Work Text:
You pull him close, and his clothes smell like gunpowder.
You kiss him and you taste blood;
you hate when he comes home like this.
You ask, Why won’t you let me help you?
He shakes his head and walks away.
You chase after him because that’s what you do.
You reach out and pull him close.
You kiss him and this time you taste tears.
I hate this, he says, I feel empty.
He pulls away again.
You try to tell him a cure will be found.
After all this time,
both of you know it’s a lie.
I’m never going to stop looking, you say.
That, he knows, is the truth.
You have to let me help, you beg.
He tells you that he didn’t love you then.
He loves you now, and he thinks he’s being noble.
You’re just being an idiot, you tell him.
He lets you go with him next time.
Eventually, after months of coming up empty,
in a little, ratty book in the Spice Shop,
there’s a cure for him.
It’s complex and time-consuming,
but it works.
Powers intact, he goes back to normal.
He sees the wolf again -- loves it, even.
He can hear a leaf fall from the oak out front.
The smiles are finally genuine again.
You finally have him back -- all of him.
It’s raining and you’re sitting in a cafe.
It’s a Tuesday and neither of you has anything to do.
Around a bite of a double chocolate muffin,
he says I love you for the first time.
It’s casual but you know he means it.
You aren’t expecting it so you don’t say it back.
At least, you don’t say it back yet.
You pull him close and kiss him.
It’s your first official act of PDA besides sharing a table.
Finally, you say it: I love you too.