Chapter Text
George tries to backtrack. He counts his steps under his breath but he already lost count. He reaches out a hand, finds the rough canvas of a tent. Not his tent, not his campsite, not his pack. Not not not.
He jerks his hand back. He turns, tries another direction but his boot catches on a rope. He goes down hard, his bad wrist taking the impact. Pain flares white-hot up his arm. He bites his lip to keep from crying out.
“Watch it,” someone snaps from above him, before stepping over him.
George pushes himself up. His palm is scraped and he can feel blood pooling. He is not going to cry. He wills himself up, gets his feet under him despite his trembling.
He hears Toto’s voice then, like a lifeline, his heart seizing, “—and then she managed to pour the whole keg—” His pack. He turns toward the sound, relief flooding him so fast he almost sobs.
“Toto?” he calls. His voice cracks. “Susie?”
The laughter stops, “George? What are you doing over here?”
George swallows. “I got turned around. Kimi— he went with his friends, and I—”
“You shouldn’t wander off,” Susie reminds him, the way she scolds naughty pups. He burns with shame. “You know you get lost.”
George opens his mouth to say that he didn’t wander off, that he would’ve been fine if Kimi hadn’t pulled him so quickly, but saying that would mean blaming Kimi, and Kimi is everyone’s favourite. Kimi gets away with everything, so George says nothing.
Toto sighs. “Come on. I am sure Doriane’s looking for you. We’re heading to breakfast.”
They start walking. George listens to their footsteps, tries to match them. Wishes someone would reach out and steady him. But they’re too fast, inconsiderate of his disorientation and distress. He stumbles once, catches himself. They expect him to keep up and George does, for a while. Then their voices drift ahead, and he falls behind, surprised by a dip in the path that has him almost losing his footing, and they don’t notice.
He stops. He stands in the middle of a foreign camp, surrounded by strangers, and he thinks about just sitting down. Just waiting. Maybe someone will find him. Maybe not. Maybe it would be easier. He is so tired of being a burden. He is a dead-weight. They’ve made it pretty well known.
And then George is so worked up, so anxious, that he doesn’t notice the scent of another wolf until they’re almost upon him, and then his shoulder clips someone else and he spins away.
“Watch it, man!” they snarl at him. “Look where you’re fucking going.”
George blinks. He thinks it’s fairly obvious that he’s blind: his eyes pale and foggy, so he doesn’t say anything at all, just stands there and waits for the realisation, perhaps even an apology, but the strange wolf doesn’t seem to like that, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder, another on his ribs, pushing him down.
The ground beneath his boots tilts, a sharp, uneven slope he didn't anticipate. His center of gravity vanishes. He lunges out with his hands to catch himself, but there is nothing to grab— only cold air and the rush of foreign noise.
His boots slide over slick, frost-bitten grass. George hits the dirt hard on his side, knocking the remaining breath right out of his lungs. A collective wave of coarse laughter ripples from a nearby circle of unfamiliar wolves.
"Look at this one," a harsh voice calls out, heavy with morning ale and amusement. "Can't even walk straight at seven in the morning."
“You drunk, man?” calls another.
"Is he stupid?" another asks, a boot scuffing the dirt uncomfortably close to George’s head.
George freezes on the ground, his scraped, bleeding palm pressed into the freezing earth, his sprained wrist throbbing in time with his racing pulse. He doesn't move. He doesn't try to get up.
The shame is a physical weight, heavier than the cold, heavier than the pain radiating up his arm. Toto and Susie’s footsteps are completely gone now, lost to the noise of the main thoroughfare. They hadn't even checked to see if he was behind them. Defend me, he wants to whine. Protect me.
The stranger’s boot draws closer, kicking a spray of frost-bitten dirt directly across George’s cheek. He curls tighter into himself, shielding his neck, waiting for the next blow— then—
“Hey,” a low, dry voice calls, cutting through the jeering. “Leave off, yeah?”
The heavy boot near George’s head pulls back with a soft crunch of leaves. "Mind your own business, stranger," the strange wolf that pushed him sneers, though his voice lacks its earlier confidence.
"He's blind, you absolute idiot," the new voice replies, taking a step closer. The scent hits George a second later, sweet and apple-y. "And you're three times his size. But I’m not. So move along before I decide to test if your eyesight is any better than his."
A tense, heavy silence stretches over the path. The stranger growls under his breath, but the rustle of heavy coats and retreating footsteps signals that the group has decided he isn't worth the trouble.
George stays frozen on the ground, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. He flinches as low, steady footsteps approach, stopping just inches from where he lies trembling in the frost.
