Archive of Our Own

Garou is barely inside the forest – just about ready to swing his leisurely way up into a tree – when he spots it. Something out of the ordinary even for this ever-changing scenery.

The nearby underbrush is stained. Dark red spattered over cheerful green leaves. Kind of macabre, in the dappled moonlight that filters its way in through the trees overhead. Garou stalks closer as quiet as he can, nose twitching. There’s no hunting allowed in these woods, so whatever’s bleeding should be some natural order of things bullshit…

Blood glitters half-dry, broken bits of foliage and disturbed earth. It all forms a chaotic trail that Garou follows further east than he usually ventures; his place is in the opposite direction. But he’s curious about the whatever-this-is that’s hurt. Something with awfully big –

Paws.

Garou stops.

There, sticking out from a patch of saplings and ferns grown thick beneath the shape of a fallen rotting log, are two paws. Big enough to match the tracks. Unmoving, too.

Whatever the hell they’re attached to probably isn’t something he should mess with. A wolf, most likely.

Hell, any injured animal can be bad news, he knows, but…

Something about this one pulls him in closer, keeps him creeping across the soft forest floor. Careful not to step on any twigs, his feet falling graceful and quiet through thickets until he’s right up next to that tipped-over tree and the little sanctuary beneath it. Right at the apex where stump meets trunk. Old splintered wood, moss, and mushrooms.

And a great, black wolf beneath it all. Presumably. Part of that pack that stalks the nearby outskirts, maybe?

The scent of blood is strong here, too – though maybe a bit muffled by the decaying wood and all the rest of it. Not a bad place to collapse from injuries, but nowhere is ideal for that type of shit.

Crouching down near those big paws with their thick-sharp claws, Garou slowly nudges aside some bloodstained saplings for a better look. More scruffy black fur that’s not in the best shape, including a bushy tail. There are briars and sticks tangled in it from the creature’s sprint through the forest – and most disconcerting of all is the blood. Leaking from long slashes along the wolf’s side, from what Garou can see.

Dark red mats fur and soaks the forest floor, so much of it over everything that Garou worries the beast is dead for a second. But that fluffy ribcage rises and falls. Hoarse panting breaths are slow but there.

Not dead. Just very hurt. This thing probably will be dead, before the night’s out.

Unless Garou helps.

He crawls forward almost on automatic, ducking beneath the log and bringing himself way too close to an injured animal. If it wakes up, he’ll be bitten for sure. Something he’s finding it kind of hard to care about.

Not like he’s the sentimental type, really, but. This thing doesn’t have to die.

There are puncture wounds up by its shoulder, like it was bitten by another wolf. Infighting in the pack? Some kind of scuffle with outsiders? A neighborhood dog defending its yard? Who knows…

Then again, the closer Garou looks, the more this wolf seems like it could be…not entirely wolf. It’s got some dog in it, maybe. One of those tall pointed ears is flopping bent at the tip, and that black snout isn’t as long as the wolves’ Garou’s seen. It’s less-narrow, too. Pink tongue stuck out between rows of razor-sharp teeth that have blood between them. Definitely some kind of mutt.

At least this guy apparently gave as good as it got. Its forepaws are scraggly too, covered in blood and dirt with one toenail missing.

Maybe it is a pet after all? He’s heard something about dogs wandering off to find quiet places to die.

Slowly, Garou reaches out. Just one hand. Keeps his eyes open and senses sharp and muscles tensed, ready to bolt in the worst case. He’ll be fine with a lost hand, just doesn’t want to die helping a dying dog…

His hand meets the thick scruff of the dog’s neck. The animal doesn’t move from where it’s sprawled on its side, even as Garou feels around. No sign of a collar. It could have one of those newfangled microchip things. A vet’s office or shelter would be able to tell him, but they’ve all gotta be closed at this time of night.

Pet or stray, this mutt isn’t going to last until they open. The heartbeat Garou feels under his palm is faint.

He sighs. So much for a quiet end to a long day of training. He didn’t even find anyone decent to fight in any of the nearby towns. Meaning it might be time to move on, soon.

First thing’s first, though.

He’s got to do something about this damned dog. Can’t stand to just let it die here.

Crawling out from beneath the fallen log, Garou skirts the creature’s head, kneeling near its face. Even further within striking distance if it wakes up angry. There’s a bald scar above one of its closed eyes, extending a little ways up its forehead. Its other ear stands at attention but is missing a chunk.

Huh. So this dog’s not a stranger to fighting, seems like. A fact that makes it even more dangerous to try and save, but here Garou goes. Untying his fabric belt so that he can slowly wrap it around that stout muzzle a few times. He knots the strip of fabric underneath, pulling the ends back to tie them behind those strange uneven ears. Now at least if it wakes up, it shouldn’t be able to bite him.

