thing over with. When Matthias walks in, Silas is standing mutely in the kitchen, staring at the closet like it’s a lifeline or something. He’s gripping the counter, his knuckles white against the marble, and he’s filled with a restless energy, his entire body terribly tense, like a rubber band stretched taut.

His eyes jerk to the gun as it lands on the counter, and he stares at it in lieu of staring at the closet some more. His eyes don’t leave it. “Something tells me that doesn’t have silver bullets in it.” He says, his voice completely flat to counter the trembling in his arms. “You should have brought silver bullets.” He says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to want to shoot your best friend with silver. It’s the only solution, as far as Silas is concerned.

Matthias’ jest snaps his attention away from the gun, and he licks his lips, throat suddenly gone dry. He doesn’t want to do this with Matthias in here, and while his joking isn’t entirely welcome, it’s refreshing and his tense face breaks out into the very smallest of smiles. “You’d better fucking not.” He growls, looking back at the gun and letting the smile slip away. “You’re sure about this?” Silas asks, reaching over to pick up the gun. He considers the weight of it in one hand, his eyes expressionless as he slowly lifts it to his head and presses it against his skull, faking pulling the trigger as he looks at Matthias, letting out a dry laugh with no humor.

“Be careful, okay?” is wrenched from his dry throat as he lowers the gun, but keeps it firmly in hand, as if he were going to shoot himself once it happens.

Suddenly his gut lurches painfully and he groans, dropping the gun to the counter and grabbing for it blindly.

[Matthias Walker]

Silas looks like a mess.

Knowing the guy, he’s probably been psyching himself out all day, and something as hot as guilt burns in the pit of Matthias’s stomach. It is not his intention to let Silas turn himself into a wreck, and if that means acting like this is perfectly normal, as if he has done this a million times and there is nothing to worry about, then so be it. If that means joking even when the slow burning anticipation and fear fill the hollow spaces between his ribs and bones, then so be it. If that means lying through his teeth, then so be it. But in the questions on the gun, Matthias can tell him the truth; Silas so clearly does not trust the wolf and if knowing that Mattie is unarmed makes him feel better, then fine. Good, even.

“I’m sure,” he says evenly. He is not; his heartbeat is picking up with the slow drag of minutes and seconds till the full moon and the uncertainty of whether or not he could even bring himself to pull a silver knife on Silas is burning in the back of his mind. Mattie is patently unused to having friends and he is not in the habit of cutting up those he does have, especially not with silver. Blue eyes flicker watchfully at Silas’s mockery of suicide, and the hands he slips into the pocket of the hoodie are tight with tension. “Not silver,” he adds, tilting his head in concession, “They’re just tranquilizers. Normal person would be knocked out six hours; with your metabolism I’d give it three.”

Estimate or lie. He has never shot a werewolf with a tranquilizer before. It may not even work, for all he knows; perhaps the supernatural are immune, perhaps the wolf can ignore it long enough to rip his throat out first.

“Hey,” mouth crooking up in a smile designed more to reassure than to humor; Matthias hates the idea of Silas pulling the trigger on himself but trying to snatch the gun away is going to accomplish nothing. He steps closer to Silas anyway, reaches out to squeeze his shoulder, “You know me, I’m always careful. I’m the king of careful. Relax, okay? I totally got this.” This, the easy way he can spew utter bullshit and smile like it’s true, it burns sour in the back of his throat, especially with the way Silas holds the gun like he’s terrified, like if he lets go the entire world is going to fall apart in his hands, too.

And maybe it will.

Matthias moves the second Silas groans, pushing himself between Silas and the counter—and the gun—and wraps his arms around the man before it occurs to him that holding onto a werewolf presumably mid-transformation may not be one of his brightest ideas. But for now Silas is still human and in pain, and Matthias holds on, cards his fingers through his hair and croons encouragingly, nonsensical, “Shhh, c’mon, I got you, that’s it, breathe, sweetheart,” the term of endearment is not one he has used since—since the time he shot Silas, actually, but it slips out before he can filter it and backtracking over a nickname is not part of his plan.

So he doesn’t retract it, just kisses Silas on the temple, holds on a moment longer and then steps back to appraise him carefully, tries not to wonder if this is going to be the last human face he sees. Very softly, squeezing Silas’s shoulders and trying to catch his eyes, “It’s okay,” and Matthias does not allow himself to acknowledge that he is trying to convince himself as much as he is Silas.

[Zephyr]

Silas does not, as it turns out, grab the counter when he stumbles forward, but Matthias. Alarm shoots through him as the man embraces him and holds him there. Panic and fear race through his head in equal amounts, but there’s relief there too. A sick feeling that says he doesn’t have to go through this alone, at least not this time. He tries not to think about what will happen when there’s more wolf than man if Matthias is still holding onto him. And he tries to think of something besides the pain radiating from his core. “Matthias!” He snarls, squeezing his eyes shut. “Get the fuck away from me!” His words are strained and painful, and he grips Matthias like the kid is a lifeline…which really does make getting away from Silas a little difficult.

