Papercuts (Ari)

[Zephyr]

The library is not a place that Silas is particularly familiar with. In fact, he doesn't think he's set foot in a library for years. He's certain that this is probably because of the fact that he's always so goddamn busy and not because he is an illiterate fucker, as Matthias so often loves to remind him. Silas can read, so he knows this isn't true. And goddamn, does he read. Scientific journals and papers are nearly a daily thing for him. This is probably why he dislikes reading anything for pleasure. He just doesn't understand deriving pleasure from reading.

He can think of many other ways he can get pleasure out of life...most of them actually physical.

Nevertheless, Silas finds himself in the library after work one day. For once, he finds himself wanting to do something genuinely nice for a human being. He knows he should buy Matthias a book. That fact is abundantly clear; possibly several books. He's simply at a loss as to what books the guy will like. He thinks he knows the kid pretty well, he just has absolutely no knowledge about books with which to base his decision on. And so Silas finds himself in the library at nine o'clock at night, shuffling his feet in the doorway glaring viciously at people who try to push past him.

Now, Silas isn't stupid. He knows that you can't buy books at the library. He also knows that Matthias probably frequents the library a great deal, and since he knows the other man isn't at the library at this moment - text messaging is a beautiful thing - he figures he can probably find some people who know him, or at least know of him. They might know what kinds of books he reads. He might even be able to coerce one of the employees into giving him a copy of Matthias' check out history. This isn't exactly a matter of homeland security, and money can buy a great many things anyway.

The surgeon spends the first fifteen minutes wandering around aimlessly, looking completely lost. He has no fucking idea where he should go to look for someone who might know where he can look for someone who can help him.

Finally, he just ends up following some girl with an armful of books until she makes her way to the checkout counter. By the middle, she's looking at him suspiciously and looks a little bit afraid, and Silas imagines if some creepy looking guy with a truly dour expression in a trench coat were following him around a library, he would probably be a little freaked out too...but she doesn't actually confront him or say anything, and if she had, he would have simply asked for directions. As she doesn't, he just follows her around until he sees someone who looks like an employee.

The man is in the deepest bowels of the library and, somehow, looks like he belongs there. He has blonde hair and glasses, and though his back is turned to Silas, the doctor catches the distinctive scent of wolf. It catches him off guard even though he knows for a fact that he doesn't know all of the wolves in Boston, it's still strange finding one in a place as ordinary as a library.

Silas only hesitates for a moment before he approaches the man, hands stuffed deeply into his pockets to keep the goddamn touching to a minimum. "Excuse me?" His voice is distinctly formal, unsure how to act around an unknown quantity in a goddamn library.

[Ari]

Evening settles onto Boston, and where the tumult of the daylight hours dies the thrill of the nightlife waits with eager anticipation. The stretch of time in between grows still; businessmen shuffle home, night owls stir, but it is said – and here in Boston the notion may be truest of all – that twilight belongs only to the wolf.

For a man so discomfited by the presence inside him, Ari Lawson does not often think of the animal. Save for the nights it paces and howls it is a sedate thing, a creature resting heavily in his chest like any other of his more mundane concerns, and it does not make demands of him. They coexist. Ari copes. The idea that it may yet grow into a more unpredictable and hungry animal is not one he entertains because that result is not a possibility; that horror will not become a reality.

It is not a thing he has control of, not yet, but the man can apply that statement to any number of stressors haunting his life. He works. He makes do.

Amongst the stacks of the Boston Public Library the wolf is silent and the man is at peace. With the oncoming night even the lull of the library settles to a lonely sort of calm, one interrupted only by the scant few souls that still ghost along its corridors; Ari has long learned to enjoy these moments, the quiet ones where the world is empty and his mind is occupied. Within the building’s thick brick walls there is no world of animals save what realms of fancy words create. He can forget the leaking faucet in his apartment he needs to call his landlord about. He can ignore the way his car’s breaks have been stuttering at every stoplight. He can, in a practiced avoidance mechanism shared by humanity, save it all for later.

Ordinary concerns for an ordinary man – and it is this individual that Silas chances upon, buried in the depths of the library’s lower floors. Shelving is not an occupation that usually involves him, but this particular collection is one Ari has overseen the organization of with care. Beside him rests a cart of books waiting for homes, and he is engrossed enough in his task – and confident enough that he is alone – that the other man’s approach goes unnoticed. It is only at the sudden intrusion of an unexpected voice that Ari at last startles and turns, a book clutched to his chest and modest surprise written into the line of his frown.

”The library’s closing,” he replies evasively, uncertain, and presses his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. Silas’ appearance – heavy coat, fists in his pockets, uncomfortable demeanor at this late hour – sets a pessimistic train of thought into motion that has Ari ill at ease. It is a path diverted by the reminder that, really, people don’t steal from libraries. ”I can show you out, if you need,” the werewolf adds after a moment. ”Do you need any help?”