That much, he can do, but he’s no real animal expert. Years and years ago, when he was like six, there was the family dog. It’s not like he ever had to bandage lethal wounds on it or carry it home unconscious, though.

Treading cautiously – because even if it can’t bite, this is still one damn giant dog that could probably knock him out cold if it headbutted him – Garou trails his hands down that fluffy spine, starting at the back of the creature’s head. Nothing feels too out of place. All the legs seem stable enough. No broken bones that he can feel, but he does come across more scars.

Old bites on one of the back legs – and while he’s back there he can’t help but notice that he’s dealing with a male dog. Unfixed, too.

Aren’t they supposed to be harder to train that way? Irresponsible pet owners…

Well, whatever. He could easily be a stray in this scruffy state. Maybe Garou could get a pet out of all this, if he doesn’t bother to look for an owner. Some company wouldn’t be so bad. Neither would a guard dog.

But he’s getting ahead of himself; the thing might not even live. Getting attached would be stupid.

He curls an arm around the dog’s ribs, just behind its front legs, blood soaking his shirt as he hauls it free of its hiding place. It growls low in its sleep, but doesn’t wake up or move more than a fluttering of its eyelids. Garou has no idea if that’s a good or bad sign. The fact that it leaves a smear of blood behind is definitely a bad sign.

Step two is picking the dog up – which proves to be harder than Garou was expecting – the thing must weigh like ninety kilos – what the fuck?

Fat bastard. It’s huge, but it’s not that huge. Must be awful dense, and Garou grumbles under his breath as he hefts it up over his shoulders. Like a particularly ugly scarf wrapped around behind. He holds its scarred and bleeding legs in his hands, thick fur making his neck hot.

Like this, he carries the beast all the way back to his hideout.

-

The abandoned cabin that Garou’s taken up residence in is a tiny two-room thing. Kitchen and bedroom are one cramped piece that run seamlessly into each other, and the only closed-off space is the bathroom.

So this is where Garou sets the dog down, carefully lowering that mass of black fur onto old cracked tile.

…Then he changes his mind, and hefts it into the bathtub. It’ll be easier to clean the dog up in there – even if this place only has cold water, at least that’s better than being coated in the grime of the woods.

Garou turns the faucet on, and ferries handfuls of water toward bloodied wounds. Worrying is the fact that the dog doesn’t move more than a twitch or two as Garou rinses claw marks and puncture wounds. Wetting down all that black fur reveals that this dog is built more sturdy than fluffy – the fur is thick alright, but this bulk explains why the beast is so damn heavy…

It’s easier to pick out all those briars when the fur is wet. Garou tugging at them with his fingernails, not quite sure why he’s bothering, but. If they find their way into those wounds, it’d be bad news.

So Garou is as diligent with his cleaning as he can manage, with limited resources. Even spares the better of his two towels to get the dog mostly dry afterward. Especially the fur around those gruesome wounds; there’s not much Garou can do for the blood loss, but he can stop whatever’s left and bandage shit at least.

Not finding any worthy opponents around here has eliminated Garou’s need for anything like medical supplies, so he has a bit of a surplus at the moment.

He starts with the front legs, seeing as they’re the easiest to get to. The dog growls in its sleep again, as Garou squeezes the towel to newly-rinsed feet. There’s surprisingly little damage on the toes themselves – a lot of the stains must have mostly been blood from whoever this guy was fighting, Garou figures.

Hopefully that means he took a few assholes down before fleeing. Garou won’t respect him otherwise, and will rescind the, “Good boy,” he mutters out while bandaging the dog’s right forepaw. The one missing a toenail that also happens to be host to more puncture wounds, area around the wrist swollen and hot. Broken or strained, maybe. As previously stated, Garou is no veterinarian. He wraps the whole mess and leaves it at that.

…This beast better have its shots.

Great. Garou hadn’t even considered that until now. Just his luck that he’ll save its life and it’ll get rabies or some shit…

Whatever. Too late to think about that, now, with wolf-dog blood all over himself, staining his floor and bathtub. Probably leading a trail right up to his front door, how lovely – if scavengers come poking around Garou won’t get any fucking sleep.

And now he’s having to lift the damn thing one end at a time, just so he can finagle a towel under it. Wrap it around and apply pressure, to be extra-sure that any of those wounds on its sides and back have stopped bleeding. He leans on it. Finds it ridiculously dense and carrying that notorious scent of wet dog. It barely fits in this ancient bathtub; clogs the drain with its fur.

At least its breathing is steadier, now. It even whines in its sleep, squirming a bit when Garou presses in.

And the bleeding seems to have stopped, near as Garou can tell. He parts thick black to better see the cuts along the ribcage. Bite marks on shoulder blades.