"Rough morning?" It’s not Doriane, but it’s not Toto, either. Deep and calm and smooth. A large, warm hand reaches down and hovers gently near George’s good shoulder, giving him time to register the presence.
"I'm Oscar," the wolf says softly. "Can I help you up?"
George swallows around the thick knot of shame in his throat, nodding in a jerky motion. “George,” he whispers. Oscar’s grip is firm and remarkably careful as he hooks an arm beneath George’s uninjured side, taking the brunt of his weight to lift him cleanly off the freezing earth.
When George’s boots hit the ground, his knees wobble, but Oscar doesn't let go, keeping a steadying hand on his upper arm until George finds his balance.
"Your palm is bleeding," Oscar notes, his tone matter-of-fact. He gently takes George's hand, using a clean corner of his own sleeve to dab away the dirt and blood from the scrape. "Where's your pack?"
"They... they went ahead," George whispers.
A low, disapproving hum vibrates in Oscar's chest, though he keeps his voice light. "Well, that's pretty stupid of them. Well, luckily, I know a shortcut. You're welcome to walk with me, if you like. I move slowly."
Sweet relief washes dizzyingly over George. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the soft flannel of Oscar's sleeve before anchoring himself securely to the stranger's arm.
As Oscar turns, matching his stride to George’s cautious steps and quietly pointing out every root and dip in the path ahead, George lets out a long, shuddering breath, allowing himself to be led safely away from the dark.
“There’s a root here,” Oscar says, his voice low and easy. “Big one, so– step high. Good. Now a dip about half a meter’s depth. I’ve got you.” Oscar doesn’t tug on him in that insistent hurry-up motion of Toto, nor Kimi’s sporadic dragging. He holds George by the arm, which is even nicer than Doriane letting him cling to her shirt. He can feel Oscar beneath him, his pulse, the hair on his arm.
George tries to memorize the path, the way the ground slopes, the cold bite of frost through his soles. But his wrist is throbbing and his palm stings and his thoughts keep skittering away from him like startled deer. He’s so tired. He’s so embarrassed. He keeps replaying the laughter, the boot scuffing near his head, the way no one in his pack had turned around.
They hadn’t even noticed he was gone.
He stumbles and tugs on Oscar. George swallows. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. Should’ve warned you about that branch.”
That’s a strange sentence. George turns it over in his head, looking for the catch. There isn’t one. Oscar just keeps walking, matching his pace to George’s cautious shuffle.
“Your pack,” Oscar says after a while, voice falsely conversational. “They always leave you behind?”
George’s first instinct is to defend them. It rises up automatically, a reflex born from years of covering for people who wouldn’t cover for him back. “They don’t mean to. They’re busy; there’s a lot of us.”
Oscar hums. It’s a low, noncommittal sound. “Didn’t ask if they meant to.”
George doesn’t have an answer for that. His throat tightens. He thinks of Toto’s sigh. Susie’s gentle, patronizing voice. You know you get lost. As if he isn’t constantly mapping the world in his head, counting paces, memorizing scents, trying so hard to be easy. To be less. Trying to claw at his own autonomy in a world that won’t give him an inch.
They reach the edge of a clearing. George smells porridge and wood and coffee. He hears the low rumble of voices, the clink of bowls, the sharp yip of Kimi somewhere to the left. His pack eating and laughing and not looking for him. The sound of their easy, unbothered chatter lands in his stomach like a stone.
Oscar stops. “That them?”
George nods. His fingers tighten on Oscar’s sleeve. He doesn’t want to let go. He wants to say, don’t leave me yet. But that’s not fair. Oscar is a stranger— Oscar has already done more than George’s pack has done all morning. He can’t ask for more.
“Want me to walk you over?”
George hesitates. He should say he’s fine, he can manage, he doesn’t need help. That’s what he always says. But his wrist is swollen and his palm is bleeding and his knees still feel weak from the fall.
And then, Oscar asks gently, “want to sit with my pack?”
George waits for him to laugh, say he’s joking. When he doesn’t, George asks nervously, “is that allowed?”
“This thing’s all about integration, right?” He can feel Oscar shrug. “Worth a try. There’s only five of us, we’re a small pack. Easier to track.”
“Okay,” George mumbles, and Oscar steers him through the crowds of people at tables — George knows because he clips his hip against one — until they reach one end of the clearing, where it is a little quieter, and the smells are a little less overwhelming. He smells porridge and pine and the soft, new scents of a pack he doesn’t know.
"We're here," Oscar says softly, bringing them to a halt. "Hey, everyone. This is George, he’ll be sitting with us.”