His entire body is trembling, quivering with pain and restless energy and he lets his head drop with a snarl, burying his face in Matthias’ neck, fingers digging so deeply into the man’s back that it’s a wonder they haven’t gone right through the fabric of the hoodie.

And he isn’t letting go, he’s holding onto him tighter and whispering soothing things into Silas’ ear, but Silas is so far from being able to be soothed. He can’t let go of Matthias, because he’s desperate for that one last shred of humanity, because he won’t have it for the rest of the night. Tears of pain squeeze from his eyes as he presses his face tighter against Matthias’ neck, his words soft and fearful. “Mattie…” And that’s the first time Silas has used the kid’s nickname. Words were coming harder and were filled with more emotion. “…please. Go. I don’t want to hurt you.” Never hurt you was voiced in his head, but didn’t come out.

He wouldn’t be trying this hard with Nate. The other man would be there changing with him. And whatever happens after, Nate’s wolf can hold its own. All Matthias has is a tranquilizer gun against over a hundred pounds of pissed off monster, and there’s nothing Silas can do about it. Snarling at Matthias hasn’t helped, yelling at him and cursing him out only encourages him…there’s nothing he can do but hold on and hope for the best.

Knuckles turn white as he grips the hoodie tighter, all thoughts washed from his mind as another wave of pain radiates through his body. He cries out loudly, head dropping to rest against Matthias’ chest for a moment before his body starts to shift. He’s been trying to hold it off, to keep it from coming, but the moon must be damn close, because he can’t think of anything but the pain. It fills every fiber of his being, and he can’t even think to hold onto Matthias anymore. He’s just trying to push the man away, snarling and fighting at him until Matthias inexplicably lets go, and without support, Silas falls to the floor, writhing.

The wolf takes its time today, seemingly taking revenge by prolonging the man’s agony. Shifting is a painful and brutal thing, and by the end, the wolf is laying in the pile of Silas’ ruined clothing, chest heaving as it catches its breath. It takes the animal a second to realize it isn’t alone and it darts up, green and brown gaze shooting to Matthias in an instant. It snarls, eyes wide and panicked. It seems though, that the animal isn’t particularly angry, just frightened and confused.

In an instant, it bounds away from Matthias, scrambling into the closet door and bouncing off. It scrabbles at the door with blunt claws, making a sound that’s a mix between a frightened yelp and a whine. It wants out. As far away from this human as possible. The closet is its’ prison, but it’s also painfully familiar. This place reeks of the man, the one who cages it, and it just craves familiarity at the moment, even if it means being locked up.

The scents are all wrong, and fear slices through the beast's heart like a hot knife.

Pain and fear and confusion are the only thing the animal knows.

[Matthias Walker]

“No,” he snaps, without thinking; the fear coils hot and cold by turns in the pit of his stomach but that makes holding on to Silas so much the more instinctive than letting him go, and the way Silas is clutching at him makes getting away less of an option anyway. He will have to, at some point—but that isn’t now. Now Silas is just hurting and still a man and very much afraid, and Mattie tightens his grip on the werewolf, lips pressed against his temple as he pulls Silas against him, trying to leech the pain through touch from the man’s body. The edge of the counter is digging into the small of his back and Silas’s fingers burn bruise-tight through the layers of fabric between them, but the pain is easy ignored, has nothing on the way Silas writhes against him and pleads.

“Trust me,” he whispers, wonders if he’s anything near convincing with his heartbeat stuttering painfully loud against his sternum and surely Silas can hear it too. And then, “It’s okay, it’s okay, c’mon, baby, I got you, there you go—you’re so fucking brave, you hear me? Just let go, shh, it’s okay—”

He does not think anything has ever been less okay than when Silas starts to fight him, though, and Matthias forces himself to loosen his grip on the werewolf and step back. It is patently stupid not to before he ends up with an armful of mistrustful, angry wolf, but the knowledge that it is necessary does not make it any easier to watch Silas fall to the ground, caution staying his hand from touching or venturing too close. It would be fascinating if it were not terrifying in its unnaturalness: Mattie hovers on the edge of the kitchen, knuckles white and his fingernails pressing into numb palms, watching the snap and shift of bones from human to animal, wonders whether if Silas was looking at him he would be able to see the moment where human sanity faded into animal instinct.

Then the wolf looks up and Matthias feels his breath hitch in his throat, frozen for a moment at the aching familiarity of green-brown eyes. The snarl snaps him out of the spell, and the wolf bolts before Mattie can figure out what he is supposed to do—so he follows. It is a peculiar calmness that settles over him, deep and cold, the knowledge that he is very deliberately leaving behind the tranquilizer gun and walking towards a creature that can knock him down and kill him with a bare minimum of expended effort, but then again, this is what he is accustomed to: The hunt. Tempting fate. Defying death.

