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Chapter Text

Stanley came back to consciousness slowly. He just . . . didn't want to move. Everything ached and his arm hurt. Finally, he slowly cracked his eyes open, wincing at the bright sunlight slanting down into them. After several moments of getting used to the light, he finally blinked and looked around. He was outside. In the forest. He sat up quickly, looking around in a half-panic, eyes wide.

He couldn't recall why he was out there, at so early in the morning, nor what he had been doing last. The last thing he could dredge up was blurred, and it consisted of accompanying his brother and his shrimp partner, McGucket, out on a monster hunt. That was last Monday . . . what was today? It felt like a long time had passed, and yet . . . very little time at all.

It was all very confusing to the not-fully-awake man, though when he noticed the blood . . . . that definitely forced him up.

He stood up and groaned, feeling immediately dizzy. He checked himself over, finding several scrapes, but most worryingly, a large bite mark on his left shoulder. His clothes were shredded, barely suitable for walking around in.

Taking off the remains of his ruined shirt, he held it as tightly as he could to the wound. Staggering to his feet, Lee looked around for landmarks, and limped in the direction of home when he'd gotten his bearings.

He was actually surprised how close he had been, and paused a moment to lean against a tree not two minutes after he'd gotten up, feeling lightheaded. Just across the clearing was the cabin he and Stanford lived in. Getting back to his feet, he staggered across the lawn, tripped up the stairs onto the porch, and kicked the door as hard as he could.

The sound echoed through the house. There was a surprised, high pitched scream, a loud thump, and a scrambling of feet. Stanley leaned against the door frame, eyes half lidded and glazed over with pain when the door was suddenly thrown open.

It took him several seconds to realize that he was looking down the barrel of gun. And a few seconds longer to see who was holding it. He groaned quietly in pain and slight annoyance, rolling his eyes.

"Well I can always count on you for a warm welcome." he said, with as much sarcasm as he could at the moment.

There was a moments pause as Fidds apparently took in who was at the door and the state he was in. The gun cast aside, Fidds assisted the injured man inside, laying him down on the couch before rushing off to grab a first aid kit.

Lee wasn't paying all to much attention. He was already slipping back into Dreamland, feeling exhausted for some reason.

He awoke in the early evening. Trying to sit up, he yelped in pained surprise at the pulsing pain in his shoulder, falling back against the couch. Almost instantly, Ford was barreling around the corner and asking him questions a mile a minute.

Lee had to smack at him to get him to shut up long enough to answer anything. He was currently laying on the couch on his back, in nothing but a pair of jeans and covered with a soft blanket, a bandage wrapped tightly around his left shoulder, his scrapes having been tended to in a similar matter.

It took a long time to get through that YES, he was alright now, NO, he didn't know what happened, and that he'd like something to eat and the date, as well.

Turns out, according to Ford and the professor, he'd gone out late two days ago and simply disappeared; they hadn't found a single trace of him.

Apparently, when Fiddleford had responded with a gun pointed at his face earlier this morning, he'd panicked. He'd stayed at the house the other night while Ford asked around town and searched through the woods nearby the little clearing the cabin sat in to look for any traces of his brother he may've missed.

Either way, all was well now, and Lee only had to lounge around a few days to make sure his shoulder wouldn't get any worse.

He was swift as the wind, strong as an oak, and silent as the moon.

He was also free; free, free, free! Free to run as fast as he could, to fight and take down any who dared to enter his territory, and silent enough to stalk his prey.

Soon, he reached his destination.

A farm. Not particularly large, but he still had to be cautious. Unfamiliar human scents filled the air, dissuading him from nearing, yet prey-scents floated tantalizingly underneath his nose, beckoning him closer.

He didn't rush in brashly, however. To do so could lead to something he couldn't back out of, and he had no true pack to return to. Dim memories of brown-furred and ginger-furred figures, one each, that he couldn't quite make out in his head, told him of family and a friend that he had, who would always back him up . . . but not right now.

Not where he was now, WHO he was now. They could only help him with other things, he dimly thought. They can't help him on hunts. He can only help himself on the hunts.

Carefully, he circled the entire perimeter of the food-keepers' territory, scenting for any signs of people, awake or asleep, or, perhaps more importantly, of other wolves who might be hunting this night nearby.

There was none. The humans were asleep, the food was his to snatch and keep, and there were no wolves out in the woods this deep.

He found a young calf, checked to make sure he had two good escape routes, and went in for the kill.

For the last week, Stanley had been having strange dreams. Every night, he'd dream he was a large, strong, fast wolf, sprint away from his home in the dream, and go hunting.

And, every night, he began to remember the dreams a little better, with more and more clarity. He wasn't sure what it meant, but enjoyed the freedom he felt each night. That was the strange thing about the dreams. The less fuzzy and clearer they got, the more realistic they felt. Or, the more he realized how realistic they felt.