If there is a way to defeat a would-be murderer come calling, surely it is with politeness.

[Zephyr]

He wonders if the other man has surmised what he is yet. If he has, there is no indication in his demeanor or the tone of his voice. This man is the stereotypical book worm type, except for the scar crossing over his face, Silas notes after a moment. He doesn’t concern himself with other people, for the most part, but the wolf instills a deep seated curiosity in his chest, and he can’t help but wonder where the scar came from. This man doesn’t seem like the type who gets scars on a daily – or ever, really – basis. But there it is.

He almost opens his mouth to asks, but figured that it really isn’t any of his business and anyway, if the man hasn’t figured out that he’s a werewolf yet, Silas doesn’t really see the need to advertise that fact for everyone to see. Instead, he lets himself be irritated by the fact that the man is clearly trying to get rid of him. While Silas wouldn’t mind going to find someone else to help him who didn’t happen to also be a werewolf, the man said that the library was closing and if he doesn’t find someone now, he won’t be able to get back to the library all week.

He works some pretty fucking erratic hours.

Silas is successfully able to push the irritation down to a slow simmer in his gut. He’s had to deal with people like this before, and aside from the scar and the wolf, this man might as well be one of the hundreds that Silas has to deal with on a daily basis.

The problem is that the subject matter of this dealing is infinitely more intimate than anything he finds himself dealing with daily. Caution and discretion is advisable right now.

The wolf licks his lips, and shrugs lightly. “I’m lookin’ for a book.” He starts out innocuously enough. The statement is one anyone would make in a library, until Silas decides that he should probably elaborate on that a bit. “I want to buy a book for a friend, but I have no goddamn idea what he likes. He comes here a lot, so I was wonderin’ if ya could tell me what kinda books he reads from his checkout history or whatever…or at least help me pick out somethin’ for him.”

He knows it isn’t exactly in this guy’s job description to pick out books to help steal someone away from another man, but he’s hoping that the man will at least try to help. After all, it sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than shelving books or whatever the hell he interrupted the man doing. Whatever it is, helping Silas is sure to be more goddamn interesting.

And he’s counting on the fact that someone who spends every day around books will be infinitely more helpful than some internet search.

[Ari]

The merits of human company are known to Ari, are sought after and prized – and yet so often denied to him, kept distant and simultaneously feared. It is not for his own social inadequacies, in this instance, that the older man finds himself so loathsome of companionship, but for his uninvited cohort’s sudden intrusion on his introverted solitude. The surly appearance and shifty demeanor do not help Silas’ case; Ari, though practiced in the art of polite conversation and a professional veneer of friendliness, is decidedly uncomfortable.

It is not a foreign feeling, and he does a poor job of disguising it; he blames the end of the workday, the long hours under his belt. Shifting his weight, Ari leans minutely backwards and breaks eye contact to replace his clutched book to its cart, drawing his tongue over his teeth before affording the stranger a second glass. It is an unwanted and – on his part – unnoticed display of submission, but one elicited by the obvious impatience written into the unvoiced words of Silas’ body language. A soft exhalation, a reassuring run of ink-darkened fingers over the fabric of his tie, and Ari sets his shoulders and the line of his jaw with a weary resolve.

The late evening is cause for neither alarm nor rudeness; he will see to the man’s concerns, he will do so with politeness, and he will bid his after-hours guest good day.

Ari’s brows knit in jaded disappointment at the stranger’s first tired statement, and he casts a quick glance about them in obvious gesture. It serves as the man’s only response – a put-upon patience that begs for elaboration on Silas’ part – until further explanation comes, and the librarian discards his clutched book to its cart with a stifled sigh. ”That’s not exactly information I’m at liberty to give out,” he beings, watching the other man for any reaction. Still, there is something charmingly innocent about requesting a checkout history, some greater good theme that tugs at him – and perhaps it is for Ari’s trusting nature that he is willing to rewrite the stranger’s role not as serial killer, but as embarrassed friend.

A quick glance to his watch to confirm that they are, in fact, past the library’s operational hours, and then Ari is waving Silas along with a flick of his fingers. ”I can get you a list. A bookstore might be better if you’re looking for a recommendation from it, but,” he shrugs, turning a corner to slip behind an unmanned help desk, ”we’ll see what he likes. Want to find something for your friend, you said?” Hazel eyes glance upwards from where he leans over the keyboard, and the play of his smile is meant to be apologetic. Call it an act of repentance for leaping to conclusions.

”His name?” Keys clack; the computer processes. ”Some reason you couldn’t just ask him what he likes? Peek at his bookshelf?” It is idle smalltalk, banter to fill in the quiet moments, but it is meant both honestly and with some kindness – Ari does not pry with the intent to offend.