He stops six feet away from the animal, and even scratching at the closet door, it’s beautiful: Big and muscled and dark, the patterns of swirls and dapples over the fur breathtaking. It is the first time Mattie has really looked at a werewolf; it is not often he can spare the time to admire on hunts. And it’s not…scary. It snarled, yes, but it shows every sign of fear and none of aggression, and while fear is an easy lead to aggression, it doesn’t have to. Matthias swallows, his heartbeat still arrhythmic and loud in his chest, and sinks to his knees, palms open on his knees. Unthreatening. Submissive, even.

“Hey,” he says, soft, soothing. “Sweetheart, c’mon.” Whether or not it is intelligent enough to understand even the tone of the words, Matthias doesn’t know, but surely Silas is too smart for the wolf to be anything but. “It’s okay,” the words are steady, firm despite the vulnerability of his position, despite the terror of the wolf. “It’s okay. Look at you,” the awe need not be faked, “God, you are fucking gorgeous, sweetheart. Hey, c’mon, it’s not so bad out here, right? It’s still all yours, you’ve still got walls and me between you and the big bad world. Shhh, give it a chance, I promise it’s not that bad. C’mon, sweetheart, trust me, remember?”

[Zephyr]

The wolf does not understand anything that’s happening. It scratches at the door for a few more minutes, the whine in its throat is stuttered and desperate. The closet door is just as sturdy trying to get in as it is trying to get out, and the wolf, in its desperation, throws itself at the door, but it just bounces off again with a yelp and skitters away, realizing for the first time that the human is still there, approaching it…threatening it. The animal’s eyes are wide and fearful and it backs away, crouching towards the ground. A growl borne out of pure fear meets its ears and its tail thrashes nervously over shaking hocks.

The man is afraid, the wolf can smell it. But he is still approaching…then he kneels, and the animal is confused. As confused by this as it is by the man’s words and his placating gestures, because the gestures aren’t particularly useful in placating the wolf. It doesn’t know the words coming from the man’s mouth, but the tone is soothing, at least, and the whine in its throat dies as it studies the man silently, though it is still trembling in its panicked fear, nose twitching wildly and ears flat against its head. The beast is still trembling, fur silky soft and shining in the light of the apartment.

For a split second, it looks like it might give in. It might creep towards Matthias on massive paws…and it really seems like it. Massive head extends slightly towards the man, nose twitching and ears lifting curiously as it takes in the scent. Its body is tensing into taut lines, but something snaps. The wolf jerks its head back as if it has been burned and it growls, jumping up and spinning in place, looking for an escape route. There are only walls around it though, and there’s no way out, except the place the human is standing and the wolf whirls around, snarl loud in its throat, eyes darting quickly from Matthias to the space s between him.

The animal’s next move is something born out of pure fear and desperation. The growl is a constant presence in its throat as it suddenly bolts straight for Matthias, eyes wide and fearful. Another snarl rips through its throat as it half collides, half tries jumping over Matthias. The wolf lands on its stomach, claws skittering and scratching uselessly over hardwood floor as it panics and tries to regain its footing. The wolf flails for a moment, panicky whines being wrenched from its throat as it finally gets its feet under it. It tries to put more space between Matthias and itself, bolting over a ruined suit and running into a counter with a gun rest on its top.

It bounces off of the counter, slides across the kitchen floor and tries to flee from the apartment by throwing itself at the door. When that doesn’t work, it bolts into the living room in a frenzy, uttering a gut wrenching howl before it leaps over the couch, but ends up catching on it and slides down into the cushions. The animal pants, exhausted and afraid. It lowers its belly to the couch, whining and looking constantly for an escape route with eyes that look a little too much like a certain crotchety doctor’s.

[Matthias Walker]

It’s the way the wolf looks at him that burns the most.

Matthias does not expect this to be easy by any stretch of the imagination, but he never expected it to hurt so bad, the way the wolf—Christ, the way Silas—looks at him like he’s going to hurt him. He knows enough of animal body language to recognize the fear still etched in every curve of the animal’s crouch, from the familiar eyes to the slope of its spine, and Christ, he has never wanted to cause that. Making the distinction between human and wolf has always been easy before, when he has been allowed to make the distinction, but this is utterly alien and Mattie is sure his heartbeat could not be louder or more sharply erratic if it tried, the wary anxiety crawling in the pit of his stomach as he watches the creature go still and watchful.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, forces himself to keep the tension out of the line of his shoulders as he watches the wolf through his eyelashes. “Relax, sweetheart, it’s okay, you’re okay—”

And for a second it is. Then something breaks whatever spell the wolf is under and it fucking bolts at him: Self-preservation floods through him, overcomes the thought that it is Silas, and Matthias scrambles out of the way, one hand closing around the pocketknife and jerking with the repressed instinct to flip it open defensively. There is a moment where the wolf’s weight grazes his side and hip, the softness of the fur a shock where the hoodie rides up to bare skin, and then it is gone, leaving Mattie with his mouth dry and his lungs empty, leaning against the wall and swallowing the panic.