He also felt exhausted every morning, rather than refreshed, and spent more time grumbling about the kitchen fixing himself some coffee trying to wake up. He didn't eat as much in the mornings, feeling strangely full, or at least not hungry.

His brother and the professor were busy with some "new case" or creature or whatever it was they were tracking, and didn't notice much except his grumpiness in the mornings and distinct lack of enthusiasm he normally held when asked if he wanted to help them hunt down a monster.

It was easily chalked up to Stanley being difficult about helping them with their "weird nerd-cult work", as he sometimes did, and left him alone for the most part so he could get over it.

It didn't get much better. In fact, it only seemed to grow worse. By the end of the next week, he was sleeping all day and night, waking up only briefly, and then, they had to get him up themselves.

He'd gripe and grumble for awhile, going about simple tasks with his eyelids drooping, and escape to a spot to sleep as quick as he could.

That was the first sign something was amiss.

Chapter Text

It was two days before the new moon. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he felt that it was significant. He could recall more clearly what his fellow packmates looked like.

They were human, and he a wolf.

This separated them, a huge chasm that had only one chance of being crossed. Or, at least, the only way that he knew of.

Bite them. Simple as that. Bite them, and soon they would be able to join him.

He stalked silently through the woods near his "home"; or, more like the only place that he felt comfortable and safe staying near as compared to all the other buildings in the tiny town nearby.

He was waiting for one of his packmates to come out. But something nagged at him.

Would they not recognize him? What if they didn't, and retaliated? What if it got out of hand, and one was hurt badly?

Would they even want to join him?

The large, chocolate brown wolf froze, half in and half out of the concealing brush.

His brown eyes narrowed, and his ears flattened, deep in thought.

Would they want to join him? At all? How long had it been since he spoke with them? Would they reject him now, with how he was? Would they even care if he slipped off for a long time? Why weren't they like him in the first place?

This last question halted his entire train of thought.

Why wasn't his packbrother, his littermate, his TWIN like him? Why? What had happened that had pushed them apart? Was it something he did?

Or what? What happened?

With a dull whine, the large creature solemnly lowered his head, about to back away when he looked up and caught sight of the thin sliver of the moon overhead.

Compelled by it, he instead took a cautious step forward. Then, half in and half out of the shadows, he raised his snout to point at the star-laden sky, and started to howl.

It wasn't an angry one, or a call to others to hunt, nor a warning to tell another pack to stay away.

This was a mournful, pleading cry, wavering and falling and rising again and again in the night; a sad sound that could make anyone feel and understand the aching loneliness felt by the lone wolf who, put simply, didn't understand.

Didn't understand why he was alone, with no memory of being driven out or voluntarily leaving his pack; with memory of a brother and packfriend he couldn't be with anymore but had seen recently, somehow, and with no way to join them or have them join him.

He howled and howled and howled, until the moon began to set. The lonesome song rose sharply, akin to a last, sobbing cry for help, before dropping off and lowering in pitch and volume before he finally stopped entirely. He lowered his gaze, eyes wet with tears.

He spotted the upright shape not fifteen feet from him, and froze.

Both remained silent.

He faintly recalled this human, and stood slowly, stepping out into the dim light of a dropped lantern. He wagged his tail and kept his head lowered, eyes focused on the other, being submissive and trying to be friendly. The human moved, trembling, and pulled out a thing that was thin and flashed in the dim light.

A knife. He was pointing a knife towards him.

He froze, eyes fixed on the weapon. Ears pinned back, tail tucking between his legs, he took one more step forward, whining in a final attempt to make peace.

To be accepted, cared for, loved.

The human, whom he faintly recognized as his packbrother, shouted in fear and waved the knife towards him.

It was the words, not the weapon, that sent the wolf fleeing through the woods.

"GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Tears filled the wolfs eyes as he crawled under a bush near the house, raised his head to the sky, and howled and howled, the abandoned, pained loneliness clear in the sweet, resonating voice, that would bring tears to anyone who listened.

It cut off suddenly when the moon finally set.

Ford stared at the wolf, as he had been for the last several minutes. At first, he'd awoken to the sound. It had been . . . almost soothing, until he woke up enough to realize what it was.

Then he'd been terrified, scrambling into a pair of jeans and a black shirt from the day before. He hurried out, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. He decided that his brother had been acting crabby enough and claiming sleep-deprivation the past several days, and would probably appreciate being allowed to sleep some more.

With a lantern in hand, he also grabbed a good, sturdy pocketknife before stealing outside. Silently, he walked around the corner of the house. What he saw made him stop dead, dropping the lantern with a loud clatter.

There, sitting half in and out of the shadows, was a large, dark-furred wolf. It's eyes closed and muzzle uplifted to the sky, it howled and howled without pause or stop. It's ears didn't even twitch when he dropped the lantern.

