Archive of Our Own

Judy Garland’s melodic vibrato greets you as you open the doors. Your footsteps echo on the stairs as you make your way down the steps crafted out of cold cement. The cellar is freezing and damp, the sunshine from outside providing little light or relief from the dark and cold. You use your right hand to touch the wall of the cellar, the stone surface damp underneath your fingertips. To you, it looks more like a cave than anything else, kept underground and closed shut with a giant padlock and chains on the two wooden doors that grant entry into its depths. You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until your lungs beg you to breathe. Get a grip. You’ve done this a thousand times. Still, the nervous trilling of your heart betrays you as you open your mouth to speak when you finally reach the bottom step,

“Jack?” There’s no response, but you hear the cage rattle and you jump, gripping the tranquilizer gun in your fist tighter. You’d never had to use it before, but Jack insisted that you always have it with you whenever you came to find him the night after a transformation. 

“Why are you giving me this again?” You had asked him as you eyed the body of the gun. It looked like any old hunting rifle, with a scope and everything, but he had already explained to you that it was a tranquilizer.

“I can be… unpredictable the morning after a full moon.” He had explained, averting his eyes from you as he answered.

“Unpredictable?” You had asked, quirking an eyebrow at him. He nodded, returning his gaze to you and you can see that his eyes were deadly serious.

“I’ve never hurt anyone. But, I don’t know where I am - who I am - until the adrenaline passes.” 

“So… you want me to use this?” You asked, your voice already teetering on protest.

“I want you,” he grabbed your hand then and placed it on the gun, closing your fingers around it with his own. You noticed how his hand encompassed your own entirely. “to have a way to protect yourself.” Your eyes met and you knew there was no negotiating this. Your gaze had searched his, but there was still no give in his intensity. After a beat, you nodded, and his body visibly eased with relief.

“Ok.”

A low groan - distinctly human - interrupts your thoughts, and you snap back to the present moment. You finally make it around the corner and spot Jack’s bare body huddled into a ball at the very back of the cage, hunched over as he shields his face from you. You notice he’s discarded the blanket that you had placed over him earlier. You walk over to the record player, not fully shutting it off yet, just turning the knob to lower the volume to soft background noise. You still aren’t sure why exactly he has a particular affinity to this one song, but you know it brings him calm anytime he’s anxious.

 A short once-over of him shows you that he’s more battered than usual. He always came home with cuts and bruises after his night out, but they varied in severity. You were no medical professional by any means but his refusal to go to a hospital or even call a doctor had forced you to become quite the nurse over the years. You kneel as close to him as you can, staying outside of the cage, just as he’s instructed.

“Jack?” You repeat, setting the gun on the floor beside you, still within arm’s reach. “It’s me. I’m here. You’re safe.” You say this quietly, and calmly, using your most soothing tone. You know he can wake up really disoriented and you want him to know you’ve shown up, as always. At your voice, he tenses, but you continue on, “I’ve got café de la ólla waiting inside the house. And I brought you some clothes.” You slowly remove the small backpack from your shoulders, shoving it between the bars of the cage towards him. “C’mon, let me see you. Let me help.” After a few tense moments, he finally looks up, his hazel - almost yellow - eyes meeting yours. You sigh in relief, smiling at him. His gaze is glazed over and hazy, The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, with purple shadows under his eyes. You immediately spot the large bruise on his left cheekbone, already looking days old due to his healing abilities. There’s also a healing cut on his lower lip, and another, longer cut above his right eyebrow. His salt-and-pepper hair is disheveled, and you ignore the light dusting of brown-red amongst the scruff on his jaw. He calls your name out, his voice gruff and timid. Your smile widens.

“Hey, yeah, I’m right here. Ready to breathe?” You ask, sounding ridiculous but this is routine. He nods, immediately closing his eyes and you do the same, both of you taking deep inhales and holding them for a few seconds. You release after exactly a four-count, slowly exhaling long and deep. When you open your eyes, you shift your tone.

“Ok. Five things you can see?”

“You,” he replies immediately, before looking next to himself. “The backpack.” His gaze darts back up, over your shoulder. “The record player.” His gaze focuses back to the forefront, at your side. “Your gun.” You nod in approval and give him a moment as his eyes shift up, his head tilting back as looks up at the ceiling of the cellar, exposing his throat to you. You follow his stare and see him before tracing the rusted columns of the metal bars with his eyes. “The cage.” You nod again.

“Four things you can touch?” You ask. 