“Shit,” he whispers, forces himself to relax again (it could have killed him on the spot, it could have and it didn’t and he knows following it is pushing it but he owes this to Silas) and lets go of the silver pocketknife. Stands, shaky in a way he cannot remember being since he was sixteen years old on his first hunt with his father, and follows the sounds of a frightened animal, wonders in a brief moment of hysteria if the neighbors are used to this by now or if this is a new thing for them, too, if he’s going to get the cops called on him for his pet being a nuisance if this keeps up through the night. This has to stop. It cannot be good for the wolf to be this stressed, and Matthias half-wonders if it would be easier if he weren’t there, if an empty apartment would be easier to face.

But there had been that one fraction of a second and he can’t leave Silas to this alone. So Matthias glances at the door only to ensure that it is still locked, and does not allow himself to look at the tranquilizer gun on the counter at all. His heartbeat is steady again and the living room is wider, more open, and that is comforting in and of itself. This need not turn into a messy affair, and the wolf is quiet now—perhaps more from fear and from running itself to exhaustion than from calmness, but it is still a start.

He can work with this. He can.

“Sweetheart,” Mattie says softly, and sits down on the floor again, cross-legged this time, watching the wolf on the couch (knowing Silas, he’s probably going to bitch tomorrow about fur on the cushions—perhaps it will encourage him to buy a new couch). He props his chin in the cup of his hands, and begins to talk, quiet, steady, reassuring again. “I’m sorry you’re scared, baby, I know, I bring back bad memories, don’t I? I think I apologized for that, but not to you, so, for the record, I’m sorry, and thank you. You’re kind of really gorgeous, you know that? I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart, promise, and I’m not gonna let you get hurt either, but you’ve gotta be brave for me, okay? You are so fucking brave, trust me, and you are so fucking worth it, I’d really rather you didn’t kill me but, you know me. Icarus in retrospect. Mythology at its most tragic, except I don’t get fame.”

The smile is a quiet, wry thing, and Matthias slips into poetry without thinking, because talking is all he can do now, “So Icarus flew too close to the sun; it was a long, long fall. But as he neared the ocean, came close enough to wave to the startled fishermen in their boats, he laughed, and admitted that even had he known of the many failings of fathers and feathers, he would have done it anyway.”

[Zephyr]

The wolf is rapidly running out of options. It realizes that it cannot escape this. There might be a shred of the man it had once been buried within its subconscious somewhere that tells it fleeing is a useless thing. The same sort of resignation that caused it to stop fighting at the door of the closet every month settles over it now, and it watches with eyes wide with fear and panic as the man approaches it again. The wolf shoves itself back against the arm of the couch, trying to bury itself there, trying to look as small and unthreatening as possible. It just wants the man to go and leave it, because its heard is beating wildly in its chest, and it’s difficult for it to catch its breath.

Fortunately, the man doesn’t wander as close this time and the wolf lowers its head, trying to press its jaw into the cushions without taking its eyes off of the man. It doesn’t know what he wants, but its exhausted body is trembling with the repressed desire to fling itself at the man. To rip and tear, even if that won’t relieve its fear, it’s something that it wants, but at the same time knows it’s blindingly wrong.

It doesn’t know what the man is saying, but the words are more soothing than the ones before. Gaze steadily meets the blue eyes of the man, and something within the wolf sags at the realization that ll of this is so wrong. Ears twitch up to catch every syllable of the man’s speech. It’s the same man from the alley…the one with the stinking dogs that it attacked. It can feel the animals ripping through its fur and flesh and the sound and smell of the bullet as it rips through its shoulder.

And despite the fear and pain that still grips its form, the wolf lets out a plaintive whine. It isn’t clear what the whine is. It could be a warning, or a sign that the wolf is just done. Without taking its eyes off of the man, the trembling beast slides off of the couch, paws hitting the floor. It cowers there for a second, eyes darting to the man and to the side, seemingly looking for an escape route.

But there is none, and it is too tired to run anymore anyway.

It whimpers, gaze flashing back to the man, sides heaving. The wolf’s tail curls between its legs, pressing against its belly and its ears are pressed flat against its skull. It doesn’t know what it’s doing, but the trembling animal flattens itself against the ground, creeping towards the man breathtakingly slowly. Its heart beats like Timpani drums in its chest, under its ribs as it approaches the man, stopping often to wait for signs of danger.

Eventually the wolf will stretch its neck out, agonizingly slow and will sniff at Matthias’ arm, the hoodie there smells hauntingly familiar. The wolf is still on edge, and jumps at even the slightest movement from Matthias. If he stays completely still the wolf will continue sniffing at him contemplatively. If he continues not to move, the wolf will slick its tongue over the back of Matthias’ hand, even that small movement completely foreign to the wolf.

For some reason, it wants to trust him, but it’s still so scared and tired and just wants to curl into a ball and sleep.

[Matthias Walker]

It is so fucking scared of him.