Damn dog is lucky Garou found him, and especially lucky that Garou cares enough to haul the back end of that mass of wet fur onto his lap in order to wrap bandages around its middle. Kind of an awkward position, but the only strategy that works, really. Bandage tape won’t stick to all this fluff.

It was hard enough to get himself between dog and bathtub, and it’s even harder to slip free. Especially without jostling the creature too much. Garou’s wedged himself in all awkward and trips his way out of the tub, almost falling the whole way down because he stepped on that stupid fluffy tail which makes the dog grunt and twitch while Garou catches himself on the opposite wall –

Still that supposed stray doesn’t wake up. Definitely down for the count, that one.

Which is probably a bad sign, and more than likely means Garou will have to dig a giant hole come morning. That’ll render all his trouble here moot. But he reapproaches anyway. Might as well get that one last injury.

The bites up around the dog’s shoulder will be harder to work out a bandaging technique for, but Garou should be able to rig something.

He bends over the dog, bandages in hand, and sticks his fingers into fur to get an idea of the parameters of the damage –

And it lurches beneath him.

Twists around and lunges and he barely leaps back in time.

Snapping jaws tear their makeshift muzzle clean open, and unsteady paws slip-slide against the wet bathtub as the dog scrambles out, makes a violent snarling beeline for Garou. Uncaring of its injuries – it’s damn fast – has Garou vaulting onto the sink, bolting for the door.

He doesn’t want to hurt it, for fuck’s sake! This outburst might already be enough to do that, so flight it is.

Vicious growling, teeth dripping bloodied saliva, damned beast looking even bigger with its hackles all raised. Brown eyes that flash with danger – and, dammit, Garou knows eye contact with strange dogs is a bad idea, but those eyes hold a challenge and just for a split second Garou has the bizarre urge to step up to said challenge because it might be an actual test of his abilities –

But then he comes to his senses when the dog quits the slow stalking and launches itself at him.

Garou’s out the door in a flash, slamming it shut and shoving his weight at it. Leaned fully against it when the dog hits with so much force that the hinges rattle and Garou’s body jolts forward.

Again he shoves his back to it, stabilizes, one hand white-knuckled on the doorknob, feet braced on the floor. “Ungrateful bastard!” he shouts over his shoulder, as the dog throws itself at the door again. Claws scraping loud as it makes a goddamned racket, barking and snarling and even howling.

Clearly angry as fuck.

“Next time I’ll just let you bleed out,” Garou grouches. Kicks at the door with his heel.

It’s shockingly sturdy, and doesn’t give way despite all the terrible splintering sounds coming from inside as the dog keeps right on trying to attack Garou. Whoever built this little shack made it structurally sound, if nothing else…

Wood lurches at Garou’s back, knocking his head against it thanks to the brief loss of footing. “Would you give it a rest already? You’ll kill yourself, stupid dog!”

The assault on the bathroom door stops. All that fussing from the dog tapers off to a low growl, and Garou feels the door quiver, hears the clack of toenails against tile. Dog presumably back on all four paws. It snaps out one last violent bark – and then quiets.

Maybe it lies down, or maybe it collapses.

Either way, Garou doesn’t hear another peep out of it for the rest of the night.

-

Garou wakes up groggy and sore, tangled up in his blankets after a fitful night of sleep. Sunlight filters in through thinning squares of fabric pinned over the windows. Sad excuses for curtains that the previous residents put up.

Ugh. He’s an early riser, but just this once, he wishes he could fall back asleep. Take full advantage of having approximately zero responsibilities. Last night, see, he had to go and rinse himself off in a nearby stream. Because he was covered in blood and dog hair and his bathroom was occupied.

He rolls out of bed with reluctance, peeling his blanket off of himself and tossing it back to the mattress. He stands. Stretches the fluidity back into his muscles…

…Plucks the dog hair from his mouth, two entire strands stuck to his tongue…

Fucking creature can’t even stay contained when it’s locked up.

Then it’s to the rickety old porch for his clothes. He left them there to dry after his little swim, stripped down to his underwear for bed. Even those he only left on just in case the dog busted down the bathroom door in the middle of the night and tried to kill Garou in his sleep. There’s nothing more awkward than fighting for your life in the nude.

Shirt and pants aren’t quite dry yet, but they’ll do. Garou tugs them on, then stands on the porch, and watches the slow rise of the sun as best he can through the trees.

The eastern edge of the forest. Where he found that damn dog.

Usually, Garou starts his days with a run. The terrain around here keeps him on his toes even if there aren’t any opponents for sparring. He’s never once broken his daily habit of scoping out whatever area he happens to inhabit at the time.

But. He’s never once had a guest before.

Let alone an unruly dog.

He should probably check to see if the thing’s still alive, after all of its fussing.