“Myself.” He replies, hugging his arms tighter around his form. He then reaches out with one hand, placing an open palm on the cement in front of him. “The floor.” It shifts to touch the bar you’re gripping to balance yourself. “This bar. Your hand.” He closes his hand around yours and you nod again, smiling.

“Three things you can hear?” 

“Your voice. The water dripping into the cellar. Judy Garland.” He replies, dropping his hand and curling it back into himself as he focuses. The more he speaks, the less tense he becomes. His gaze is no longer unfocused and even his voice grows more certain.

“What can you smell?” You ask.

“Your hair: the shampoo you use.” This he says too quickly and he grows sheepish, his skin going rosy again. You don’t react, trying to stay focused. “And-And I can smell the cement: wet and iron.”

“Good. Now, what can you taste?” You ask. He pauses for a moment and he frowns, hesitating. You nod at him in encouragement.

“...Blood.” Your smile drops just for a moment, but you ignore it, brightening up.

“Ok, one more breath,” You both repeat the deep breathing from before and you smile again reassuringly when your eyes meet once more. “Good. How are you feeling?” You ask.

“I’m okay. Sore, a little tired.” He says, not moving from his position. 

“Yeah, I know. Any major injuries?” You ask. He shakes his head, briefly glancing down at his body. 

“I-I don’t think so.” He replies, rolling his shoulder a bit to see how he feels.

“Ok, that’s good. Can I come in to help you get dressed?” He nods and you smile, again, standing up. You go to the cage door and grab the key to the giant padlock from your jacket pocket. Unlocking it, you open the door and cringe against the rustic screeching as you pull it open. He watches you as you walk towards him. You bend down once you reach him, and slip your arms under his armpits, helping pull him into a standing position. In other circumstances, another lifetime maybe, you’d feel that familiar rush of embarrassment at having your childhood friend completely naked in front of you. But this was Jack. He had always been there for you and you made sure you were here for him. Still, you avert your eyes to allow him some privacy.

He leans his weight against you slightly as his knees buckle and you pause, allowing him to take it slow, rest a moment. He isn’t a large or burly man by any means, so it’s easy for you to take the weight of him.  When he tries to stand again, now more confident in his stance, you pull back. 

“Good?” You ask, focusing your stare on his face and he nods, his eyes darting nervously over your face, unable to linger for more than a moment.

“Yeah, I’m good.” You smile at him and walk over to the backpack, opening it up and pulling out his clothes. 

You help him dress, choosing a set of grey sweats with a matching hoodie and some black boxers; it’s loose enough to grant you access to his body if you need to patch him up but still comfortable enough for him to feel at home. It doesn’t seem like he needs any immediate care, but you’ll make your final judgment once you can inspect him in the light of day. You grab his house slippers from the bottom of the bag and he thanks you, slipping them onto his likely freezing feet. You two exit the cage, the gun now safely tucked away into the backpack on your back. You walk over to the record player and shut it off, taking his beloved record and tucking it back into its sleeve, also placing it into the backpack. He walks ahead of you, and you follow him up the steps quietly. He shields his eyes from the sun with his hand as he steps out of the open cellar.

“What time is it?” He asks, through a yawn as he runs that same hand through his hair.

“About 10 in the morning. I came to check in on you earlier, but you were still unconscious. I decided it was best to just let you sleep.” You say, grabbing the chains and padlock. He walks over to help as you two close the doors to the cellar and wrap the chains around the handles. You hook the open end back into place and close it, hearing it shut with a satisfying click. You two walk across Jack’s estate, the green grass still shining with morning dew as you both make your way toward the house. 

It’s ample but cozy; a two-story with 4 bedrooms and two bathrooms. It’s been passed down from his family, and he has kept it well-maintained and well-secluded from prying eyes. The most important bit is the absurdly tall wrought iron fence with sharp spikes at the top that surrounded the entirety of his land. He isn’t rich by any means, but he has a sizable income both due to his inheritance and the money he makes as a monster hunter. 

You lead him to the bathroom on the bottom floor and flick on the light. He removes his clothes, keeping the boxers on, as you grab the first aid kit from the medicine cabinet. Now under the warm yellow light of the bathroom, you see the splotchy bruises adorning his body and decorating his golden tan skin in various shades of plum and wine. Some smaller ones are already on the lighter shade of green, and you know that in a few hours the bigger ones will do the same. You open the kit and grab gauze, tape, and saline solution. 

He sits on the closed toilet bowl and begins moving his limbs again, testing out to make sure they’re all fine.

“Any broken bones? Any pain?” You ask. He shakes his head, relaxing once more.