It's song(it was hard to think of anything but) was lonely and sad, pleading and mournful. Ford jumped when the howl rose sharply before fading slowly out. It . . . affected something inside of him, the feelings of the song making him view the creature with pity, and a strange desire to help.

Thoughts distracted, he only noticed the wolf when it approached. Trembling, Stanford pulled out the knife. His thoughts turned to sirens that tricked sailor's with thier songs, and knew that it was entirely possible that this could be some sort of magic making him feel this way towards the creature.

It stopped upon seeing he was armed, ears laid back. It took another step forward and he swung the knife, shouting, "GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!" as loud as he could.

The wolf turned tail and was gone in a matter of moments. Breathing hard, Ford picked up the lantern and made his way inside. He paused at the door, hearing the howling start back up, farther away in the woods. The pure, lonely, begging sadness was clear, and tugged at his heartstrings. Ford hesitated, shook his head, and went inside.

Pulling out various books on mythology and some others, he started sniffing out the cause for this wolf's strange behavior. What he finally put together both relieved and worried him. By then, it was early morning. Knowing Fiddleford would be arriving soon to help out on the newest case, he fixed himself some coffee and breakfast, eyes skimming yesterdays paper as he ate.

Almost everyday for the past two weeks there had been reports of animals disappearing, large, wolf-like tracks on the ground nearby, sometimes the remains of animals carcasses were found.

Among the few that had been found were gnawed right to the bone, leaving not a single scrap of meat behind, and often on very large animals, like horses or cows. It was very worrying indeed to have such a large creature wandering about near town, and most people were starting to avoid the woods at all costs, afraid that whatever was going for such big livestock would have no problem going after a weak, scrawny human.

But from what he had gathered and put together, Ford suspected that there was no need to worry. If the wolf, or, more like, werewolf, as he suspected it to be, had wanted to attack him, it would have gone for him the moment his presence was known.

Of course, there were a lot of "why"s and "what if"s involved in all of this. That's why he was waiting for Fiddleford. He had a plan. Or, the idea for a plan. Something that would help everybody.

Because, if his suspicions were correct, then this werewolf had no intentions of hurting anyone. In fact, it was more likely they were recently turned and seeking help so they could go back to normal and reverse the "curse".

Something felt . . . off, by the time the Professor arrived. Something was . . . missing.

"Hey, Stanford." Fidds greeted, taking a seat across from him, opening up the small folder that was shoved his way. "Anything new on the case?"

Ford nodded, and relayed what he had seen last night and had researched.

"Hm . . . it sounds to me like you have a plan already in mind."

Ford nodded. "Something like that, but we'll need more manpower than what we've got; we need Lee for this, but I'm not sure how cooperative he'll be, considering the past several days." he admitted.

Fiddleford glanced around. "Where is he, anyway? Doesn't he usually get up by now?" he questioned.

Ford rolled his eyes. "I'll go get him up." he drained the last of his mug, stood, and headed upstairs. He knocked on the door, and, receiving no response, pushed it open. "Up and at-'em bro. Come . . .on . . . " the bed was empty, sheets and quilt disheveled. The window was open wide, the curtains fluttering in the breeze and darkening the room.

Stanley was no where to be seen.

Panic gripped him. What if he was wrong? What if it was a trick? What if his brother had gone out last night and gotten attacked or killed by that thing? What if, what if, what if . . . .

Before he knew it, he was flying down the stairs, banging out the front door, and sprinting towards the woods. "STANLEY! BRO, WHERE ARE YOU?!" he shouted, pausing a long minute to listen for any answering calls.

He heard panting and footsteps, and turned around to see Fiddleford. "Stanford, what is going on?" he huffed out, bending over to place his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

Ford swiveled on his heel, looking around. "Stanley's not in his room, haven't seen him since the other evening, and I'm just, I'm just . . ." Fidds placed a calming hand on his shoulder, and he realized that he was starting to hyperventilate. He tried to slow his breathing, taking deep breaths.

When he'd finally calmed, Fidds lead him back towards the cabin. "I bet Stanley just wandered off somewhere. I'm sure he'll be fine." Fidds tried to console his coworker and friend.

It didn't help much.

Stanley, for the second time in under a month, woke up outside. He didn't bother moving. There was a certain heaviness settled deep within himself, deep in his chest.

Something was telling him very distinctly that he'd been driven out of his own home, and by his brother.

No no no, that couldn't be right! Could it . . ?

He suddenly felt a surge of crushing loneliness and fear and the pain of betrayal, and curled in on himself with a heavy sob. Before to long, he'd cried himself to sleep with lingering feelings of hopelessness, betrayal, loneliness, and fear inside.

Not five minutes later, voices were shouting his name, calling out for him.

Stanley wasn't awake to hear them.