George goes tense, waiting for questions, for barbs, for confusion as to who he is and why he thinks he’s been invited to eat with them, but none of that comes. All he gets is a gentle, “good morning, Oscar. And good morning, George. Nice to meet you. Have you eaten yet?”
Oscar gently pushes George down onto a bench, and then moves to sit down beside him, the wood dipping beneath their combined weight. Almost instantly, a large, ceramic mug is gently placed directly into his hands, the steam carrying the rich, sweet scent of spiced tea and honey.
He manages a little shake of his head. "M–Morning," George stammers out, his knuckles white around the warm ceramic mug. He sits bolt upright, waiting for the other shoe to drop; waiting for someone to mention his fumbling steps, his weird eyes.
“Well, we’ll have to change that, won’t we?” The wolf says gently. “Mark! Get this pup some oatmeal, would you?”
“Aye-aye,” grumbles another voice from further down the table, and it squeaks as he rises.
“I’m Seb,” the original voice calls. “That’s Mark getting your breakfast.”
“You’re bleeding!” exclaims Seb suddenly. “I’m about to touch your wrist, okay?” George, bewildered, gives him a nod, and feels gentle fingertips graze down the side of his arm, then flip his hand over to reveal his scraped palm. Seb tuts and George tenses, but he doesn’t scold him, only wipes the wound gently with some kind of soft rag. “I’ll wrap that for you later, okay?”
“Okay,” George whispers. A heavy, steaming bowl is slid across the table, stopping just inches from his hands.
"Spoon’s on the right of the bowl," Mark’s raspy voice chimes in. "Honey’s mixed in already, but if you want more, just say the word."
George’s hands tremble slightly as he sets the mug down, his fingers sweeping the rough wood until they tap the wooden handle of the spoon. He scoops up a mouthful of hot porridge. It’s sweet, thick, and rich with cinnamon.
He waits for patronising comments, perhaps a dramatic silence while they wait to see if he can feed himself, or, worst of all, cooing at him like he’s a lost pup. None comes.
George takes another bite, the knot in his chest loosening just a fraction. He waits for the inevitable urge to shrink into himself, to apologize for breathing their air, but Oscar just nudges his elbow lightly with his own.
"You doing alright there, George?" Oscar asks, his voice low enough that it stays just between the two of them. "Wrist hurt?"
"A little," George admits honestly, the word slipping out before he can filter it.
"After breakfast, I'll have Arvid take a look at it," Oscar says simply, without a trace of annoyance. "He's good with wraps. Won't take a minute."
George swallows around a sudden, tight lump in his throat. He looks down into his bowl, the steam rising up to warm his cold face. “Thanks.”
“It’s no problem,” Seb says breezily. “I’m just thrilled that Oscar found someone to talk to.” Beside him, Oscar huffs, but George can’t detect any actual annoyance from him. Only amused compliance. “Have you attended this gathering before?”
George shakes his head. “It’s my first time,” he mumbles.
Seb doesn’t miss a beat. “Ours too. We’re new to the area, we hadn’t been expecting everything to be so… busy.”
“Too busy,” mutters Oscar.
“Way too busy,” Mark chimes in, the scraping of his wooden spoon against his bowl punctuation to the thought. “And whoever mapped out the thoroughfares needs to be fired. It’s a fucking maze.”
George’s hands tighten slightly around his spoon, a strange, warm sensation blooming in the center of his chest. There is no subtle jab hidden in Mark’s words, no underlying “as George so brilliantly demonstrated.” It’s just an observation; fault of the planners rather than him.
“And the noise,” Seb adds with a dramatic sigh, slumping back against the bench so hard the wood creaks. “I haven’t heard myself think since we crossed the ridge. I don't know how the larger packs stand it.”
“They don’t,” Oscar says, his shoulder shifting rhythmically as he eats beside George. “They just make enough noise of their own to drown everyone else out.”
“Well, we have Lando, who makes enough noise for ten,” says Mark.
George chews his porridge, listening to the light, effortless rhythm of their conversation. With his own pack, every pause felt like a space he’s either expected to fill with an apology or yield to someone more important. Here, no one is monitoring how much space he takes up. No one is watching him eat to see if he’ll spill on himself.
“George?” Seb’s voice is gentle, approaching from across the table.
George freezes automatically, his posture instantly stiffening. “Yeah?”
“I’ve got a clean piece of linen and a bit of yarrow salve,” Seb explains, stepping into George’s physical space slowly, giving his scent plenty of time to arrive first so George doesn’t jolt when he sits on the edge of the bench beside him. “Mind if I clean off that palm now?
