#eventuallyyy

Of course, a clean nose and can-do attitude only get you so far. Sometimes trouble finds you no matter what. No matter how long ago you swore off that shit.

It had been a slow night. Wednesdays are like that.

Only the regulars and the occasional drifter tend to show in the middle of the week around here, which is too bad. Kori finally convinced him to put in new lights, including a chandelier for a centerpiece, and that thing didn’t come cheap. He could use more business to make up the cost. 

Henry kept trying to tell anyone who would listen that he’d get the house back from his harpy of an ex-wife; like he’s been saying the whole time Jason’s known him. Piotr was ducked behind his usual paper and smoking his usual cig. The headline was the usual fear-mongering shit, ‘MAN OR MONSTER: PARK MURDERS LINKED TO—‘ and Jason had stopped reading before his blood pressure could get any higher. He’s been working on his zen, and that shit tends to rupture it bigtime.

Jason had been getting some inventory done, and keeping an eye on the shifty stranger in the corner who kept stealing glances at Lauren like he didn’t know if he wanted to chat her up or eat her. He’d walked in off the street about ten minutes ago and was already doing himself no favors. Jason would honestly have loved to see him try either one; Lauren teaches MMA at the local community center. But she’s been having a rough week and Jason doesn’t tolerate that shit.

You get that type sometimes. Wolves who don’t know what to do with themselves and their new instincts after they’ve turned. It can seriously make or break a person. A real trial by fire moment. 

Jason used to hunt wolves for a reason. It’s an ugly stereotype, but he likes to think he can spot the difference. Creeps are creeps whether they’ve got skin or fur hiding under their sheep’s clothing. Fangs just make them bolder.

Right as he was gearing up to confront the guy, to chat him up with his open-ears brand of bartender charm (Roy always sniggers at him, but even he can’t deny that Jason’s got a sort of rugged je ne sai quoi)— right as he was gearing up to confirm his creepy vibe, Jason’s bar explodes. Go figure.

The big, street-side window shatters. What looks like a fucking bomb bounces through it before an acrid, herbal smoke fills the air, a trail of fire erupting across the floor in its wake.

“Motherfucker,” Jason hisses, snatching the fire extinguisher out from under the bar before leaping the counter, coughing as the shit in the air burns his eyes and nose. 

Fur ripples reflexively over his skin and his teeth suddenly get sharper as the wolfsbane smokebomb does its nasty work. He can feel the fabric of his shirt tearing as his body bulges, and his claws skitter over the metal pin before he pulls the plunger on the extinguisher.

“Motherfucker.”

He fucking hates hunters.

Henry’s already bolted for the door with his tail between his legs, and Lauren’s choked scream is the only warning Jason gets before a searing pain stabs through his upper thigh. She really ought to run too; no sense in getting tangled up in hunter business.

He grunts, hitting the floor on one knee and dropping the extinguisher, groping at the silver crossbow bolt that’s sunk into his flesh. Whipping his head around, he gets his first look at the fucker who just got himself on Jason’s shitlist for life.

The hunter is dressed for utility. Long coat, bulky belt, lots of little compartments; lots of places to hide weapons and other goodies for making wolves dead. He steps carefully through the scattered remains of the front window, attention clearly locked on Jason. Black hair, glaring blue eyes; he’s sporting a very dramatic half-mask that covers his nose and mouth, protecting him from the smoke. He looks young and dumb and like he’s about to shoot Jason again. Not a good combination.

“You need to leave,” Jason snarls past the sting of silver in his thigh, already out of patience, but needing to honestly say that he tried when they question him later for manslaughter.

“I’m done messing around, killer,” hisses the punk with too much firepower and an attitude problem, completely talking past him. Rude. “You’ve got nowhere left to run.”

It’s hyped up hunter nonsense, and he already had the gall to set Jason’s floor on fire when he made his grand entrance. This is why Jason is insured.

It’s no use calling the cops. As far as they’re concerned, hunters are doing the city a fucking service. Hell, half the cops are hunters. They’d pin a medal on this guy, glad to have an excuse to finally shut down Jason’s ‘wolf den’ for good.

Jason ducks as the hunter pulls the trigger again, another bolt flying over his head and shattering something no-doubt expensive on the top shelf. Still, Jason relishes his bitten-off curse and lunges to close the distance between them before he can reload.

This clever ploy is nearly ruined by the second crossbow the hunter pulls out of his stupid coat. Jesus Christ.

“You got a permit for those?” Jason asks, tearing the repeater crossbow out of the hunter’s hands before he can get off his shot, then immediately snatches his wrist when he goes for a silver-edged knife. “Hey, watch it. You’ll put someone’s eye out with that thing.”

Jason doesn’t know why that sets him off, but the hunter suddenly twists out of his grip. He takes a swipe at Jason, snarling with enough teeth to put a real wolf to shame.

“Oh, that’s rich. I saw you slink in here!” he barks. “You’re not going to hurt these people—!”

“What the everloving shit are you talking about,” Jason snaps as the hunter presses him back. He ducks between tables, kicking chairs in the hunter’s path and dodging his knife. When he lunges, the hunter barely spins out of the way, giving Jason an opening to kick him hard into a corner booth. “The only one hurting people here is you, asshole!”

