Photographs (Sabra)

[James Morgan]

There’s blood on his hands when James pushes his front door open with the kick of a steel-toed boot, and held firmly against his hip, his one year old daughter reaches out to the red liquid curiously. Construction accidents are frequent where James works, more out of untrained men working machinery far too complicated for them than anything else, and in this case it is James who has fallen victim to the carelessness of another person’s actions. He had popped down the hood of his peterbuilt and had been actively attempting to shove his forearm between the engine and the framework to access the guts of the vehicle when his rookie partner had slipped, allowing a rather large metal something that James could not identify at the time, fall, and effectively deep-slice James’ right hand in several different places. It wouldn’t have been too much of a big deal, if it weren’t for the sheer amount of blood that had soon become slick on his arm.

It had been a steady mixture of stubbornness and a considerable amount of dislike for hospitals that had led to James shutting the hood of the truck (leaving smears of blood behind) and driving back to his sister’s without so much as cleaning the wound off. His sister, a nurse, had been quick to act. Two hours later, with skin glue and several stitches, James has managed to bust two or three stitches open, and bright crimson blood seeps in the crevices of his calloused palms. It doesn’t seem to bother Isabelle, who had silently watched her father after he had awkwardly placed her into her high chair at the table with one hand. “Fuckin’ hurts,” The Shifter grumbles to himself solemnly.

Another two hours pass.

It’s darker in the apartment now, and the heat is just starting to set into the house just as the whiskey has started to set into James. With his good hand on the remote and a glass in the other, James takes to sitting quietly on the couch in his livingroom, this time wearing nothing but boxers and loose-fitting pajama pants. The long chain, hooked claw on end, rests somewhere below his navel in his hunched, half-fetal position. He hasn’t cleaned today, and the trucker is practically surrounded by soft little plush toys and stuffed animals. A hand made doll from his sister rests safely under his arm as James stares at the television with unfocused eyes. To any observer, it would appear that the bear of a man is deeply concentrating on a random episode of Lost. Somewhere, in the back of his head, through the influence of the whiskey in his hand and the tired sway to sleep that his brain begs for, James keeps a careful ear out for the sound of Izzy fussing in her bedroom.

What he hears instead is a shuffling outside of the front door—the familiar sound of claws raking on hard wood. James’ head falls to the side, green eyes peering curiously out, settling on the shadows that are barely visible on the hardwood floor. He has to practically drag himself off of the couch, but when he does, he opens the front door to be met with a gust of chilled fall air, and a monstrous blue-eyed black beast below him.

And had James been sober, he may not have knelt down to meet the large animal face to face. “Heya, ol’ girl.” His voice is soft and worn from a long day and little sleep, but he still reaches out one large hand out in an offering to the canine. And should she not react in any unpleasureable manner—“What’re you doin’ out here in the cold?” He stands back up on cracking knees and moves aside, allowing the beast entry, and closes the door.

Surely—there could be no harm in letting a stray stay the night.

[Sabra]

One day, Sabra thought, she was going to get new locks for her bathroom, but for now she was relegated to the instincts of the wolf, the drunken in glory of freedom and the ability to roam the empty streets as she pleased, wise folk having long retreated into their homes.

Still, nothing lasts forever and after hours out in the chill, Sabra hurries on her way, back to home--but is soon lost in the maze of streets and neighborhoods that make up the city. With the night closing in, she finds herself climbing the stairs, scratching at an unknown house. She is about to take the doorknob between her teeth when it swings open and a giant of a man fills the space.

There are snowflakes in her thick coat and she blinks up at him inquiringly, unsure what to make of him. The wind howls at her back and the brindled beast takes a hesitant step forward, closer to the heat of the indoors. Her toes are icy cold and she shivers now and then, twitches of the muscles across her shoulders and back. Autumn is turning to winter more quickly than she anticipated and the air has the snap of teeth in it, enough even, to turn a wolf to a human's doorstep. The prospect of trying to wiggle her way beneath a dumpster and shudder her way through the night isn't an appealing one.

He speaks like someone who knows animals, gentle, but unafraid and Sabra cocks a devil ear in his direction, curiosity peaked.

She presses her wet nose against the offered hand, inhaling deeply. He smells warm, of liquor and blood, earth and sweat. There is the hint of something more, a musky scent beyond that of man, but the wolf decides she trusts him and licks his weathered palm before stepping through the doorway, claws clicking against the floor. She shakes the water from her fur and mosies in, snuffling at the abundance of new scents, some that she has to draw on her human memories to identify. Toddler. Smelling a little of urine as young children often do, overlaid by a pleasant sweetness.