Rather than in a building, the brown-furred-and-eyed wolf awoke underneath a bush. For a moment, he was confused; then the events of the previous night came flooding back and he whimpered, curling in on himself until he was as small as he possibly could be, whimpering and whining, shivering more from fear than the cool night air.

Tears poured from his eyes, his tail was clamped between his legs, and deep-throated whimpers shuddered through his whole body; this was as close to sobbing as he could get.

At last, he rose once more, eyes dulled of emotion, fur unkempt, and decided to hunt something down to make up for not eating last night and most of this night.

He walked slowly off, no real direction in mind, and left the house-territory that was once his packs; and still was.

He was just no longer apart of it.

Chapter Text

There were precious few hours before the new moon.

He still hadn't found a new den. Mostly because he'd been putting it off, and didn't really want to. Something told him that it'd be okay, come morning, so long as he sprinted across the clearing, skittered up the slope, and through the hole in the wall to his own den.

But he had to be fast, or he'd miss his chance and he might not get back for even longer.

And his packbrother would be worried for longer. Looking back on the night before, he could realize that it was fear, and not anger, that drove his littermates words. It had been a misunderstanding; which meant that it wasokay to return home. The territory was still shared with him, and he wouldn't be punished for entering.

Mind made up, the dark-furred creature slowly crept across the silent lawn, leaped high, clambered up the steep slope as quietly as possible, and tumbled into his den. He immediately felt a little better, now that he was in this familiar place. He was hungry, though . . . he'd spent most of this night crying and searching for a new den, rather than hunting.

And he hadn't hunted the previous night, either. At the moment, the large, furry creature was to exhausted from the wailing howls and sobbing of the past few nights to do much about his hunger.

That said, he slowly rose to his feet, hopped onto the bed, shook out his pelt. Nosing his way under the soft, worn, familiar quilt, and flopping onto his side, he fell swiftly asleep.

The next morning, Stanley woke up early, changed into a fresh set of clothes, and wandered downstairs to get himself something to eat. He felt strangely . . . off-balanced, odd, subdued. He wasn't sure if it was simply from the hunger clawing at his throat like some sort of monster, or if he'd gotten himself drunk or what. What he was sure of was that he his brother was immensely relieved when he came downstairs and saw him at the table.

Once more, just like two weeks ago, he had to explain that he didn't recall the last day or so very clearly, and that yes, he was alright. It took cooking some more pancakes and practically shoving them underneath his brothers nose to get him to finally shut up and start eating.

After Fiddleford arrived, Lee retreated to the living room side table, shuffling cards and absentmindedly listening as they talked about some creature preying on local farms.

His dreams were but a foggy memory now, and he actually felt better than he had for awhile. When the others asked him if he would like to help, he grinned wide and nodded, going to fetch his favorite pair of knuckle dusters, just in case.

They ended up circling the farms that had been hit the most and recently, to see if they could pick up any signs of the creature. The most they found was a well-trampled trail, leading through the woods. It was made by a very large creature, broad of shoulders, but short; probably the wolf. They followed it, but after several miles, it crossed a stream and disappeared, with no other leads.

While Fidds and his nerdy brother marked up the trail and location of the stream on their map, Lee picked his way a little farther downstream, glancing here and there. He didn't find anything, but he would've sworn he saw eyes on him, watching him from the brush. When he went to investigate it, though, there was nothing.

That night, Lee slept soundly and deeply, and there were no attacks anywhere. The next morning, he felt like his old self, and he assisted Ford and the Professor in going out and setting up a trap on the trail. It was designed to catch the creature, not hurt it, since it probably didn't want to hurt anyone, since it was blah blah blah. Lee stopped listening to it all after a couple minutes, focused more on the heavy pack on his back.

Before too long, they'd reached the location and were setting up a sort of net trap. Lee mostly helped with shifting around heavy objects. He felt strangely alert, as if feeling eyes watching him from all sides. It made him antsy, and he didn't like the feeling, since he could never pinpoint where the watcher was at. After they'd set up the trap, all they had to do now was wait and come check it the next morning.

The trap was tripped, but empty the next morning. Wolf tracks were clear in the muddy ground, going right up to where the tripwire was, but there was a large stone dropped on it.

Apparently, the creature was smarter than they originally thought. They'd have to up their game if they wanted to catch it. Over the next week, the attacks increased, as did sightings. The creature was growing careless or confident, and sloppy. It'd drag it's kill behind a shed or simply start chowing on it right where it'd killed it, often picking up and easily running off with the remains when someone spotted it.

Then, there were the rumors that it was sniffing around town. People were growing warier than ever, and no matter what trick Ford and Fidds thought to pull, it always managed to evade capture. They could never try the same trick twice. It always remembered and always got away.

