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You hear Victor before you see him, his angry footfalls giving away that today didn’t go as planned. The door slams open a moment later, and he sweeps into the hotel room in a tense whirlwind, face creased in a snarl. His face is also bloodied, hair a mess and coat in tatters. When he turns to throw the door shut, you can clearly see slashes in sets of three across his shoulders and back, leather soaked and stained dark.
He doesn’t even grumble his usual “Hey, sweetheart,” opting to just grunt once and aim for the bed instead. You put down your nail file and your lip lifts in a snarl, eyes narrowing.
“Shower. Then I’ll snuggle you. I can smell him on ya, you smell nasty,” you order, and he fixes you with an angry stare. He opens his mouth to argue so you growl at him, leaving no room for question. His eyes flash but he tosses his coat on the chair and stalks off to the bathroom.
You sigh as the ruckus begins, hearing soaps and bottles go flying as he sweeps them off the counter. Then you hear him rip his shirt off, the shreds of it flying out the door that he didn’t bother to close behind him. The shower turns on and his pants go flying next, his belt smacking the door jam on the way out and clinking loudly. One of your ears flicks in annoyance, and you slide off the bed gracefully, just like the Canadian lynx your mutation has mirrored.
You pad silently to where his clothes now sit and can’t resist sneaking a peek, Vic’s sculpted ass on full display before he steps into the shower. You bite your lip as you watch his muscles flex, the faintest shimmer present in his blonde body hair, gracing his skin like fur. As much as you would love to ride Vic tonight, you know he’s not gonna be in the mood.
You look away from him with a resigned sigh and pack his bloodied clothes away into the garbage bag you made sure to bring, before washing your hands and trying to ignore his irritated growls as he rips his hands through his hair. You murmur to him quietly, “Gentle, baby. I know you’re upset, but wrecking your hair will only make you angry for longer.”
You can’t help the small shiver you feel when you picture this time last year, the utterly terrible mood he’d been stuck in until Christmas, when his hair had finally evened out enough to be cut to one length. You would rather not repeat those nine weeks again. He gives a half hearted growl back before you step out of the steamed up room, gently shutting the door and digging through the backpack you packed for the two of you. You pick out his favorite pair of boxers (black and white flannel) and the black tank top you packed for him, leaving them on the counter next to the bathroom.
Then you return to the bed and click the show you were watching back on, resuming your nail filing and clear polish application.
Victor is in the shower for another 20 minutes before the water finally turns off, and the door opens slowly before a hand reaches out to snag the pajamas you set there. You don’t miss how torn up his nails are, some of them even split in places. You grimace and glance over at the nail oil you packed, debating if it will be worth the fight.
You don’t have much time to dwell, as Vic comes slamming out the door again, hair thrown up in the towel and frame clad in the frankly delicious outfit. He’s definitely still upset, but he smells a little less bitter, and more like himself at least.
He barely even looks at you before face planting onto his side of the bed, dragging you over to use your thigh as a pillow.
“Wanna talk about it?” Your voice is quiet but not soft, knowing he will take that as patronizing if you’re not mindful.
“No.” His reply is as gruff as you expect. You don’t say anything else and take action instead, lifting one of his clawed hands up to your face for closer inspection. As you’d seen earlier, his nails are torn to pieces, and you carefully press along his palm to extend them one by one.
“Gonna bite me if I take care of these for you?” Even as you ask, you’re leaning back over and grabbing the clippers and file, preparing to start with his thumb.
“Not more than usual, suppose.” He says this directly into your thigh, muffling the grumble. You pay him no mind and get to work, carefully nipping away the worst of the broken nail. Then you take the file to it, rasping it back into a pointed shape.
The fact he just ran through the shower is definitely working in your favor, his nails softened enough that you’re able to get nice, clean cuts and a sharp edge back. You work diligently through the first hand, trimming away any splits and bringing them all down to a relatively similar length. Vic grumbles once or twice more before finally letting himself enjoy the attention.
It takes about 5 minutes before all the shaping is done on the left, and you grab the bottle of vitamin E oil from the nightstand, twisting open the shiny gold lid. His nose wrinkles slightly, clearly expecting an odor, but the light gold oil is near odorless. He squints at it and is clearly about to say something, but you swipe the brush across his cuticule before he can protest. You coat the rest of his nail in a handful of practiced strokes, deftly maneuvering the tiny brush to spread the oil around. He closes his eyes again once you start on the second nail, fingers slightly flexing to offer a better angle.
By the time you’re putting the bottle to the side, his breaths have evened out, eyes closed and muscles loosened. He’s not quite asleep, based on the purr rumbling from him.
While you wait for the oil to soak into his claws on the left, you bring the right closer to the light. The nails here are even worse, most of them so shredded there’s still blood trapped between the bed and the claw. You wince for him, not certain you’ll be able to get them even like the left hand. You dive in though, using your scissor clippers to remove any damaged keratin you can, softening the edges with the file carefully.
It’s a good thing his nails grow fast, on anyone else it would take months to grow back what he’s lost. Thankfully his will only be out of commission for about a week. The severity of the damage makes you grateful for the years of experience in taking care of your own claws, even if they are smaller than Vic’s.
The oil application goes faster on this hand with less nail to cover, and you’re soon beginning his favorite part, even if he won’t admit it. You glide your thumb over his nails as you daintily hold each finger, all looking smoother than even a couple minutes ago. Your own pleased purr starts up, these quiet moments always have been your favorite.
The transition to a massage from there is easy, working over each massive knuckle with care seldom shown to them. His purr trails off sometime in the middle of you working on the other hand, sleep finally claiming him for a little while. You sigh when you register that the damp towel is still around his hair.
You bite your lip as you stare down at his relaxed features, weighing the option to wake him up and free your thigh, or just let him be. You decide to let him rest for now, still needing to finish your own nails.
It’s just as you’re finishing the last clear coat that you notice him quietly watching you, eyes subtly following every brushstroke. You know he’ll deny it vehemently if you mention it, so you just finish your normal routine, lining up the bottles on the far side of the nightstand. Then you squeeze one of those broad shoulders to maintain the charade of him just waking up, murmuring softly, “Go throw the towel in the bathroom, baby. Then we can get some proper rest, okay?”
He doesn’t even grumble as he silently obeys, slinkying up from the bed and tossing the damp cotton to the ground from across the room. You squeak as he easily scoops you up and curls you to his chest, a hand under your knees and the other gently kneading at your shoulder. You tuck your head against his neck, rubbing your chin over his shoulder and collarbone to finally mark him as yours again.
He checks that you both have water bottles available nearby before turning the light off and peeling back the covers. He smoothly slides in with you, always maintaining some skin to skin contact even as he sheds his shirt, before arranging his nest. Even when you’re not at the den he takes care to pull the blankets and pillows around you both. It takes him a couple minutes to get every piece of bedding arranged just so, but it soothes something primal in you. You both sleep better when you’ve built this sleeping pile, nightmares not so harsh and dreams that much sweeter. He finally comes to rest with his nose pressed to the nape of your neck, bathing himself in your scent and reassuring himself that you’re safe.
“Thanks, baby.” His voice is quiet in the darkness, breath stirring your baby hairs and sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.
“Of course. I love you, Vic.”
“I love you too, darlin’.”