Once satisfactorily dried off the alcohol sodden man turns off the TV and disappears down the hall to his bedroom, slapping his thigh in invitation to follow, and really, who is she to say no? There is little the werewolf fears and there is a tiredness in her own bones that the cozy house only accentuates. With a doggy yawn, she trails after him, pulling herself onto the mattress with a neat bound. The last of the lights are shut off and the city slumbers in a thin covering of snow, and back curled to the shifter's chest, Sabra slumbers too.

But as night turns to day, the sun risen between skyscrapers and factory steeples, the woman trades her fur coat for skin once more. Her mind is fuzzy and she barely registers the fact she is in a stranger's bed, in a stranger's home with a very large man, naked as the day she was born. Sabra simply tugs the covers over her shoulders and gropes for whatever is giving off the delicious heat. It had been a long night and a longer week, and Sabra thought she deserved to sleep in.

[James Morgan]

As the over protective father that James is, he should have been more careful. Any man or woman educated in the supernatural world would have thought twice before even considering allowing a strange animal into the home of their toddler, much less a werewolf. James Morgan opens his eyes early in the morning, with a headache that is much less present than what he had originally expected. Tired eyes drift lazily to the alarm clock across from him, recognizing that it reads a sharp 6:56 in the morning. It is only then, that he realizes that he is not alone, and that he does in fact have his arm slung over an unfamiliar woman in his bed. The night before drifts into his mind—opening the door for a particularly large beast of an animal, and James draws his arm away from the unclothed woman to run his hand over his face in exasperation.

Of course, he would be the one to mistake a damn werewolf for a dog.

But even James has manners, enough so that he rolls away from bed in the most quiet manner possible, treading across the bedroom silently in such a way that wouldn’t be thought possible for a man of his size. The sliding door to his closet is pushed back slowly, and James searches through the very back to find some of his sisters clothes for the nameless woman to wear. What he finds is a small sweatshirt and a pair of long knee-length gym shorts that his sister had left weeks before, and considering that these are the only damn things that the lady could probably fit into, he lays them on the bed, and moves to exit the room.

Unwise, maybe, to leave a stranger in his bedroom. It would not be the first of the unwise decisions that James has made so far, and he considers that upon leaving. His father’s voice drifts back into his head, back when he was just ten years old, asking why his old man never locked the doors. You’re a damn tiger, son. He had said, We’ve got nothing worth stealing. James pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame to glance back at the small sleeping form on his bed, frowning before shrugging and making his way across the hall.

Izzy is already awake, standing in her crib, looking up at him with outstretched arms. Save for the woman in his bedroom, the morning follows just as any other. James lifts the baby from her bed and makes his quiet descent to the bottom of the staircase, heading into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and feed the baby her breakfast. “C’mon Izz, you gotta eat your breakfast.” His mornings, regardless of company, are never much different than any other. The baby resists the spoon and instead chooses to smear it on her face like most babies do, and James leans back against his seat in defeat. “Better not be some rebel child when you’re older, kid.” No time for that.

And of course, she cries.

There’s sudden stark, random worry that Isabelle might end up waking up the woman upstairs (though for what reason this is an issue remains unknown) and he swiftly rises out of his seat, nearly spilling his coffee in the process, taking the baby out of her high chair and holding her up in the air with the most ridiculous grin on his face. ”Whose my beautiful little girl?”

And she smiles. For all of the panic, worry, exhaustion and misery that it may sometimes cause him, he’s proud to be a father.

[Sabra]

The bed springs creak lightly and her space heater suddenly vanishes, leaving only a warm imprint in the mattress where he had once been. Sabra groans and turns over, disappearing underneath the covers where the daylight can't pierce her skull and she doesn't have to acknowledge that she exists. Although not yet thirty, her body had seen a wealth of use and in the cold mornings such as this Sabra felt every moment of it keenly. Every change, every injury and break she'd endured in her life echoed along the seams of her bones.

So, she slips into the easy rest between waking and sleep, trying to banish the niggling at the back of her skull that said not all was right.

A cry pierces the hazy vale of her mind and Sabra bolts upright, her hand slipping beneath the pillows in search of a knife. But the cry is too high pitched to be a man's or woman's and she eventually recognizes it for what it is. Her heart still pounds and she shoves the blankets away, stumbling onto the cold floor in shock. The room was sparsely furnished, yet neat, a few framed pictures sat on top of a dresser, smiling faces peering out at her. The familiar rush of the wolf in her veins is a small comfort and Sabra sinks down on the edge of the bed, trying to gather herself and piece together fuzzy memories.

