Chapter Text
Despite his constant debates with his uncle, Arthur had loved the man. So, when he died suddenly, without warning, and left Arthur behind his 'holiday home' – a house in the north of Scotland that he rented out for most of the summer – Arthur couldn't bring himself to sell it on. For one, he knew some of his uncle's things were still in the house and he wanted to sort through them. Besides, having a secondary home in the country could be interesting, as well as profitable if he kept renting it out to holidaymakers.
So he booked a two week holiday before the start of summer and took the train all the way up to Thurso. He enjoyed the calming ride, for once able to see more than just buildings and bare sports' fields. He saw the English moors and the rolling fields, the forests and glens of the Highlands and the hills towering above them. At one stage of the journey, he travelled along the coast and watched the sea swishing in and out, in and out, before the train turned a corner and the sight was lost.
After the train came the bus to Tongue. The bus was packed since it was, apparently, one of few modes of public transport to the crofting village so Arthur felt as if he was in a tin of sardines. Along the way, thankfully, people who were returning home got off at places like Bettyhill and Coldbackie. It was another beautiful journey, the sea reflecting the sun as the day wore on and he couldn't complain too much. Finally, they reached the village where Arthur was to be picked up by the man who kept the house in shape.
Mr. Mackay was a tall man, muscly and stern. His hair was greying and he had some stubble making him look like the stereotypical farmer. Arthur thought he looked tired as he bundled Arthur's suitcase into the boot. “Are you keeping well?” he asked the man, politely.
In return, he got a grunt. For a moment, he thought the man was rude but, once they were both seated in the car, he finally replied. “'M'alright,” he said. “Been up late, though.” His accent was as thick as Arthur had been expecting and it took him a few moments to parse what he had said.
“Oh? What's kept you up?”
“Nothin' in particular,” Mackay answered, the burr of his r's putting Arthur in mind of his Scottish-obsessed uncle. “Just... foxes gettin' in at th'chickens,” he added shortly.
“Huh.” Arthur immediately thought of Fantastic Mr. Fox and had to turn his head from Mr. Mackay and press a hand to his mouth to keep from laughing. They stayed silent for the rest of the ride, crossing over the Kyle of Tongue and continuing west to Loch Hope. After they had crossed the river the loch drained into, Mackay turned the car onto a track which branched from the road they had been on. For a few minutes, they bounced around until they eventually reached a large house, big enough for a family of four or five to stay in.
It looked better than Arthur had been expecting: Mackay obviously kept up with any repairs required. White walls held up a grey, slate roof and the windows were all double-glazed. Cables ran into it to provide it with electricity and an unstable phone line (when Arthur had called up the first time, the sound had kept dropping out). There was no front garden, just the track and grass but, further through the small forest, Arthur could see the shore of the loch.
Inside, the décor left much to be desired, the walls all covered in fading, floral wall paper. The pipes were solid, though, and he had running water as well as a boiler attached to the back of the house for hot water and heating. Board games and videos had been left behind for entertainment as well the keys to a shed wherein the oars to the boat on the loch and an old fishing rod resided. A bundle of maps and sight-seeing leaflets had been placed on the table in the hall, as well as numbers for the 'local' restaurants in case he had no desire to cook. In the kitchen, he found plenty of cans of food and, thankfully, Mr. Mackay had thought to buy milk, bread, bacon, eggs and butter for Arthur to use.
“Ah can gie ye a lift t'the shop t'morra so ye can get more, if ye'd like?” Mackay suggested.
“Ah, thanks,” Arthur replied. “Sorry. I wish I had a car so I didn't have to inconvenience you at all.”
“Not a problem. Just...” Mackay paused and glanced out of the kitchen window. “We're thinkin'a scarin' the fox off tonight so if we keep ye awake, sorry in advance.”
“Oh, no. Your livelihood comes before me,” said Arthur, politely, though he inwardly cursed his luck for coming up at the wrong time.
“Ah'll leave ye to it,” said Mackay and went back to the car. Arthur stood at the front door to wave before going back inside to settle in.
Later that night, Arthur was seated in front of the fire he had lit, engrossed in one of the books he had found, when he realised that he could hear noises. They were faint at first but, after some time, Arthur realised that they were shouts and the crashing of foliage. So the 'hunt' had come his way, Arthur thought, rolling his eyes. It was lucky he hadn't been asleep for he would have been quite irritated. He returned to his book and managed two more sentences before he heard the gunshot.
Startled, Arthur dropped the book and stood. That had been close. There were more shouts and what sounded like a faint cry of pain. Had someone been shot? Were they using real guns at this time of night? What were they, idiots?! Or... had that been a cover story for a murder?