Nearing the end of the second week, Ford grew increasingly anxious over it. From everything he'd read, werewolves went completely feral and lost all of their humanity on the full moon, meaning they were much more vicious and much more likely to attack a human should they come across one.

He was so busy trying to catch the thing that he didn't notice Lee starting to slip back, growing grumpier and grumpier, sleeping all day and barely eating a thing. Stanley still tried to help his brother, when asked, but there was always an extra amount of grumbling and a certain, lethargic slowness to his actions, his usual brash, sarcastic attitude nearly gone with his weariness.

He declined going out to help them check the latest attempt at a trap to catch the werewolf. He moved with slow, weary movements up the stairs and into his room.

Tonight was the night before the full moon. Lee crawled into bed and snuggled deep beneath the blankets, window open to allow in the cool breeze that hard started to blow. He remained awake a long time, dozing off only to jerk awake at some noise or another. He was just starting to drift off when he realized something.

His brother and his friend were setting traps for a werewolf. A WEREwolf, not a regular wolf. He leaped to his feet, tripped over one of his weights, and face-planted into the wooden floorboards. After several minutes of waiting for the pain to go away, he got more slowly to his feet and made his way downstairs, hoping to find his brother or some sign of where they had been headed to next.

Nothing. Nothing that could tell him where to look, at least. Finally, he made his way back upstairs, feeling a strong prickling at the back of his neck. Something was nagging at him. He closed and latched the door to his room, something he rarely did, and went to stand in front of the window. There was something he was missing, some clue or piece of the puzzle that, once found, would unravel the whole case, he just knew it.

He looked out at the darkening sky, noting the darkening clouds gathering to the northwest. Storms from that direction could be mild or crazy, but always brought torrents of rain, a good thing for the crops of surrounding farms, and could be expected around late summer or early fall.

Lee shook his head, frowning in thought. His mind traced back to when his brother had started going on about the case, but also of when he woke up, bitten and bleeding in the woods. He didn't notice the stars appearing in the sky. He only noticed the moon when a sharp pain flooded his body, as well as the shaggy fur starting to grow on his arms, and the sudden hunger he felt for fresh meat.

Panicking, he backed away from the window, eyes darting about for some means of escaping this, even as his human mind slipped away, his ears became pointed, a tail started to grow. It ached and burned, the changes did, and before long he could no longer stand. Collapsing with a dull whimper on the floor, he flinched and jerked and bucked and writhed in pain.

His face pushed out into a muzzle, his legs and arms thinned and grew lanky, covered in thick fur. His ears grew pointed, his teeth became sharp, and his hands and feet became paws. The tail stretched out and out, finally stopping. He whimpered, wincing as he felt a great pain stab through his whole body, his mind disappearing into darkness as the last of the thick fur grew on him.

His eyes closed tightly, and for several long moments, all was deathly silent, the only movement being the rapid rise and fall of the creatures chest, legs still entangled in human clothing.

The wolfs eyes opened suddenly, but were not big and wide and innocent. They were small, bare pinpricks of black surrounded by brown. With a hungry snarl, it stumbled to it's paws and turned sharp teeth on the clothes that hobbled it, ripping them to shreds in under a minute.

Freed of this burden, the wolf glanced around the unfamiliar place, looked to the window, and scented the air.

Backing up, the wolf raced forwards and jumped, claws scrambling and scratching the windowsill.

Skittering down the tiles of the roof, an easy leap to the ground, a brief pause to howl once towards the sky.

And then he was gone, with the light of the almost-full moon shining down on the forest.

Chapter Text

Ford and Fidds returned late that night. They'd had to pull over and fix a popped tire halfway to town from the farm, and were currently exhausted. The front door was unlocked. Odd. The two men tried to remain quiet as they went inside, not wanting to disturb Lee.

Ford was growing increasingly anxious over the case. They weren't getting any closer to catching and subduing the werewolf, and if the full moon really did make them crazy, then there could be a lot of hurt people come the next night or so.

Not to long after, he finally went to his bed to hit the hay.

The storm was brewing overhead. The air crackled with electricity from the lightning to come, and the air heavy with rain yet to fall. It was muggy and hot, yet cold winds blew, only thickening the scents, telling with pure verity of what was to come, but without any real way to tell when it'd actually arrive.

The brown wolfs fur stood on end. He felt lethargic and lazy, but the back of his neck prickled. He remained alert. Lying underneath a bush and panting from his thick fur, but alert.

Evening was falling. Night would soon follow, as well as the full moon. The dark clouds overhead seemed to leech out more and more light as the shadows lengthened.

A burst of lightning crackled through the sky. An echoing roar of thunder followed. The wolf lifted it's head. It was nearly night. Something, TWO somethings, were stumbling around, waving about a beam of bright light that remained constant and moved with them, slicing through the dusky darkness.