And yeah, Matthias gets that it has every right to be, that the lilting verses of poetry that he murmurs should be nothing more than background noise to a terrified animal for whom his presence is the greatest sign of danger there can possibly be, but he cannot make the complete distinction from Silas to wolf. It’s the eyes, he knows, the way the wolf watches him with every sign of miserable, terrified intelligence and the way he recognizes Silas’s eyes and it winds him every time, remembering the first time sick recognition struck looking down the barrel of his pistol with every intention of pulling the trigger a second time. Maybe he should go: Leave the living room, at least, as sanctuary for the wolf—

But then it carefully, trembling, gets off of the couch, and Matthias goes utterly still, his mouth dry around the soft rasp of words, and though the poetry slips into encouragement again, the faintly sing-song tone remains, “There you go, sweetheart, see? It’s not so bad, it’s still all yours, you know, the apartment. And you, Jesus, you’re beautiful, and every glance at the world around you will be a sort of salvation, beautiful voice.” It helps a little, thinking in terms of Greek tragedies and muses, trying not to cringe at the way the wolf crawls on its belly to him, the utter wrongness of the submission in a creature that would be magnificent prickling uneasily in the back of his mind.

He licks his lips when the wolf is finally, finally right there, so close he could reach out and touch it, and whispers, “Hi,” dumbly because he has no idea what else to say, or if he can move, so he doesn’t—just watches, his breath soft and caught in his mouth for fear of ruining the spell of the moment. Nose to nose with a werewolf and not making a move for the silver—his father would be ashamed.

There ought to be more fear, he thinks, but the way the wolf is shying away from him is endearingly, painfully cautious and Matthias cannot bring himself to be scared of it except for the knowledge that a wrong move could bring out the wrong side of the fight or flight instinct. So he stays still, eyes sliding closed as he breathes out slow and careful, as the wolf sniffs at him, close enough to feel the soft gusts of its breath over his skin, tries to imagine how he smells—like fresh air and shampoo and the city, and like Silas; whether that is a good thing or not he has no idea.

His eyes open again at the wet rasp of a tongue over the back of his hand, and Matthias can’t help the startled smile that twitches at the corners of his mouth as he meets the wolf’s eyes. “Hi,” he repeats, softly, “I hope you aren’t deciding that I taste really good, because I probably don’t, you know, all bone and stubbornness, I’d be pretty hard to chew and that’s kind of like cannibalism if you think about it. Society’s kinda big on avoiding that, but what can you do, right? God, you’re incredible, you have no idea. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and try and touch you, okay? Please don’t, you know, bite off my hand and run away with it. Or run away, period, if the neighbors call the cops tonight is going to get pretty fucking dismal, you know? Cops and I,” he adds sagely, “Don’t get along. No reflection on you, sweetheart.”

Matthias is not a patient man, prone to grand leaps and bounds and backtracking after the mistake instead of before, but in this, he cannot afford to mess up—and just because he’s been sniffed does not mean he is still not viewed as a threat or dangerous or whatever. He gets it. So it is with excruciating slowness that he turns his hand palm-up and empty to the wolf, and reaches out to carefully thread his fingers through the thick fur at the wolf’s right shoulder if the animal stays for it, his breathing still caught in the base of his throat as he murmurs encouragingly, “Not so bad, right? You’re so brave, sweetheart, you have no idea how brave you are…”

[Zephyr]

It’s clear that the wolf is tense, ready to flee at any sudden movement. Sounds, apparently, frighten the wolf do, because when Matthias speaks, the wolf jerks back slightly, muscles quivering as it watches him with wary green brown eyes. It thinks this is wrong. It should be ridding itself of this thread, but for some reason, it can’t bring itself to close its teeth around the man’s hand. It keeps its eyes on him for a little longer, reassuring itself that the man isn’t going to attack it before it resumes its careful exploration of the man on the ground in front of him.

Matthias speaks again, and the wolf tenses, but doesn’t jerk this time. The words that he is saying go right over its head, like it could understand him even if it was paying attention to the sounds spewing from the man’s mouth. The smells on the man are comfortable, familiar even and it whines against softly, the sound a painfully submissive thing. The wolf is massive, all fluffy fur and hard packed muscle rippling beneath silky black pelt, but it cowers like a beaten dog, like it’s resigned itself to this life, getting locked in closets and cowering in a corner.

This is the lift the wolf knows, the only life it has ever known, and to the wolf, no matter how miserable it might be, this is exceedingly and painfully normal.

The man is something new, something novel, and the fact that it seems the man is the reason it is not in the closet tonight plays no small part in the fact that the beast really wants to trust him for some inexplicable reason. Maybe the man can save it, like how it pleaded with the man in the alley to put a bullet through its brain. He hadn’t helped then, but maybe now.

When Matthias touches him, the wolf jumps again, its pelt twitching and muscles tensing as it withdraws its head from its fastidious study of the man. The wolf stays perfectly fucking still as Matthias fingers card through its fur, wary eyes wide, muscles trembling with the desire to just flee, or snap, or anything. But it doesn’t. It stays there, still and silent and allows Matthias to stroke it, even if the wolf is staying still out of paralyzing fear than it is out of trust. Trust is not something that comes easy for the wolf. It lives a painful, miserable existence and it is accepting of this fact.