Rushing to the front door, Arthur hurriedly unlocked it – just as something banged into it on the other side. He jumped and let out a cry of his own, wondering if the person had managed to stagger to his door for help. Fumbling with the door handle, it took him two tries to pull open the door, the light pouring out onto the scene beyond.
At his feet, lay a man. Not just any man; no, this man had animal ears on his head and a tail sticking out from his jeans. The man was panting, obviously struggling to stay awake as he turned his head. Light glinted off glasses, obscuring his eyes but Arthur could see his blond hair and the way one strand stuck straight up as if mimicking those ears. Stunned, Arthur found himself reaching out to touch the ear, lightly stroking it. When it twitched under his ministrations, he jerked back at the same instant the man sighed happily. Meanwhile, the tail wagged a little, hitting off the door-frame. Arthur stared for a few more moments until he noted that the white vest top was turning red – this man must have been the one to be shot.
Quickly, Arthur glanced outside, straining to see if anyone was around. There were still yells from the trees and rustling everywhere but no-one was visible. Figuring no-one could see him, Arthur bent down and dragged the man inside, out of harm's way. Then he hurried to the kitchen, grabbed the leftover cleaning supplies and quickly scrubbed the blood from his doorstep. Afterwards, he shut the door as quietly as he could, put the chain on the door and locked it. Sighing with relief, he turned to the man to see that he seemed to have passed out. He was much too large for Arthur to carry up the stairs by himself and he doubted he would be able to drag him to the couch without injuring the bloke more. So he moved over and smacked lightly at the man's cheek.
“Hey. Hey! Wake up.” With a groan, the man came to, blinking blearily up at Arthur. His eyes were a very bright shade of blue. “Help me get you upstairs and to a bed.” He pulled on the man's arm to get him halfway to his feet and the stranger did the rest, pushing himself upright. With the man leaning heavily on Arthur, they both managed to get up the stairs and to a guest bedroom which had an unmade bed. There, Arthur dropped the man onto his back.
“I'll be back in a minute with a first-aid kit,” Arthur told him and hurried to the kitchen, ignoring the pool of blood now in the hallway. He was lucky the floor was stone – he didn't fancy explaining a bloodstain on a carpet to the man trying to kill the guy upstairs. Grabbing the kit from the cupboard his uncle had kept it in, he rushed upstairs. At the side of the bed, he laid out the supplies he thought he would need: needle and thread to sew up the wound for the time being, alcohol for cleansing the wound, painkillers for the man and bandages to wrap him up with.
“Take off your top,” he ordered the man who was barely conscious.
The man giggled. “I only jus' met ya...” he said, slurring a little. Arthur was surprised to hear an American accent.
“Come on. I need to treat your wound.”
“Ya jus' wanna see my muscles,” the man teased. Nevertheless, he obeyed, carefully peeling the shirt from where it was stuck to his wound. Arthur could immediately see that he wasn't lying about the muscles – he hadn't seen abs like that in... well, ever. With a great effort of will, he turned his attention to the bottle of alcohol.
“Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath as he unscrewed the cap. “This is going to sting.” He looked at the wound, noting that it seemed much like a hole that went straight through the man's side. Arthur bit his lip. Clearly, the man needed surgery. However, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get in contact with a hospital up here. So he gritted his teeth and added, “This is going to sting a lot.” Placing a hand on the man's chest to keep him down – the man giggled – Arthur braced himself and poured the alcohol on the wound.
Instead of screaming as Arthur would have expected, the man howled. Quite literally howled. Rather loudly. Then he cut himself off, gritted his teeth and turned less hazy eyes on Arthur. “Who... Who are you?” he asked, sounding wary.
Pausing to listen in case someone had heard, Arthur was relieved that the shouting had died down – he could hardly hear anything now, all the noise now in the distance. “I'm the man who saved your life,” he answered. “I'm just going to sew you up. Tomorrow, we'll get you to a hospital.” He nodded at the man's head. “Do you want to take those toys off? It's probably what got you shot. They must have thought you were a fox.”
As Arthur sterilised the needle with the alcohol, the room fell into silence. Then the man said, “My ears and tail... Can you see them?”
“Yes,” Arthur replied, distractedly as he soaked the thread he would be using.
“I must have dropped the glamour when I got shot,” the man murmured to himself. Arthur glanced at him with a frown and the man laughed before wincing at the pain. “They know exactly what I am,” he told Arthur. “That's why they used silver bullets.”