Curious, and hungry, the wolf rose and padded silently after them. He scented the air. It was people; humans. Something inside him told him to walk away and leave them alone; humans weren't worth prey and brought tons more after them if you harmed them. Something about these two compelled him, however. Something about them made him want to follow them and see what they did.

He was suddenly aware of a third presence. It was strong, it's scent nearly hidden beneath the stench of crazed sickness. It made his fur crawl, made him want to run as far away as possible, so he would not catch it himself.

But he stayed. And he still followed the two humans, who were now just going in circles. The sick thing was following them, too, sniffing along their trail and smashing it's head into trees and logs and boulders with low groans and moans, speaking of pain inside, not from crashing into things.

The wolf kept a wary eye and ear on both the humans ahead and crazed thing behind him. He knew that either could lead to trouble, but would prefer humans over whatever made his fur itch and made him want to run far, far away until it was dead and gone and couldn't hurt him any longer.

Large, fat raindrops start to fall overhead, soon coming down in a rushing torrent. As it had been dry and hot before, this is a welcome surprise for most. But, for the two traveling ahead of him, he can tell that they do not enjoy it at all. Suddenly, the humans halt up ahead and there is a cry of pain and surprise. The light they carried flies high into the air, arcing up and falling down, farther away from them.

The wolf crept closer, easily making them out, but they obviously couldn't see, hear, nor scent him. What with the rain, though, scenting anything was becoming a challenge.

The larger human was bent over, holding one hindleg and cursing under his breath. The smaller looked around worriedly, blinking through the rain and dark, one hand on the others shoulder as it tried to scan the surrounding area.

Something shifted and was passed from one to the other. Before the wolf could figure out what it was, he spotted the sick thing, foaming at the mouth and glaring at the men below it, from atop a boulder above them. He pinned his ears to his head, and crept forward silently.

Just as it roared and lunged, the wolf suddenly lunged, too. The smaller human shrieked and the larger one stumbled to it's feet. The larger human's movements made a nasty sound, like cracking a bone between his own sharp teeth, and then slipped in the mud. Head banging against the boulder, he slid down, unmoving, but probably alive.

All this the wolf took in distantly; for when the lion had lunged, he had lunged, too, sinking his teeth into the back of it's neck. It was slightly bigger than him, but clumsier and slow. He had caught it's scruff, rather than any sort of spot that would allow him to actually kill it, and he was struggling to stay on. If thrown off, it could lunge and either bite his own throat out, or worse, bite him and leave him to grow crazed and pained for days before death.

The thing beneath him was a mountain lion; that much he could tell. While unable to throw him off, it stopped thrashing and pawed and scratched him, catching him on the sides and forelegs, but he clung on, using his front paws to smack at it's eyes in retaliation, and scrambling his hindlegs to stay on as he kicked it.

Lightning flashed and thunder boomed overhead; in a moment of distraction, the wolf was thrown, the lion lunging and snapping at him. Barely managing to use his front legs to hold it back, he yipped and growled in pain, his chest getting torn apart. Throwing it off, he leapt to his feet and lunged, snapping his jaws over it's throat, but it twisted beneath him and he only injured it, rather than kill it.

It suddenly went for the unconscious human, and a sudden, protective instinct reared up, nearly sending the wolf reeling. Nearly. Instead, he snarled vicously and lunged, ramming into it, and then it was all fur and claws and sharp teeth. Throwing it off once more, and covered in several more claws marks, he stood protectively in front of the human, panting.

Suddenly, a bright beam of light lanced from behind him. Something, like thunder, but not like thunder, sounded behind him. He flattened his ears and howled in pain, his left ear stung and burned. The lion glared at him, a hole in it's chest. Red gushed from the hole and it collapsed, eyes becoming glassy and lifeless.

Adrenaline fading, the wolf hunched over, panting, fur soaked from blood and rain. He turned slowly. The beam of light the humans had held was gone. He turned to the bigger one, lying limply in the mud. He sniffed over it's chest, it's face, and felt it's breath tickling his whiskers. Once he confirmed that the human was alive, he felt an odd sense of releif and victory, but he didn't know why.

Why had he defended these humans? Why were they so important? What had driven him to defend them from what he would barely be able to defend himself from?

He could answer none of these. Suddenly, the previous booming sound, so like and yet so unlike thunder echoed; right in front of him. He jerked back with a scream of pain, rearing up on his hindlegs only to fall on his back in the mud, stunned.

He could hear heavy breathing, and someone muttering, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," followed by rustling and a groggy voice answering a higher-pitched, more panicky one.

There was more noise, and the sound of one or two somethings walking away. But he couldn't breath; or, he could, but every breath and movement hurt and his right shoulder burned and ached in agony. Eventually, he managed to roll over onto his side with a whimper. Rising shakily to his feet, the wolf limped slowly away, seeking shelter from the pounding rain.