Turning on his heel, back inside Garou goes. He walks the five long strides through his tiny living space, and rests his palms on the old-fashioned record player turned makeshift table he wedged in front of the bathroom door before bed. It’s the heaviest piece of furniture in the place – or, well, the only piece of furniture, excluding the sagging bedframe and the spindly chair.

There’s the refrigerator, too. It doesn’t turn on, but it does its job as a giant cooler well enough, if Garou keeps it stocked with ice. Would’ve been a pain in the ass to move, especially with food inside.

Food that Garou doesn’t have much of. But he does have a slab of uncooked steak. That he treated himself to.

He was going to build a fire and roast it up last night. One last hurrah before moving on.

…

…

Oh, fuck it. If the dog’s dead, Garou can still cook his steak and eat it himself. If it’s alive, maybe this’ll convince it not to maul him on sight – or at least be enough of a distraction to give Garou a moment to slip away.

Over to the fridge he goes, cracking it open, pulling the steak out. He jabs his nails into the thin plastic packaging overtop of it, gets the meat itself out and leaves the rest sitting on the counter to be disposed of later. For now he’s got bigger problems. Focuses on shoving that clunky broken record player out of the way of the bathroom door, back into the main living space where it belongs.

Garou curls a slow, cautious palm around the doorknob in front of him, keeping hold of the steak in his other hand. Ears straining for any hint of sound, but there’s nothing. Still that same silence from last night.

It’s got him on edge, though. Even if it shouldn’t.

The only thing in there is a dog. Dead or alive, feral or tame, huge as it may be – it’s a dog. And Garou has lived through way worse than dogs.

So he opens the door, bracing for any sudden moves like last night in the bathtub –

Only for his guard to falter in the face of an entire human man who rushes him and tackles him all in one swift move, knocking Garou flat on his back in a way that few people have managed to do since his training days at the dojo – and what in the actual fuck –

Garou’s eyes are wide, heart pounding. Body stupid and lax and sprawled on the floor.

This guy is naked. He is very naked.

Very much not a fucking dog, either, and oh, hell, it takes some time for the wheels to turn in Garou’s brain and all the pieces to line up and click, connecting this snarl (teeth too-sharp to be human, bloodstained) with the one from last night (bloody saliva and snapping canines), and haha! So that’s what he did!

Brought home a fucking werewolf! It was a full moon last night. Apparently those creatures are real.

Who knew?

Fingernails dig into Garou’s shoulders, too close to his neck for comfort, too much weight pressing down on his collarbone. Knees on either side of his hips. Furious face poised over his.

Naked werewolf man is growling.

Same scar bisecting his eyebrow, same chunk missing from his ear. Dark hair falling into brown eyes.

“The fuck are you trying to pull, huh?!” he snarls out, pushing harder at Garou’s collarbone –

But his pin is weak – dumbass didn’t even bother trying to use his knees right – and Garou is back to his senses. Knows danger when he sees it. Lifts his feet and kicks at a still-bandaged stomach while driving the heel of his hand into the werewolf’s chest.

Brown eyes go round just before that hit lands – and he might try to dodge, but it still lands. Sends him tumbling off Garou with an inhuman whine. Hitting the floor hard, head cracking off the wall.

He’s solidly built. Garou can’t help but notice. Even as he darts after the not-dog, trying to pin him down.

Shorter and broader than Garou with a padding of fat that hides an irritating amount of strong muscle. Garou’s assessing his opponent and nothing more when he takes note of flexing thighs, sturdy arms – horribly plush chest – ah, fuck, alright, it’s an obnoxious, sexy, injured werewolf that is currently tussling naked with Garou all over the floor.

Not a bad fighter, either. Throws his weight around too much, though.

Shoves an elbow into Garou’s abdomen when it’s not tensed for impact – a lucky hit – and now Garou is growling. “I saved your life, you ungrateful mutt!” Teeth snap at his wrist. “Cut that shit out –”

“Saved my life so you could turn me into a fucking throw rug, maybe,” the werewolf scoffs, voice strained, injured arm yanked back in Garou’s hold. He bucks and twists and squirms while Garou is poised on top of him, trying to make sense of those words, trying not to think about bare scarred skin and a plush round ass beneath his crotch –

The werewolf somehow winds up knocking his thick skull into Garou’s nose. Asshole.

It dazes Garou just enough for his opponent to slip free and wriggle forward, twisting around to kick at his chest and claw at his hair – so Garou claws right back, ducks away from those hands.

Lunges forward only to meet resistance, werewolf sitting up some, hand catching one of Garou’s and squeezing in a vice – but Garou’s other hand hits its mark, jabbing at the side of a neck only to once again dodge zealous jaws that try to snap shut around him.

“Why the hell would I turn you into a rug?” he asks, throwing himself backward to regain distance.

“I don’t fucking know!” The werewolf lunges in doglike, teeth-and-claws first, and again Garou darts aside. “As some kinda fucked up trophy, maybe?!”