“No, I don’t think so. My shoulder and my knee are sore the most, but other than that I’m okay.” You nod and cut some of the gauzes to a smaller size. He opens the solution bottle for you and you take it, soaking one bit of gauze with it before placing it against the cut on his forehead. He winces slightly but allows you to apply some more pressure, holding it in place while you turn to grab a clean band-aid. You clean up a scrape on his knee then some almost-healed claw marks on his shoulder. Finally, you focus on his lip, cleaning it gently with the solution. His gaze burns into you but you don’t meet it, knowing you’ll lose your focus as you work. You don’t use a band-aid on it, instead just the slightest bit of gauze and the tiniest strip of adhesive tape you can cut. You give him a final once-over when you’ve finished, and he stands, thanking you quietly, his gaze still zeroed in on you. You smile tightly and nod, quickly putting away the kit and exiting the bathroom, suddenly realizing how stuffy it began to feel in there.

When he’s dressed again, you two make your way to the kitchen, the strong scent of cinnamon, piloncillo, and fresh coffee grounds filling your nostrils. The familiar brew brings you comfort, and likely even more so for Jack. You walk over to the terracotta clay pot on the stove and turn it to a low simmer as he walks over to the sink, turning on the faucet. He uses the warm water to wash his face, being mindful of the gauze, waking himself up further. He then grabs two mugs for you all from the cabinet above you. He sets them down on the counter next to you and then grabs the strainer from the drawer. You grab the pot and he places the strainer against the opening of the mug, holding it steady as you begin to pour in the coffee. The steam rises from the red-brown liquid as it fills the mug, the bits of natural cinnamon stick, grounds, and unmelted sugar staying in the chain-link while the liquid pours into the mug. You two then move on to the next one and repeat the process, before he carries both mugs over to the kitchen table.

“Guess what I got?” You ask as you walk over to where you store the bread. He tilts his head in inquiry as he sips from his mug. You open the cabinet and he breaks out into a grin when he sees the crisp white paper bag.

“Ay, gracias a Dios, I’ve been craving pan dulce for ages.” You both laugh softly at that and you bring the bag of sweet bread over to him. He looks for his favorite with a level of focus that makes you chuckle, finding it at the bottom of the bag. He pulls it out of the bag with a triumphant grin, immediately taking a bite out of the bread and letting out a content hum as he chews. The pink concha in his hand is no match for his hunger and you watch him eat proudly. . You make sure to cook him breakfast most mornings and he helps with lunch and dinner. Today, though, you’d had a feeling it had been a rough night so you had wanted to bring him some more comfort than usual. You’re grateful for the Mexican market that’s one town over where you manage to buy everything from the pot to the ingredients for his coffee, to the bread. It allows you to give him a little taste of home

“I know. I figured I’d treat you to something sweet today. Besides,” you shrug your shoulders and grab a simple heart-shaped polvoron from the bag for yourself. “Saves me from having to cook breakfast.” He laughs again and nods, his demeanor much brighter in comparison to how you found him in the cellar. 

“I should warn you: I’m probably going to finish the bag.” He says. You smile.

“I know, I have a secret stash hidden away already.” You wink at him from across the table, and he smiles, sipping his coffee at the same time you sip yours. “How was your night? Can you remember anything?” You ask, shifting gears.

“I think I fought with a mountain lion.” He says, almost smiling. Your eyebrows raise, impressed.

“Mountain lion? That’s a first.” He usually encountered wild animals on his nights out and battled everything from wild boars to bears. But mountain lions had gone unencountered, until now at least.

“Yeah.”

“Any monsters?” You ask. He shakes his head but pauses for a moment.

“I think I met up with Ted. I can’t remember why though.” He says. Ted, a swamp-like creature that Jack had met on one of his nights out a few years ago, was one of Jack’s closest monster friends. Somehow, even when he was fully in his human form, he could understand Ted's garbled speech. According to Jack, Ted was kind and had no ill will towards most humans. He never showed aggression unless provoked. He accompanied Jack on some of his hunts when he was in the area and had spent some years looking after him before Jack had let you in on his secret. 

“When can I meet him?” You ask, taking another bite of your cookie.

“Mm,” He pauses, swallowing the latest bite of his sweet bread before dunking a bite of it into his coffee. “We can go find him tonight. I think I remember him telling me he would be hanging out in the woods. I remember I invited him closer to the house if he wanted.” You nod, excited by the idea. Jack had never allowed you to go into the woods surrounding the estate. Claimed it was incredibly dangerous, even for a monster hunter. He must really trust Ted.

“Do you think he’ll like me?” You ask. He smiles, nodding.

“Claro, what’s not to like?”