He left behind a trail of blood.

Chapter Text

It didn't take long to find the trail and get back to the car. And from there, it was easy to check one another over and confirm that they'd neither been bitten or sustained any other injuries. Besides a badly bruised knee and a sore spot on the back of his head, Ford was fine; the wolf had not bitten him.

Fiddleford had seen the lion, and he's done his studying before; it had been rabid. If he hadn't shot it with the pistol Ford handed to him . . . he didn't want to dwell on that. As for the other thing . . . .

Fidds didn't want to think about it. He just wanted to go home, change into some fresh clothes, and go to bed. Ford insisted, however, so the man answered as well as he could, still shaky from the encounter. When he finished, there was a long silence.

"You killed the wolf?" he asked slowly, looking out into the rain.

Fiddleford was slow to reply. "I'm not sure." he finally said, starting to shake, cold; but mostly scared. "I'm not sure. It cried out and reared back, and it didn't move afterwards, but the flashlight gave out and I'm not sure if I killed it. I didn't hear anything that suggested it was moving around, at least." the smaller man admitted.

Ford dragged a hand down his face, rubbing at it and pushing his wet hair out of his ears. "So, either way, it's taken care of. We can come by tomorrow and see if we can find it . . . ." he didn't say whether they would find it alive or merely it's corpse.

Fidds quietly started the car and turned into the road, heading for the cabin. The heaviness in the air wasn't just from the rain, and both knew it.

Neither wanted to admit that they could've killed another human. Then again, they might not've. But the heaviness didn't leave with the chance that it was still alive. It only seemed to increase.

They weren't sure why.

The wolf limped, head low and tail dragging. He had no idea where he was headed. He focused more on putting one foot in front of the other. The full moon would be over after tonight, and only would he be in this wolfish form for the next day before turning back.

How he knew this, he wasn't sure. He just focused on breathing, keeping his cries as low as possible, and moving forward. For he felt that if he stopped moving, he wouldn't be able to move again. The rain eventually stopped, the clouds blown swiftly away by the wind.

The sun rose. The moon was gone. He remained a wolf. And he would remain that way until the next morning.

But now, with the full moon gone, a small flash of memory flitted into his thoughts, briefly breaking through the pain and sharp aches he felt all over. Two figures. One brown, one ginger. One his double, his twin. The other littler, and his friend.

He had a pack. He had others who could help him. He just needed to find them. And, just like that, he realized which way was home, turned, and limped as quickly as he could.

His fur was matted with clumps of dried blood, the scratches stinging or paining him sharply. It was nothing compared to the deep, burning agony in his left shoulder. Black spots were starting to dance in his vision when he limped out of the trees and into a small clearing. Lifting his head and waving it side to side, he managed to see around the dots and spot the cabin.

With a low whine, he started moving again, struggling against the pain. He had only just reached the wall when his legs gave out beneath him. He hurt to much and he'd had hardly any food the past few days. He simply didn't have the strength to keep moving.

That didn't stop him from trying, though. For several long minutes, he fought past the darkness encroaching on his vision, legs weakly scrabbling at the mud in an attempt to get upright again. Finally, however, exhausted and in pain, he went limp as darkness overtook him.

Chapter Text

A pair of hazel eyes peered out of the trees. The creature emerged cautiously, slowly, and scented the air. Satisfied that they were alone, they trotted swiftly towards their fallen fellow.

It was a wolf, a little smaller and much more slender than her more muscular, brown-furred fellow, with silky black fur and hazel eyes. Upon reaching him, she first laid her muzzle over his chest. Feeling his heartbeat, she placed her nose by his, feeling his breath.

She moved on to licking his wounds clean, trying to figure out what was bloodstained fur and where the blood was actually flowing from. Her ears flattened in dismay; he had so many wounds, and she didn't have a thing to aid her in healing him.

She pricked her ears and jerked her head to the side; a car was pulling up the road. She could escape easily, but . . . she looked back down at the brown wolf. She wasn't strong enough to drag him out of the clearing, nor would fighting against humans be wise by any means.

But if they could heal him . . . making up her mind, the wolf backed away a pace and shook her head hard, as if shaking water out of her fur. A collar, black as her fur with a bronze dog licence, flew off. Taking it in her teeth, she carefully worked it around the brown wolf's neck.

Pricking her ears towards the humans, she darted back into the trees. She watched cautiously as the humans spotted the trail of blood, following it to the source. The taller, brown-haired human held a similar scent to the wolf on the ground, the smaller ginger/pale-brown haired one didn't; probably a packfriend.

Satisfied that her fellow was going to be taken care of, she turned and hurried back the way she had come. Her own pack would be worried for her.

When Ford first saw the wolf, he did not hesitate to approach and check to see if it was alive. Fiddleford was frozen to the spot with horror and fear. Only after Ford had called his name a few times did he run for the first aid kit.

