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Summary
For as long as Buck can remember, he’s been cursed.
There’d always been something feral about him. Something that gnawed away on his bones and his being until he feared that there would be nothing left. Something that drove him into the waiting arms of darkness, until he’d wake up again with the stinging taste of blood in his mouth, inexplicable bruises decorating his skin like a map of misadventure that he could never quite remember.
He grew used to it: the feeling of dirt beneath his nails, knowing that they had once been claws. A creature made of earth who only sometimes wore a human skin. He grew used to it, but that doesn’t mean that he didn’t hate it.
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Or, Bobby's death brings out the worst in Buck.