Change, while welcome, is hardly ever received well.

The wolf swipes its tongue over its nose nervously, tail still pressed tight against its belly. Slowly, the wolf pulls away from Matthias’ touch, and begins a slow, creeping circuit around the man’s body, pausing to sniff every once and a while, even if it tries to keep out of immediate reach. It’s still petrified of this human; the man with the gun and the pain and too soft words that are soothing even when the wolf just wants to fucking attack. It stops at Matthias’ back, snuffling against his hoodie for a second before it finishes its circuit and crouches before him again, silent and watching. There is still raw fear present in the animal’s eyes, but it is lessened, and its muscles don’t quiver with pent up restlessness. For a long moment, the wolf simply stares at the man, eyes smoldering softly as it tries to piece together this new mystery.

And then, inexplicably, the wolf lets out a low whine that echoes from the back of its throat, even if it doesn’t take its eyes off of Matthias once.

[Matthias Walker]

The wolf is really fucking soft, and yeah, Mattie knows that is not an appropriate revelation to be having when there is a werewolf inches away with him, but it still triggers a startled, careful exhale as he rubs his thumb against the angle of the animal’s shoulder. If he’s about to get his hand torn off at the elbow for his audacity, the wolf seems unwilling to attack—or do anything, in fact. The tension is apparent in the trembling, hard curve of muscle, the way the wolf’s entire body seems to cringe away from him without moving, and the wolf’s fear drains Matthias’s out of him, replaces it with slow anger.

This is not what a werewolf is supposed to be. They should not be scared, running blind and terrified; this is unnatural, learned behavior and it is still Silas and Matthias is grateful that the wolf is not a killer, but this is not the only other option. (When Mattie was seventeen years old, the summer before he went to Columbia, his father took him on a werewolf hunt. They found the wolf guarding a puppy—her child, bitten and turned before his fifth birthday. It was the first time Matthias threw up after a hunt, and the first time his father silently handed him a beer to dull the guilt and memories of blood. If wolves that killed could have family, then what about the rest of them?)

He lets the wolf pull away from him, hand dropping back to his thigh, and cannot stifle the prickle of unease as the animal moves around him. It is utterly against the years of hunting to allow a werewolf so close, never mind to let it move behind him without turning to compensate.

“Okay,” he whispers, and closes his eyes, wonders if the wolf will be tempered enough with Silas’s affection to be gentle if it fits its jaws around the back of his neck and bites, if he can be calm enough not to pull out the pocketknife and fight back. The pressure of the wolf’s muzzle nudges between his shoulders, and Matthias makes an involuntary, startled noise, eyes opening; he does not turn, but even with his eyes open his attention is still down to the silent prowl of the wolf around him, his gaze unfocused and his breathing steady, if shallow—controlling the tension in the lines of his body and in his breathing is nothing but an illusion of control, yes, but it is still something to hold onto.

When his neck is still intact and the wolf is in front of him again, Matthias swallows against the dryness in his throat, licks his lips. The animal still looks wary, but less on the verge of bolting, and he will take the little victories over none at all. (Frankly, that they are both still conscious and alive and that not a drop of blood has been spilled despite being in the same room strike him as pretty impressive, considering the circumstances.) Matthias swallows, eyes flickering over the animal at the soft whine, and says, low and crooning, “Hey, no, don’t be scared,” and keeps talking in a mindless ramble of encouragements, “Look how fucking brave you’re being, sweetheart, you’re incredible, okay?” as he reaches out to touch the wolf again.

Touching is the only, easiest way he has ever known how to comfort; that his touch may bring more fear than security is a bewilderment—he has never considered himself scary and Matthias is fiercely unwilling to give up on this, not when the wolf is this close to him. This time he cautiously rubs his thumb and then the rest of his fingers against the base of the wolf’s ear, seeking the familiar hollow dips and curves of the canine skull in a massage that has never failed to coax dogs into relaxation. Then again, the animal before him is infinitely more scared and more dangerous than any dog Mattie has ever met. Still, as the pressure of the ear-scratching settles into a slow rhythm, he keeps talking—the wolf seems to like his voice, and it is the only thing he has to coax the animal with, “You’re safe here, you’re safe, okay, sweetheart? Relax, just trust me, there’s nobody in the world I’m less willing to hurt than you, trust me…”

[Zephyr]

It knows it shouldn’t be so close to this human. Its smells are so wrong. The wolf remembers it, from the night it was shot. This is the one who pulled the trigger; looked down at it from the gun, and was about to pull the trigger. He didn’t though, and the wolf is still alive because of it. There is some shred of human intelligence floating around in the wolf’s head that tells it that having died that night would have been for the best. Its existence now is a miserable one. It lives in a too small closet, and the fact that the wolf only exists outside the man for one night a months should make the comfort of the wolf unimportant.