Garou pauses. Blinks. “Your fur’s not that nice.”

Snarling (offended?) werewolf man throws himself at Garou yet again – only this time Garou catches him.

It’s ill-advised to put any piece of himself near that mouth, so wrapping his thighs around the neck is out – Garou has to go for the slightly-less-ill-advised route of wrapping his thighs around that thick, bare-except-for-bandages waist – awkward position but squeezing here gets another yelp, sturdy body jolting in his grip, claws scratching at his chest and teeth gnashing but not close enough to bite.

In a twisting flash Garou’s got the werewolf pinned. Places his own knees much more effectively, thank you very much. Grabs at those flailing wrists – one of them the swollen wrapped sprain – and holds them down through all of the angry thrashing that results.

There sure is a lot of it, too. Garou’s nearly knocked off a few times.

In the end he probably only succeeds because this stupid werewolf’s got some kind of death wish and is back to leaking blood all over Garou’s floor again. Bandages soaked through and rendered useless. The werewolf’s furrowed brow is shiny with sweat, chest heaving as he pants to catch his breath. Tongue darting out to wet his lips.

He bucks one last time. Bare skin writhing uselessly beneath Garou.

And then he settles with a frustrated growl, showing his teeth. Cute nose wrinkling with the motion.

“Y’know, that looked a lot more threatening last night,” Garou says. He doesn’t ease up on his hold, just in case. There’s barely-restrained strength in that form under him; the werewolf is trembling with it.

That plush mouth presses closed, jaw working for a second before those lips part again to spit bloodied phlegm at Garou’s face. “Fuck you!”

It really says something about how long it’s been since Garou had a decent fight that he’s only excited by the saliva dripping down his cheek. He grins, something light rising in his chest. Is having a hard time being as angry as he maybe should be, after his pure selfless kindness was so rudely disregarded. “You’re bleeding through your bandages,” is all he says.

Brown eyes narrow. “So? What do you care? You’re just gonna kill me at the next full moon anyway.”

“Why are you so dead set on me killing you?”

“You’re a hunter, ain’t ya?”

“No.”

That near-permanent scowl eases. Droops into a frown, though the deep furrow between the werewolf’s eyebrows stays. That scarred one twitches some. “Then what the hell’d you lock me up in this dump for?”

A spark of indignation in favor of this (admittedly dump-like) shack that Garou’s called home for the past couple of weeks is easily shelved. “Because I found you bleeding out in the woods,” he says, grin melting into something perplexed, “and for some reason I thought I better keep that from happening.”

Huffing out a low growl, the werewolf glances away. He’s looking pinker in the face. Just around those roundish cheeks. Pouting, Garou would say if he didn’t know better.

Garou raises an eyebrow. Leans forward some, puts more pressure on those wrists.

“Thanks for being such an upstanding guy,” the werewolf spits, sounding the exact opposite of grateful. He turns that softened glare back on Garou, eyes flashing dangerous like they did last night in the bathroom. “Now get the fuck off of me.”

Dipping in closer, Garou watches that downright adorable nose scrunch up again. “Are you done trying to bite me?”

Teeth snap shut scant millimeters from Garou’s face – only missing because he lurched upright in time.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.” He’s grinning again despite himself. Releasing those wrists as he settles back on his knees, knelt atop his would-be prey in a sort of awkward angle, in order to keep those legs pinned.

Not that he expects it to stick, with the werewolf’s resumed squirming. Muscles flexing thick under that plush layer of chub that Garou kind of wants to sink his hands into. Grab and grip with a different sort of intent – but now isn’t really the time or place for that kind of shit. It’d probably involve more biting, anyway, and Garou doesn’t yet know enough about werewolves to say whether that’d be a pro or a con.

“Fucker,” the werewolf snarls out. He’s got his teeth bared again. They really are sharp, even in this human form. Giving up on freeing his legs in favor of sitting up fast, claws and teeth reaching –

Garou rolls off of him, those pointed nails (minus one bloody gap; the ripped off toenail on the forepaw, he recalls) grazing his shirt. “Jeez you’re feral – is that a werewolf thing or a personal trait of yours?”

There’s a harrumphing sort of scoff from naked werewolf man, another noise that’s weirdly animalistic. “You’re one to talk,” he says, running a hand through his hair to push it back from his face. It’s the one with that bloodied fingernail, and he grimaces when it gets caught, lowering it to suck on it. For all the good that’ll do. “Have you seen this place?” He keeps talking around that finger. Kind of distracting. “You live here by choice? Not banished to isolation in the woods or some shit?”

Now it’s Garou’s turn to narrow his eyes. What right does this beaten bloody werewolf have to criticize Garou’s temporary home? “I’m just passing through.” And shitty little hole in the ground this might be, it’s Garou’s shitty little hole in the ground – one that he brought this guy to. An act of kindness.

