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It's an argument outside that wakes Rictor up. Enough light comes through from outside to see the outline of his pillow, but not much more. He's glad. It's not really a time where he wants to see much more, the bandages around his lower arm scratching at his skin is bad enough.
Memories of the day force their way back to the forefront of his mind—the aching of his wrist, Rahne beating her hand against the bathroom door within moments of blood surfacing, how sore his throat was (and still is) after their argument. He's cleaned up now, something Rahne insisted on helping with even as tears filled her eyes, with anger or sadness Rictor wasn't sure. Probably anger, he now realises. He's past being someone you feel sad for, he doesn't help himself, just digs his hole deeper and deeper.
He tries to bury himself with his blanket just to be held back by a weight keeping it down. Anything he owns Rictor just dumps on his floor, so it can't be a bag or his laptop. He turns over, the street lights outside shining on his bed just enough for him to see the wolf curled up beside him.
Logic tells him it can't be any wolf but Rahne, but why? How can she stand to be around him? Even he can still smell his cuts if he's close enough. It's disgusting. He's disgusting. Even ignoring the self-inflicted wounds littering his arm, he hasn't showered in a week and he's practically a drunk. Her presence makes as little sense to him as that of any other wolf.
The stranger's yelling suddenly spikes, and the wolf snaps awake, eyes locked on the window.
"It's okay, Rahney," Rictor comforts her, hesitantly reaching out to her with his clean arm, and he feels fifteen again. "I think they're just drunk."
She noses into his palm—she trusts him. God knows why. He feels her sniff him, probably searching for more injuries, and then start to lick his hand when she can't find any.
Rictor doesn't laugh, exactly, but it's the closest he's come to it in a long time. He moves his hand up through her fur to scratch behind the ears. At first she leans up into it, then crashes down, headbutting his side and rolling on her back to expose her belly. And of course, Rictor obliges. He gets five seconds of rest before she rolls back onto her feet to pounce on his chest and starts licking his face. "Down, girl! I thought you grew out of this," he yelps.
She pants, tail wagging—if she wasn't a wolf right now, that'd be her laugh. Maybe he's not too far gone.