“Oh. You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to,” Seb says with a soft, teasing hum. “I want to.”
“Don’t even try and stop him when he’s mother-henning you,” grumbles Mark. A small, genuine huff of air escapes George’s nose. He slowly extends his right arm, palm up.
Seb’s hands are surprisingly cool and extremely light. He works efficiently, dabbing away the remaining grit with a damp rag before applying a cool, soothing paste over the scrape. Every time George flinches at a sting, Seb pauses, waiting for a small nod before continuing.
“There,” Seb says softly, wrapping a narrow band of clean cloth around his hand and securing it with a neat tuck. “Now for the wrist. Arvid is our resident herbalist, but I can tell you right now it’s just a light sprain. You’ll want to keep it wrapped and avoid lifting anything heavy today.”
“I don’t usually lift heavy things anyway,” George mutters self-consciously, staring down at his boots. “Bit too risky for me. Toto thinks I’d break something.
A distinct silence falls over the small table. “Does he?” Oscar asks quietly beside him. His tone is carefully neutral, but George feels the arm resting against his own tense just a fraction. Seb rubs his thumb over George’s wristbone in small soothing circles.
“Well,” George stammers, suddenly worried he’s said something wrong, “it’s just... it’s easier. Less things for me to knock over. Less trouble.”
“Right,” Mark says, his voice flat in a way that suggests he’s biting back a much sharper sentence.
“Mark,” Seb says warningly, though his own voice carries a heavy, tight edge. He finishes tying the wrap and pats George’s uninjured knee lightly. “You’re not trouble, George. And you’re certainly not a burden for working a little differently.”
George swallows hard, his throat tight. He focuses on the sweet, warm taste of honey on his tongue, his knuckles turning white as he holds his mug again.
Before the conversation can drift any deeper into uncomfortable territory, a familiar, sharp scent cuts through the morning air, slicing through the pine and porridge. George’s senses snag on it immediately, the way it’s sharp with worry—
“George!”
Doriane’s voice rings out across the edge of the clearing, breathless and strained. Heavy footsteps crunch rapidly through the frost-bitten grass, heading straight toward their quiet corner.
“George! Where are you?”
George flinches slightly at the volume, his hand instinctively reaching out to touch the edge of the table to anchor himself. Beside him, Oscar doesn’t move away, remaining a solid, reassuring weight at his side.
Doriane reaches this end of the breakfast clearing, her breathing coming in sharp, ragged gasps. He notices the moment she spots him because her voice suddenly becomes much more directed. “George! God, I’ve been looking everywhere— I woke up and your bedroll was empty, Toto said you fell behind on the way to—”
She cuts herself off abruptly. George’s hands tighten around the steaming mug of spiced tea in his uninjured hand, a clean bandage wrapped around his palm, surrounded by four strange wolves that are decidedly not with her pack, wolves that must be looking at her with some kind of scrutiny for her to react like that.
“Doriane,” George says softly, turning his head toward her scent. “I’m here.”
She closes the remaining distance and to her knees right beside his bench, just as she had the night before. Her hands hover over him frantically before settling lightly on his shoulders. “Are you alright? What happened? Toto said you wandered off again— who are these people?”
“I found him by himself,” Oscar says coolly, taking a slow sip from his own mug. “Since your pack didn’t seem to mind, we invited him over for breakfast.”
Doriane stiffens violently and her scent flares defensively, but her hand trails down to the gauze on George’s palm, and the anger seems to just drain out of her, replaced by a sudden, sickening wave of shame.
“You... you fell?” she whispers to George, her grip on his shoulders tightening, her voice cracking. “George, why didn't you stay near the camp?”
“I tried,” George says, his voice small, but steady. “Kimi tried to show me something, then he—... then I got turned around.”
A low, painful sound catches in Doriane’s throat. She rests her forehead briefly against George’s knee, her shoulders trembling. “I’m sorry,” she breathes into the fabric of his trousers. “I’m so sorry, George. I should have been awake. I should have been with you.”
“It’s okay,” George says automatically, the habit deeply ingrained.
“It’s not okay,” Seb interjects gently from across the table. His tone isn’t aggressive, but it leaves no room for debate. “He was surrounded by strangers, hurt, and completely unanchored. If Oscar hadn’t been passing by, he could have been badly hurt.”
Doriane seems small suddenly, stripped of the fierce, sharp edge she usually carried when defending George from Toto’s offhand comments. “Thank you,” she says to the small pack, her voice thick. “For... taking care of him. Helping him.”
“He doesn’t need taking care of,” Mark says simply, scooping another bite of porridge into his mouth. “He just needs people to actually communicate with him.”