1.) She was not home. 2.) The man that had taken her in couldn't be human. Not with the lingering smell of cat and the absence of, "Holy shit, you aren't a dog!" 3.) There was a sticky baby in this house and Sabra would take vicious werewolves over babies any day of the week. They happened to be much more mysterious creatures.

Sabra dresses quickly, doubling over the waist of shorts so they don't fall off her hips. It's a thoughtful gesture, who knew the same guy to be kind enough to let in a stray dog would be kind enough to provide her clothing and not grope the naked lady in his bed while she was passed out. Not that Sabra would have known if he did, but with the acquisition of clothing she feels rather charitable.

The stairs are taken two at a time and just as she's about to step into view, another small cry splits the air, this one more of a happy gurgle. As far as she could tell; werewolves weren't well known for having a lot of toddlers waddling around. The man holding her is something else all together. Sabra recalls a looming figure in the doorway, but it doesn't match up to what she sees now. He is, simply put, very beautiful--and the absence of a shirt only improves upon the tone of 'maybe my morning isn't so bad after all'.

Feeling a little abashed at having interrupted the family moment, Sabra pads into the kitchen, taking a seat as quietly as she could. He wasn't freaked out or angry, which was more than she could have possibly asked for.

"Well," Sabra pronounces after a span of silence, leaning back in the chair with an air of false tranquility to take in the house, the pudgy toddler held in her father's arms and the distinct lack of a mother figure around. It should probably alarm her and she should probably be expecting an angry wife to come marching around the corner at any moment, but at this hour of the day the were can't find it in herself to give a damn. "I wish I could say this wasn't the first time this has happened." Thankfully, those times had worked out too "Hinges and screws ain't no match for claws."

The yet unnamed toddler squirms in the big man's arms and Sabra shifts uneasily, hoping he wouldn't need her to hold the kid or nothing. Sabra was fairly sure she'd drop her. "My name's Sabra and I'm awful grateful, ya know freezin' my--" She casts a hasty look to the little girl and clears her throat, "Freezin' my butt off and thumbin' it back home just isn't anyway to spend a Sunday."

"It is Sunday, right?" The Lord's day of rest and something, something. Sabra can hardly remember after all these years and considering her father's grudge against the Church and God in general, the southerner considers herself lucky to know squat about the subject.

And as pretty as James is, black hair nearly as long as her own and sharp features making her wonder why he hadn't chosen to stay in bed. Sabra is quick to veer of the course of that thought and turns her attention from his bare torso to the pot of coffee bubbling away on the counter top. "You wouldn't happen to have any extra coffee, would ya?"

[James Morgan]

If not for the woman walking into the room, the morning would have been surprisingly ordinary.

He lowers the baby in his arms just as Sabra is walking in, taking Izzy in one arm against his hip just as his head turns to catch a good glance at just who had come through his door the night before. What he finds is that she is much different than the ragged beast he had met in the chilly cold, and that this time, it is a stark green that meets his eyes instead of blue. She’s smaller than he had originally thought she would be, dwarfed even in his sister’s smaller clothing—and while being no supermodel, there is an undeniable beauty about her, no matter how rough it may me. The heavy scarring on her shoulder that he had glimpsed before leaving the bedroom is covered now, and with long black hair and guarded eyes, she almost looks normal.

But this is the real world—and a wolf-to-woman animal is certainly not normal.

There is a brief stretch of silence where James observes and tolerates the feeling of small hands grasping viciously at his hair. “Mornin’, ma’am,” he greets in his Texas drawl. And just as quickly as James greets her, he waves off her concerns. “Don’ you worry ‘bout it, miss. My home’s open to the passin’ stray.” The smile that he gives her is warm despite his obvious exhaustion—James had always been the black sheep of his brothers, never too busy and never too tired to treat company kindly. His mother, a typical badass Russian born and raised in the cold climates of Siberia, had become a surprisingly gentle woman despite her upbringing, and James, always a mama’s boy, had learned the meaning of southern hospitality through her—and she hadn’t even been born in the states.

“M’name’s Ja—ow,” He flinches when Izzy wraps little hands around the hair on his chin, pulling down with her tremendous knows-no-bounds baby-strength and causing her father an obvious bout of pain. James’ hand, nearly half of the size of the entire baby herself, takes a gentle hand of her arm to pull away from her grip. “James Morgan.” He finally manages to say, reaching his head back away from desperately grasping hands aimed for his face. “Not a problem, Sabra. I can give ya a ride home if ya want.” Unless Sabra is the type of ‘don’t ride with strangers’ gal, which James wouldn’t blame her for—the world today is dangerous,

But James thinks that she will be okay. She’s small and fragile looking, but James has yet to meet a single wolf that could be easily taken down by anyone. He would be the least of her concerns, even if he were a threat.