It can’t help it though. The way the man touches it. No one has ever touched it, and while it is still wary of the man, it wants more touches. Still, it’s afraid of the man with the gun. It can hear the man talking, and its ears lift, trying to catch every word with an inquisitive cant of its head. It likes the words. For some reason, they make it feel better. There isn’t a stir from the man in its head though, so it doesn’t know what he is saying, but it likes the words, inexplicably. His voice is soft and soothing, and no one has ever tried to make it feel better before.

The wolf freezes when the man makes to touch it again. It isn’t afraid that he’ll hurt it anymore, because he has had plenty of chances to do so if he’d really wanted to. But it is a wariness borne out of years of being mistreated and confined along with a natural wariness of humans that the wolf sees as unnatural…like the fact that it exists only once a month and resides inside a human the rest of the month isn’t unnatural. So it lets Matthias touch it, its entire body taut with wariness. Despite its fear, it tilts its head into the scratching, though it is always prepared to snap at the man if his hand causes it any pain.

It’s entire existence is pain. It doesn’t need more.

The wolf blinks as the man scratches it, eyes meeting Matthias’ for half a second before it flicks its gaze to the side, uncomfortable with eye contact. Finally, more calm thanks to the gentle touches and soothing voice, the wolf rises from its crouch and pulls away from Matthias. It lowers its head to the ground, and begins to sniff. It snorts as it sniffs the couch (which is now covered in dog hair), and the television that it had knocked off the wall. Then it wanders slowly past Matthias with only one wary glance in his direction. It pads into the kitchen, claws clicking over the tiled floor and it rises onto its hind legs to inspect the counter briefly before dropping down to all fours.

It stops near the pile of rags that had been Silas’ suit, and lowers its nose to sniff them lightly. It whines. There’s something about this cloth that it should be more interested in. Falling to its haunches, the wolf sits there and stares before standing up and padding to disappear into the bedroom.

[Matthias Walker]

“There you go,” Matthias repeats, softly, and despite the wariness in the green-brown eyes that appraise him and the drumming noise of his own heartbeat against his sternum shrieking its helpless warning, he crooks a grin at the wolf. This is not hunting anymore, but something far more instinctive: Learning, studying the dark, silky ruffles of fur and the angle of the animal’s head as it leans into his touch at last. (Werewolf tamer, he thinks with dry amusement, will make a good addition to monster hunter on his resume—he cannot imagine many people get to have this splintered, askew moment caught between salvation and damnation and a thousand mistakes and promises.)

“I have walked through many lives,” he whispers, voice dropping in confession, “Some of them my own, and I am not who I was, though some principle of being abides, from which I struggle not to stray, but you,” the crooked fascination of his smile as he brushes his thumb in a touch borne entirely of affection over the furred curve of the wolf’s cheek, “You are worth staying for.” It may be the truth, but Matthias does not know to whom he is speaking: The wolf that cannot comprehend him or the man whose eyes are still achingly familiar in this form. His heartbeat slows, steadies, with the wolf’s growing calmness, and when the animal pulls away again and stands, Mattie drops his hands back into his lap, watches its exploration wind through the apartment.

It is no longer panicking, and while it is distracted in the kitchen Matthias spares a moment to let the exhaustion settle into the line of his shoulders, scrubbing his palms over his face; his breath is a quiet, shaky thing caught in fragile lungs as he exhales. Killing is easy: It takes one silver bullet and one squeeze of the trigger, ten minutes if he’s lucky. This is much harder, and knowing that it is Silas (that if he’s not careful the man is going to wake up to a floor covered in blood and guilt) is an unwelcome, constant uncertainty curling in the pit of his stomach.

He blinks his eyes open, looks up again in time to see the wolf padding down the hallway towards Silas’s bedroom. There is a moment where Matthias considers staying, taking breathless moments to reorient and reestablish himself. But it is a fleeting fantasy. Mattie pushes himself to his feet, wipes his forearm across his eyes, and follows.

“Hey, buddy…?” Werewolf. It is a werewolf, not Fido, but Matthias can fucking not bring himself to see the wolf as a threat when it does not behave like the werewolves that he has learned to hunt. It is huge, yes, and he can still remember the desperate snarls and the flash of white teeth, but it hasn’t tried to hurt him yet. He lingers on the threshold for a moment, and then the sigh drains the last remnants of energy from him. It is exhausting, trying to keep his guard up, and as he picks out the dark form of the wolf in the room, Mattie shuffles over to flop down onto the bed, casually, peers over the edge at the animal.

“Do me a favor and stop room-hopping,” he mumbles, his tone utterly lacking in accusation. “Your apartment isn’t that big or anything, but I’ve only got two legs, you know? You still scared of me? ’Cause you could hop up here if you want, it’s not exactly a comfy bed of decapitated rabbit furs or anything but you’re disturbingly fond of your bed the other twenty-nine days of the month, so it can’t be that bad, right? I guess clapping my hands and saying ‘Here, Lassie’ won’t work though, so, just, you know, if you want.”