The hunter only glares as he picks himself up, resettling his grip on his knife before throwing himself at Jason again.

Smoke is still thick in the air. The vapor from the hunter’s bomb dissipates through the broken window, only to be replenished by the fire still burning through the floor. If it had been one of Jason’s busy nights, a lot of people would have gotten seriously hurt.

“You fucking hunters— you think just because I’m a wolf, that means I hurt people?” Jason says, twisting out the way of a low sweep.

“I think gouging out eyes and leaving people to bleed out means you hurt people,” the hunter snaps back, and fucking what.

“You’re fucking crazy,” Jason informs him, and catches him by the back of his long coat, hurling the madman with an arsenal through the air with a crash.

“You’re one to talk,” is all the hunter says, groaning as he sheds his coat and leaps back to his feet.

They chase each other around the room, taking turns drawing blood, and Jason despairingly tallies up the property damage as they go. Toppled dishcart (those had been clean), snapped wooden latticework between the booths, torn upholstery, and— are you fucking kidding.

He just put in that stupid thing.

Jason had the hunter cornered on a table against the wall. Then he pulled some parkour bullshit, kicking off the back of a booth to jump up and over Jason’s head, avoiding Jason’s grab and swinging off the bars of the new light fixture Kori had insisted on to make a quick escape.

Only it was never meant to carry the weight of a grown man dangling off of it like a kid on the monkey bars. It shuddered ominously before the screws gave way in a shower of drywall dust and popping sparks.

Jason is too pissed to do anything else. Glaring, he points angrily at the sadly flickering mess of wire and dangling bits that used to be his modern-style chandelier.

“You’re gonna pay for that!”

The hunter only bounces on the toes of his boots as he sticks the landing, falling back into a ready stance.

“You—” he starts, but Jason doesn’t give a shit anymore.

“Do you know how much those fucking cost?”

The hunter only stares in confusion. The prick.

“...what?”

Seeing red, Jason finally sinks his claws in him. Roughly grabbing the hunter by the waist, the throat, feeling fabric and skin tear as blood coats his hand— Jason lifts him off his feet and slams him down onto the bar. The hunter bites down on a guttural scream, and Jason just about howls as a line of fire opens up over his chest.

“Shit,” the hunter coughs behind his mask, his knife flashing red as his elbow knocks over an empty pitcher. “That all you got?”

Cocky thing to say, with Jason’s claws digging wet furrows around the base of his throat.

“Don’t try to be cute,” Jason snarls, letting him breathe just to pin his wrist, forcing him to drop the knife with a clatter. “It’s way too late for that.”

“Fuck you,” the hunter spits, failing to hide the shake in his voice. This stubborn piece of shit doesn’t know when he’s beaten. “Did you think it’d work? Thought you’d hide in some random bar until the heat died down—” and Jason snaps.

“I own the bar!” he roars.

The hunter freezes. Jason’s breath steams out of his nose, and he narrows his eyes as the hunter’s wide gaze flickers from Jason’s glare to—

“Oh, fuck me,” the hunter wheezes, and before Jason can react he’s already lurching up in Jason’s face and stabbing another fucking knife, when did he—

—directly over Jason’s shoulder, where it sinks with a meaty thunk and a howling scream into the chest of the mangy wolf sneaking up behind them. The mangy wolf who has Jason’s approximate height, build, and coloring. If it’s dark. And you squint.

…Eye gouging.

Huh.

Then: claws rake savagely down Jason’s back, and that’s enough for him. He doesn’t need more convincing to turn and sink his teeth into the creepy stranger’s throat and tear. The events of the night have already reorganized themselves in Jason’s head, and he doesn’t like the picture it paints at all.

Blood spouts as the likely-murderer’s snarling cuts off with a gargling whine. Jason spits the taste of silvered blood out of his mouth, watching him collapse and fade, claws and fur shrinking away to nothing as his human form dies on the ground in a growing pool of muddy red.

It’s gonna be a bitch cleaning that shit out of the boards. Jason should just bite the bullet and re-floor this place already.

If it doesn’t burn down first.

“Okay, who the fuck was that, and who the fuck are you— oh goddamnit.”

Jason turns to lay into the hunter who fucked up his place of business while chasing after a serial killer or whatever, only to see that he’s passed out. Probably from shock, Jason thinks, wincing as he sees just how deep he’d clawed him. Flat on his back on the bartop, legs slumped, arms akimbo; his head dangles limp over the edge, exposing the delicate line of his bleeding throat as the wet gash in his side darkens his torn shirt. And Jason’s countertop.

Son of a bitch. This is why Jason hates hunters. They wreak so much havoc, but they’re so fucking fragile.

“That’s going to need bleach,” Piotr comments helpfully from where he’s picked up the extinguisher and is putting out the rest of the fire. He ashes his cigarette on the floor, and not in the ashtray Jason set out specifically for him. Asshole.

Jason groans, and starts hunting for his first aid kit. He knows it’s around here somewhere.

“Uh-huh. Thanks, Piotr.”