It was Arthur's turn to laugh. “Silver bullets? Don't be daft. Why would they waste silver on...?” He trailed off as the man merely watched him, an amused smile on his face. Arthur lowered the needle and thread, staring back in shock. “Are you trying to tell me...? Are you sure those aren't those Japanese ear things? With the batteries?”
The ears in question flicked at the mention and the man shook his head, his shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter. “Nope. One hundred per cent werewolf. Or fifty per cent human, fifty per cent wolf.”
“Wai- I... But you look human and you've got-!” Arthur gestured at the very obvious ears and tail.
“Oh, yeah, well, werewolves can't turn other people into werewolves. They just die. But they can be born,” the man – werewolf – explained. “We're born like this so we get taught from a young age how to spin a glamour and hide our ears and tail. We're totally harmless, 'cept for the full moon. That makes us go crazy and full-on wolf.”
“But... So why were they...?”
“Ah, I'm, y'know, back-packing across Britain and Europe for a year and I ended up here a few days ago. It was the full moon and someone saw me. Thankfully” - here the man breathed a huge sigh of relief - “no-one was hurt. But they've been trying to 'deal with me' ever since.”
Arthur stared at him for a moment longer. “This is ridiculous,” he sighed and plunged onwards with his operation. The werewolf hissed as the needle pierced his skin, tensing at the pain. But, miraculously, he stayed still, allowing Arthur to work.
“I can't go to a hospital,” the werewolf said. “I heal faster than humans and I'll probably be fine by tomorrow.”
“Stop talking,” Arthur mumbled, reaching for the alcohol to sterilise both the wound and the needle again. “I'm not exactly a doctor, you know.”
After hissing and cursing at the pain, the werewolf let out a breath. “So how do you know what to do?”
“I read,” Arthur answered shortly.
The werewolf huffed a laugh and then stilled, letting Arthur work. It took a few minutes but the front was finally done. He had to help the werewolf roll over onto his stomach in order to sew up the back wound. By the time he was finished, he had to carefully roll the werewolf over by himself as he had passed out again. Since it would be too awkward to sit the guy up, Arthur had to settle with taping square bandages to him. Then he cleaned up as best he could (including cleaning the excess blood off the man) and packed the kit away. Once he had everything sorted out, he paused, thought for a moment, sighed and took a dining chair to the room. Then he settled in it, intent on watching over the werewolf to make sure there weren't any complications.
Morning found Arthur hunched over, his head on the bed and his bum still on the chair. Groaning in pain, he slowly pushed himself up, eyes still closed and stretched, popping his back rather deliciously before letting himself slump and take in his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that the werewolf had vanished. The thread he had used and the bandages were lying in his place along with a patch of blood on the mattress and the soiled vest top. On the white side of one of the bandages had been scrawled a message.
Don't wanna take up your time.
Thanks for everything.
See you around, maybe? ;)
Alfred
Just as Arthur finished reading it, he realised he could smell bacon which was probably what had awoken him. His heart stilled: if Alfred had left, who the hell was in the kitchen? Had the idiot werewolf left the door open for just anyone to come in? Panicked, he leapt to his feet and leapt down the stairs. At the door of the kitchen, he paused, staring.
Alfred stood at the cooker, decidedly topless (Arthur could see his back muscles rippling as he moved), spatula in one hand and the other holding the pan. His ears and tail were still clearly visible, the tail wagging happily. He turned when Arthur slowly entered, confused beyond a doubt. “Er,” he said, looking sheepish. “So, I was kinda hungry and I found some bacon. But I made enough for you, too!”
“Right.” Arthur truly didn't know what to do, especially when he glanced down and saw that Alfred had, indeed, healed completely. “I thought you were leaving...?”
“Well. I was gonna,” Alfred admitted, scooping up some perfectly crisp bacon and lowering them carefully onto two plates. “But then I remembered your eyes and your determination and stuff from last night and I decided to stay.”
“Why?” asked Arthur, utterly perplexed.
Grabbing a plate, Alfred grinned at Arthur, tail wagging. He sauntered over to the smaller man and, before Arthur could move or react in any way, he ducked down and gave Arthur a kiss at the corner of his mouth. Heart stopping, breath catching, Arthur spun around to watch Alfred continue on to the living room, tail wagging even more furiously.
“I need a mate, that's why!” Alfred called over his shoulder.
Stunned, Arthur stood there for a while before practically stumbling over to pick up the second plate of bacon. Then he jolted, what Alfred had said sinking in. Gasping, he hurried through the house, calling out to Alfred.
“'Mate', as in 'friend', right?!”