[Zephyr]

The room the wolf pads into is dark, and comforting. It smells like the man, and despite the wolf’s dislike for him, it comforts it somehow. It is sniffing at Silas’ closet, stretching its neck out into the darkness of the alcove. Wariness is painted in every tight line of its body, as if it is afraid that something is going to jump out at it…and maybe it is. This whole place is a mystery for the beast, something to explore and something to claim as its territory.

Silas is just lucky the wolf hasn’t peed on anything yet.

When Matthias walks into the room, the wolf starts with a bark, head jerking around to land its gaze on the man’s form. It’s trembling from the shock; belly near the floor again as he gets into the bed…and the wolf’s interest is piqued. This is not something it’s seen before. Not something it’s explored. The dark wolf lets out a huff of air through its nose, licking it again like it does when it’s nervous. Ears fold back against its head and it approaches the bed, neck stretched out and nose working over the scents that come to it as it approaches.

Slowly, it stretches its neck out and snuffles into the sheets, pausing a moment before it hoists its paws up to rest on the bed and sniff at the comforter, eyeing Matthias for half a second before it jumps onto the bed fully. It walks along the length of the bed, stopping to curl up on the pillows for a second. It lets its head flop in an exhausted huff and it lies there for a moment.

At length, it whines lightly and wiggles its hind end, looking for a more comfortable position. When it finds none, it growl lightly, casts a disdainful glance over to Matthias before it gets back on its feet and slips off of the bed. That thing is not comfortable at all! Without hesitation, the wolf pads towards the closet, and maybe pauses a half a second before it disappears into it.

The wolf takes its time exploring this new place before it stars taking suit jackets and slacks in its teeth and ripping them from hangers. The wolf proceeds to pull and prod the fallen clothing into a pile and then pads over top, scratching and nosing at the clothing until it has made an acceptable bed where it spins in a circle, then flops down with a huff, flicking its tail to cover up its nose.

This makes a much better bed. The wolf knew there was something it liked about those rags that were all over the floor earlier.

[Matthias Walker]

“Oh,” he says, a little dumbfounded by the wolf’s surety as it sniffs at the bed and then hitches its paws up onto the sheets. Silas is probably going to be upset by the shedding going on, but Matthias cannot bring himself to care as the wolf jumps up onto the bed and settles down as casual, as neat, as you please. He had not expected the wolf to take him up on the absentminded offer; it may be intelligent but comprehending words seems rather beyond its scope of comprehension, and that is fine. Really. At least it seems to read intentions fine: Even if it’s a skittish thing it is no longer bolting from him and lets him touch it, and he’ll count that as a win.

The chuckle startles him with the disdainful look the wolf throws at him, though, and Matthias rolls onto his back after the creature’s departure, smothering amusement born half of hysteria (God, what is he doing? This couldn’t be further from hunting if he tried—taming werewolves, Jesus) into the palm of his hand. He stays on the bed a moment, turns his head just enough to make sure the wolf isn’t running around through the apartment again, wonders what kind of mess he’ll wake up to if he falls asleep like this, right now. It cannot be more than eight in the evening, but the stress is heavier than the hours.

But the call of a closet in distress stirs him from the bed at last. When he steps in, pushing hangers out of the way with one hand, it is to a moment of profound silence as blue eyes sweep over the carnage of suits and slacks and the dark wolf curled up among them.

Then a genuine laugh bubbles out of his chest, spills sloppy out before he can catch it, and Matthias slides down the closet wall, tips his head back with the breathless amusement. When he sobers, it is to peer speculatively at the wolf through his eyelashes a moment. Eventually, he sighs, whispers, “Okay. The closet, then. God, the metaphors. Werewolf in the closet. Twilight would be so disappointed.” This time the petting is a matter of reaching a handful of inches to draw his palm down the curved line of the wolf’s spine, and he tilts his head back against the wall, pulls his legs up into his chest, lets time slip by the wayside in favor of the hypnotic slide of fur between his fingers.

*

There is half a second of utter disorientation when he wakes to the sound of an animal in pain, very close by, one hand still resting loosely on the wolf’s flank and his body curved loosely between the animal and the wall before it writhes and Matthias sits up so fast he nearly hits a hanger, sleep dissipating instantly. The wolf is in pain and that means—“Morning,” he blurts out, half a gasp, and blinks rapidly; there’s sunlight spilling into the closet very faintly from the windows in the bedroom, and it may not be the smartest thing he has ever done, but if he could hold a man turning into a wolf there’s no reason he cannot the reverse.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers, shifts up onto his knees and running his palms down the trembling length of its body, tries not to think about how he can feel muscles and bones shifting under his fingertips, “Hey, shh, hang in there, okay, babe? Shh, I got you, you’re okay, you’re okay, c’mon, sweetheart, breathe for me, okay? You’re doing just fine, you’re doing great…”