It was a long and tedious task to patch the wolf up, as it had sustained several scratches and had a bullet in it's shoulder still. They considered taking it to a vet, but agreed that if it were a werewolf, that it would not be the best of ideas.

So they made do with what they had, managing to carry the creature inside between the two of them. It was hard not to overlook the collar, but for the time being ignored it. They gently laid the werewolf on the couch, and tossed a blanket over him to be sure.

It's not that Fidds wasn't surprised and worried. He just felt a little numb to the situation, at present. Stanley had disappeared, again, and there were signs of a struggle in his room, which had been locked. Plus, they had confirmed that the mountain lion that had attacked them last night had had rabies, and the wolf had been no where to be seen, any signs of it erased by the rain.

. . . until they got back later today. They had been alarmed at the bloody trail, and even more so when they saw the wolf. Where Fidds reaction had been to freeze in shocked horror, Ford had walked right up to it, kneeling next to it and gently feeling it for breath or a pulse or something.

And now, here he was. Watching over the thing, wrapped in bandages and sprawled on the couch. Ford's explanation on the whole matter had been just a little too convincing.

Mostly about how the full moon was over, so it wouldn't have much initiative to attack anyone, besides injured so badly that he was surprised it had managed all the way to their cabin. The fact that it had come to the cabin twice seemed to convince Ford himself more than anything that it was seeking help, and that it's instincts were the only reason it had attacked them last night, or whatever it was doing.

There were still a lot of questions that they didn't have answers for. Like why it was still in it's wolfish form in the daylight, among other things.

Fiddleford was broken out of his thoughts when he saw it shift next to him. He froze stiff, watching as it opened large brown eyes. It's gaze wandered sluggishly before locking onto the small professor. It tried to get up, only to cry out and fall back against the couch, wincing and flattening it's ears. It looked to Fidds beseechingly, and with a clear, distinct look of recognition in it's eyes.

The scientist slowly got up, and offered a hand for it to sniff. The wolf snuffed and nuzzled his palm before giving it a lick. It's tail beat twice against the couch, and it pricked it's ears.

One, Fidds now noticed, had a bit of a hole torn through the side, scabbed over, but it still looked a bit raw. It looked straight, not ragged like most of the other wounds on the poor thing. It would probably be best to patch that up, as well. And from all the other wounds on it, well, it wasn't hard to guess and assume that the wolf, for whatever reason, had decided to fight the lion.

The wolf whined and lightly nudged his hand, licking his lips and shifting it's head a little. Fiddleford would've sworn he saw it roll it's eyes. Tentatively, he reached down and patted the wolf between the ears.

"Well, I guess you're friendly enough." he mumbled, feeling the coarse softness of the fur.

The wolf barked quietly and tossed it's head, rolling it's eyes again. It left a distinct air of being exasperated.

Fidds couldn't help a small smile. "You're almost worse than my friend Stanley." he told the thing, giving it another pat.

The wolf stared up at him, then barked again, almost urgently, and tossed it's head, eyes locked on the man.

Fidds raised a brow. "Well, that's odd. What's wrong?" he asked curiously.

The wolf rolled it's eyes again, and stared hard at Fiddleford. He barked again, louder, rougher, and struggled as if to stand, nearly succeeding before Fidds gently pushed him back down.

"Now stop that!" he scolded. "You're injured pretty badly, so unless you want it to get worse and cripple yourself, then lay down and be still." he told it sternly, half-glaring at it.

The wolf only stared up at him, a familiar look in the brown eyes, besides anticipation.

Fidds sighed and sat next to it again, gently running a hand through it's brown fur. "I take it back, you're acting worse than Stanley . . ." he looked over the creature again, startled by the intensity of it's gaze.

'Brown eyes, brown fur . . . completely adamant about moving around when severely injured . . . OH MY GOSH . . . .'

Fiddleford stared at the wolf, seeing it in a completely new light. "St-stanley?" he squeaked out in disbelief.

The wolf nodded it's head and yipped quietly.

Fidds took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Right; okay, right, so Stanley is the Werewolf. No need to freak out, no need to panic. It's still him on the inside. Right." he nods to himself and looks back down at his friend.

Stanley looked up at him with relief and concern, ears pricked. He yipped again, and thumped his tail on the couch twice.

Fidds sighed and sat down again. "You gave us a real fright, Stan."

The werewolf only whined and made a huffing sound.

"Well, here's hoping you'll turn back soon. . . . I'm not so sure that Ford will be keen to have his brother stuck as a wolf forever." the small professor followed up.

Stan barked sharply and raised his head a little, half-glaring at him.

"Stop that," Fiddleford warned, rising to his feet. "I don't want ya' getting any worse. So just lay down and relax, alright?"

The wolf sent him another exasperated look before doing as he was told.