“Hotels exist, man.” That distracting finger pops free of that distracting mouth. Shiny with spit and a bit less blood-coated, maybe. The werewolf wipes it on a clean patch of bandage. A dwindling resource, he’s bleeding so badly. Sweat slick over his skin.

In such bad shape and he’s still playing tough.

Garou hates it. Unless he actually respects it. Is attracted to it? Too soon to tell.

“If I’d been staying in a hotel, I never would’ve found your half-dead carcass and nursed it back to life.” Garou gets the urge to kick at one of those bare knees splayed nearby – there are bite marks on this leg, scars he recognizes from its dog form. “Ungrateful piece of shit.”

“Shut the fuck up about that, beanpole! I’d have been fine.”

He says that, sure. Glaring and kicking back and all. But he’s barely sitting up, slumps back against the wall as he leers around the place with a little wrinkle in his nose, little furrow in his brow. Upper lip curled above his teeth. Like Garou’s going to forget they’re there, or some shit, and wander into biting range. Or else that’s just how he winces. His breathing is all shallow. Broken ribs, maybe?

Garou just blinks at him. All that blood-smeared skin with its dusting of dark hair – not really as much as Garou expected a werewolf to have, but maybe that’s just a stereotype. This one’s got a happy trail. Kinda cute.

“Sure you would have,” Garou mutters, shifting into a more comfortable seat on the ground, getting his legs out from beneath himself.

A good strong wind would take the werewolf out, as he is right now. But in his prime – even better condition than he was when attacking Garou just moments ago – uninjured, with the full spectrum of inhuman strength, speed, and power packed into all of his movements –

Well. Garou would very much like to fight that version of him.

“I’m resilient as fuck,” the werewolf says. Sounds so serious saying such ridiculous cheesy bullshit like that. And now his nose is pointed upward, head cocked, body still as he scents the air, only moving enough to glance around…then he spots the steak, lying forgotten on the floor a little ways away, dropped during their scuffle, and he launches himself at it. Snaps it up fast in a hand while proclaiming, “Holy shit, meat – that’s what smelled so good!” and wasting no time in tearing a huge mouthful away with his teeth.

Garou stares.

He can’t even muster a sardonic ‘you’re welcome’ or anything.

After a derailed night full of thick black fur and restless sleep, the sight of an unashamedly nude stranger slumped and bleeding all over Garou’s floor while devouring a raw rib-eye in three bites is a bit too much for even him to process. Never mind commentating.

He’s seen a lot in his wandering travels, but this shit right here tops all of it.

Steak sufficiently scarfed, the werewolf stands up. Or he tries to, anyway. Pushes himself against the wall and uses it to haul to his feet – and, yeah, Garou gets an absolute eyeful for a second there. Full frontal that he raises both eyebrows at because not bad, then the back (looks just as plush and round as it felt) when the werewolf turns around – tripping down onto one knee and launching into a coughing fit that he swears the whole way through.

“Where do you think you’re going like that?” Garou asks coolly. On the floor by choice, lounging back on his hands.

The werewolf pulls his palm away from his mouth. It’s coated in red, Garou can’t help but notice. A sight that sends a weird pang through his stomach even while that inhospitable werewolf glares over a bitten, oozing shoulder at him. “I’m going home,” he snaps. “Got shit to do today.”

This time, he has more success at the whole standing and walking thing, and Garou jumps graceful to his feet to follow that hobbling shape. It’s not hard to get in front of the werewolf and cut him off.

“Move,” is growled out between bloodied teeth. That glare is weak, bags under brown eyes more prominent than they were a second ago.

“You should change your bandages, at least.”

“I told you, I’ll be fine.”

Garou doesn’t buy that for a second, but he recognizes a lost cause when he sees one and won’t push that particular point. Instead, he tries, “You’re still completely naked.”

Brown eyes roll. He reaches for the bed and grabs Garou’s balled-up blanket in that bloodied hand of his, wrapping it around his waist and regaining some modesty at last, spreading his arms at his sides and grouching out, “Happy now?”

“You can’t use that!” Garou says, snatching up the edge of the blanket and pulling.

The werewolf hangs onto his prize, manages to keep it wrapped around his waist during their tug-of-war. “Yeah, well I can’t squeeze into any of your scrawny-ass clothes!”

Never mind that – Garou’s only got this one set anyway, and he’d like to keep his pants just as much as he’d like to keep his only fucking protection from the nighttime chill of the forest, thanks. “There’s a towel in the bathroom that’s already got your blood all over it – why don’t you use that?”

“‘Cause it’s filthy,” the werewolf argues. Pretty damn hypocritical of a guy who just ate raw meat off a floor that hasn’t been swept in over a decade but Garou digresses.