He nods his head in answer to her first question, and offers a verbal response to her next. “Help yourself,” One large hand sweeps off to the side, indicating permitted access to his coffee. “I’d make ya somethin’ to eat but I’m afraid the most I can make is mac and cheese.” he smiles apologetically this time, turning his back to her only for a second to set the baby down, before sitting down at the table himself. He had set his coffee down only minutes before, and it’s already getting cool.

He would wait in silence, keeping a careful eye on both Sabra and his daughter—giving the stranger a chance to take care of herself for a minute or two before taking the opportunity to speak up again. “Haven’t met another wolf since m’sister got turned,” James has never held anything against the wolves, nor for what they had done to his sister. IF anything, they were an item of interest. “Heard there’s a lot in Boston,” If the wolves, Boston or not, are the reason for Sabra’s scars, James is quite happy that he’s never crossed the wrong path with any of them. A natural immunity to whatever it was, the virus, helped too.

[Sabra]

A passing stray. It'd be easy enough to take offense, but James smiles sincerely, and Sabra decides it's not too far from the truth. She was little better than the rogues she had once chased. Boston was a far cry from the packs that she had known and her loyalty was only to herself these days. It was damn good thing there were still people who were willing to take in the strays.

It was hard to say who was more likely to be invited into a warm home--her human self, with her own peculiarities, shoulders too rigid and eyes too hard, or the wolf. Despite it's more sketchy qualities, it was still an animal, and thus more trustworthy than a stranger off the streets.

At least to anyone ignorant enough, or drunk enough in James' case, to ignore the whiff of wildness about her.

Sabra watches the toddler and James' efforts to keep her seeking hands at bay. He moved in the way that only big men do, conscious of his strength and careful not to grip too hard and hurt the wiggling child on his hip. Both her brother and father were of the same build, although Tristan tended to whack his head on door frames more often. Sabra theorized that frequent skull to hard surface contact is what caused his frequent bouts of "Hey, Sabra, watch this!" and the ensuing aftermath.

Two hands doesn't seem enough to contain the little girl though and Sabra smiles, wishing she had any experience to offer. Maybe if it was a dog foaming at the mouth or a horse fighting the bit, although she wondered if small children and animals were all that different from one another. "You sure like givin' your dad a hard time, huh? Have to ease up on the old man, ya only got one." She grins at him, winking to the girl. On an afterthought, Sabra lets her hair sweep down her back, well out of harm's reach and sticky fingers. "How old?"

The offer is unexpected and she's ready to turn him down, and then thinks better of it, the slush in the streets and the inadequacy of her clothing. Not even her own pride was enough to force her to trudge back home in this cold Boston weather. "Long as it's not a bother." James didn't set off any alarms, and she figures if the wolf trusted him, than she doesn't have any reason not to. Finely tuned instincts had kept her alive this long--and against far more ferocious enemies than a goodhearted father.

Even if he had more than a passing resemblance to a redwood tree and paws like a black bear on him.

Sabra doesn't need to be told twice and rises from her chair with another thank you, tugging the shorts back over her hips before they can slide down and show more to James than even hot coffee and a warm bed is worth. She takes her coffee black, appreciatively wrapping her hands around the mug once it's poured and breathing in the heady aroma. It seems to wipe the last of the cobwebs from her mind and her whole body, roiling beast included, relaxes. At his comment, Sabra peers up from her coffee, trying to gauge the shifter. Loyal she wasn't, but werewolves were a secretive sort and there are always motives to questions such as these.

"You could say that." She answers carefully, taking a sip of the black liquid. A certain unease follows, before Sabra speaks up again, voice sharper this time, quick with the feeling she shouldn't be saying anything at all. "Best stay out of it though. For you and your girl." But he'd been kind to her and she felt she owed him that much. Chaos was gripping Boston, she could taste it on the wind like the stench of blood and the idea of this man and his little daughter being entangled in such a mess unnerved her. Sabra didn't consider herself any champion of the good, but here it was and the desire to protect welled inside her.

She raises her cup and tilts it toward him with something of a sheepish smile, "Cats and dogs don't mix all that well, but this ol' stray is very thankful." That claw that dangles over his chest and the flash of orange and black stripes on his back help decode the scent that had evaded her in the bedroom. She raps her fingertips against the ceramic, leaving behind ominous warnings for humor. "I have a feelin' you'd give just about any Cujo a run for his money."

Sabra just hoped he'd never need to.