Doriane swallows, standing up slowly and offering a hand to George. “Come on, George. Let’s get you back to our camp. I’ll make sure Susie wraps that wrist properly—”
“I don’t want to,” George says quiet, remaining firmly seated on the wood. He feels the dip of the bench beneath him, the warmth of Oscar’s shoulder against his, the calm, unhurried air of this quiet clearing.
Doriane pauses at his rare, quiet resistance — she hasn't seen in him for a very long time. “George?” she asks, a hint of hesitation creeping into her voice.
“I’m still eating,” George says gently, lifting his spoon to take another bite of the warm, sweet porridge. “I think... I’d like to finish sitting here for a bit. If that’s okay. Then Oscar here said someone from this pack can wrap my wrist. A herbalist.” A pause, then he adds, “that girl you were excited to see. Abbi? Spend some time with her. I’m alright now.”
Doriane hovers for a long moment, her weight shifting from foot to foot. George can hear the uncertainty in the way she breathes shallowly. He knows this version of her: the one caught between wanting to protect him and not knowing how to do it right. And a part of her that wants to go and do her own thing, tired of bearing the responsibility of looking after George.
"Are you sure?" she finally asks, and her voice has gone soft in that way that makes George's chest ache. "I can stay. Abbi can wait."
"You've been waiting to see her for weeks," George says. He takes another bite of porridge, letting the warmth settle in his stomach. His fingers curl around the mug. "I'm not going anywhere. Oscar said I could sit with them until you're done."
"Until you're done," Oscar corrects mildly beside him. "No rush."
Doriane makes a small sound, frustration or worry or something caught between the two. George hears her turn, presumably to look at the strange pack that has somehow become his refuge. He wonders what she sees. A group of four wolves, maybe five, clustered at the edge of the clearing like they don't quite belong either. Small pack, newer to the area, unfamiliar, but far kinder to George than her own pack has been, and they all know it.
"If anything happens—" Doriane starts.
"Then he'll be with us," Seb says, not unkindly. "And we'll find you. Or Oscar will growl at someone. He's very good at that."
Oscar huffs again, but there's no heat in it. "I've had practice."
Doriane's hand finds George's shoulder one more time, squeezing gently. He can smell the conflict rolling off her. "I'll be back in an hour," she says. "Maybe two. Abbi's camp is on the other side of the gathering, near the eastern ridge. Come find me, okay?”
"Take your time," George says, and means it.
Her footsteps retreat slowly at first, then faster as she weaves back through the breakfast crowd. George tracks her by sound until she's swallowed by the noise, her lavender-and-wool scent fading into the general chaos of the camp.
The silence at the table stretches for a beat. Then two.
"Well," Mark says.
“Would you like help washing up?” George asks hopefully, once he’s finished the bowl. He wants to be helpful, wants to show them that he can be helpful.
Seb pauses, and George braces for the refusal, but he only replies: “That would be great, thank you, George.” He leans across the table, his hand gently tapping the wooden edge right next to George’s elbow to give him a sonic landmark. “There’s a shallow tub of warm water right by the end of the bench, George. Clean rag’s on the left rim.”
Oscar places a warm palm against the back of George’s forearm, nudging him gently until his fingers brush the smooth lip of the wooden tub. The water gives off a soft steam, scented lightly with lemon verbena.
“Got it?” Oscar asks, his voice low and close to George’s ear.
“Got it,” George whispers, a genuine, small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
For the next twenty minutes, George works alongside them. It isn't fast, and it isn't seamless; he drops a wooden spoon once, and Mark merely chuckles and scoops it back up for him — but nobody tells him he’s moving too slowly.
Nobody sighs with that heavy, performative weariness Toto always uses when George takes a few seconds longer to navigate a task. They just hand him bowls, guide his wrist when he reaches the edge of the rack, and keep up a steady stream of low, effortless banter around him.
They talk about mundane things: the poor quality of the firewood, the ridiculous size of the main pack camps, a stray dog that had tried to steal Arvid’s boot the night before. They don't lower their voices when he's around, nor do they speak in that overly exaggerated, careful tone people use around children or injured animals. They talk around him, and then effortlessly to him, clueing him in on inside jokes and telling silly stories about their journey to the gathering.
When the last bowl is dried and stacked, George worries that this is it, that they’ll be sending him back on his way now, and the kindness will end and he’ll go and stumble his way back to his pack’s camp. But they don’t. Mark says, “Arvid’ll be back at camp now, if you still want us to take a look at that wrist?” and hope swells in George’s chest. He nods wordlessly and stands up from the bench.