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours,” is the snarling response. Clawed hands grip tight to the blanket and yank, and Garou follows that pull forward, adjusting his grip, winding up nose-to-nose with the unruly werewolf. “For butting in and tryin’ to save me when I didn’t need it!”

That logic is supremely flawed. At least Garou’s taller than this guy by enough that he can loom overhead. Lean down into personal space. “I’ll just let you die next time,” he snaps, glaring hard at those defiant eyes.

The werewolf growls and continues his futile tugging. His breath stinks like bloody meat as he shouts, “There won’t be a next time, asswipe!”

Whatever retort Garou was working on shrivels up courtesy of a knock at the door.

It’s a sound so bizarre and out of place; nobody ever knocks on Garou’s door. It hasn’t happened to him even once, no matter where he was staying. He’s not one for company, see, and so tends to hole up somewhere so far off the beaten track that not even poor lost saps accidentally stumble across it.

…Another knock, more insistent this time. Garou better go answer that, huh?

He releases his blanket, leaving it to the werewolf for now – whose brown eyes have gone round, and he stammers out a, “Hang on –”

But Garou is already opening the door to find –

No one?

Ah, wait. He glances down, and there is someone. A very tiny someone wearing a pink dress dotted in little cartoon flowers paired with newly-dirtied tennis shoes, frilly socks, and a shiny plastic purse. There’s an eerily familiar frown on her face. Her small hands are clenched into fists at her sides.

Pretty much the last company Garou expected to receive. “Can I help you?” he asks.

A microscopic nose scrunches up in a way that’s also familiar, and the little girl stomps right past Garou and into his shack – her presence commanding that he step aside.

“Big bro Badd!” she yells, pointing right at that stunned werewolf in all his blanket-wrapped glory. She stomps a tiny foot. “I was worried sick about you! Where have you been? It’s hours past sunrise!”

“Zenko!” The werewolf – apparently named Badd – stumbles backward as his little sister encroaches, falling into a graceless seat on the bed, blanket clutched around his waist. “I’m so sorry, I had to break up a little trouble last night – you know that rogue pack that’s been breaking the rules and stealing livestock? I ran into some of them trying to –”

“And you’re all hurt.” Zenko’s eyes are shining with tears, her hands back to being tiny fists. She crosses her arms, the frowning picture of disappointment.

Badd lifts a hand in a placating gesture. Shame it’s the one with the bleeding space instead of a fingernail. “I’m fine, Zenko, really – I was just about to head home.”

Heh. His attitude sure has changed. Garou closes the front door and leans against it. Thoroughly enjoying his newly delegated role as a spectator in this miniature family feud. Even if it is taking place in his bedroom. (Some voice in his head supplies the unprompted thought that at least Badd’s got someone trying to look after him, if he’s going to be so damn reckless with himself. Too bad it’s a baby-year-old kid – that should really be the other way around, but at least they’re just as stubborn as each other.

…Why does Garou care so much, anyway?)

Zenko, though, is not at all placated by Badd’s clumsy reassurance. Her bottom lip wobbles, voice going mournful. “You were gonna come home like that?” she asks, gesturing to his entire person. Bled-through bandages and all. She’s sniffling now. “You promised me you’d be careful…”

“I know, Zenko, and I really am so sorry that I worried you.” Badd’s eyes are gentle, expression softer than Garou could’ve ever imagined it going as he scoots to the edge of the bed, bending eye-level with Zenko. “But you know I can’t just look the other way when there’s trouble.”

That’s noble of him. Almost makes Garou want to roll his eyes.

“Then why can’t I ever help?”

“You’re just a puppy, Zen!”

Zenko’s pouting now – another expression that looks like a tinier version of her brother’s. Extra disgruntled on her young face, with those same round cheeks that Badd’s got.

It gets Badd slumping where he sits, shoulders curling in. A move that makes him look even more exhausted than he already did, if you ask Garou (but nobody did, so he stays out of it – and, wait – Zenko is a puppy?).

“I’ll take you shopping later to make it up to you,” Badd says. “I promise.”

Tiny, folded arms loosen a smidge. “And to the Amai Mask meet and greet in S City?”

Something like exasperation crosses Badd’s face. This, Garou finds hilarious, grinning to himself at Badd’s expense as he whines a pathetic, “Zenko –”

His protest is cut off by Zenko stomping her foot again. “I followed the trail of your blood all the way here, big bro!” she protests, and Garou counts himself lucky that she’s the only being that did so. “You’re lucky someone nice like this found you,” here, she points to Garou, “instead of some hunter!”

It takes a surprising amount of self-control for Garou to keep from laughing at that. He does spare a snide grin for Badd, though, who seems to be fighting very hard to keep from either glaring at Garou or wailing in pure despair or some mix of the two. Because he can’t argue with his kid sister. Can’t exactly lie and tell her that Garou is not ‘someone nice’ without setting her off on another tirade.

So, ha! There’s another point to Garou. He keeps right on smiling at Badd. Playing the part of someone nice even though Zenko isn’t looking, too busy frowning at her errant brother.

“Your sister’s right, Badd,” Garou says. Can’t help himself, really.

Oh, he can practically hear those teeth grinding from here. Badd’ll flatten his fangs, at this rate.

“Fine,” Badd bites out, defeated between Garou’s grin and Zenko’s pout. He does manage to dart a bit of a glare toward Garou, saving his more resigned expression for Zenko. “We’ll do the Amai Mask thing, too.”

Zenko nods, pleased. “But first you rest,” she insists –

And Badd – fuck him – complies by flopping back right there on Garou’s bed. Tugging the blanket up with him and curling onto that creaky old mattress, nodding his head at Zenko and looking way sleepier than he has any right to, taking up so much of Garou’s living space. His sister even follows to tuck him in, for fuck’s sake, and the grin slips off of Garou’s face as he stands free of the door.

They carry on some kind of domestic conversation as they do. All, “Did you feed Tama before you came runnin’ after me?” “Of course, big bro.”, and, “Sorry I wasn’t there for you in the morning.” “It’s alright, I handled it fine by myself!”.

Like this is their rundown shack in the woods. Like they aren’t freeloading here, Zenko settling into a seat atop the covers by her dozing brother. Patting his dark head of hair. Leaning back against his reclined form.

Yawning.

A tiny finger points at Garou. “You can change big bro Badd’s bandages while he sleeps, right?”

Brown eyes pop open at that, Badd glaring toward Garou as if in challenge from where he’s busy nodding off on Garou’s flat pillow. As if either of them has any say in this shit anymore, he tries to protest. “Zenko, I’m –”

Zenko swats at Badd’s blanket-covered shoulder. “Sh! Sleep!” Then her focus is back on Garou. “You’ll do it, right?”

What can Garou do except nod? The biggest plus here is that Badd doesn’t look happy about this at all, settling disgruntled onto that shitty bed with his sister standing guard.

“Good.” Satisfied with that, Zenko curls herself into a tiny ball. Right there against Badd’s stomach, which is going to make it hard to get to him to change his bandages, but whatever. “Big bro is always tired after transforming.” Another yawn, and she closes her eyes, settling in. “Me, too. I’ll wake up later and make lunch.” A wave is sent Garou’s way. Friendly little thing. “Goodnight, mister!”

And then she’s asleep.

…

Badd is still glaring.

Garou stares right back.

“Just get it over with,” Badd whispers at length, injecting a surprising amount of venom into his voice for a guy half asleep. “You were pestering me to change them anyway – the fuck are you so skittish for now?”

“I didn’t sign up to be your fulltime caretaker,” Garou mutters. And yet here he is, wandering back into the bathroom to get the rest of those bandages from last night. The door is a shredded mess on the inside, all splintered and nearly torn-through. Delightful reminder of this misadventure. It’s definitely time to switch the outskirts he lurks in.

He’s only in the bathroom for a handful of seconds, and true to form Badd is still glaring when Garou reemerges. Meets that sour expression with one of his own, marches right up to it.

“I don’t need a caretaker,” Badd is grumbling, carefully rearranging the blanket to cradle the curve of Zenko’s curled-up body as he sits up. Baring his torso and those terrible blood-soaked bandages. He’s already stained the mattress. “Just gimme those –”

Garou snatches the roll of gauze out of reach. “Oh no, I insist –”

“Shh!” Zenko hisses. Maybe in her sleep?

Either way, Badd freezes. His face falling into that disgruntled pout as he lowers his arms and cooperates with the changing of his bandages. Obligingly keeping claws and teeth alike out of the way so Garou can unwind red and replace it with clean white. At least it’s been long enough that the bleeding’s stopped on its own, so Badd shouldn’t bleed through these if he does as told and sleeps.

…Not that Garou is okay with these two taking over his house. He’s got no choice, though. All he can do is aim to get them out of his hair as quickly as possible afterward.

As Garou ties off the last bandages around Badd’s ribs, he pulls a bit too tight – gets snapped at for it, teeth clicking shut on air.

“Stop with that biting shit!”

Badd huffs. Glares. Settles himself right down for a nap. All he has to say for himself is, “You better get something good to make for lunch. Zenko’s real cranky when she gets hungry.” And then he, too, closes his eyes and presumably falls right the fuck asleep in Garou’s bed.

…

Looks like Garou is stuck going shopping, now. If he doesn’t want to face the wrath of a werewolf puppy and her obnoxiously attractive older brother whose personality ruins his good looks completely.

Just this once, he’ll play along.

This will not become a new normal for him.

Not a chance.