#fic:wolf

He had offered, no, insisted that he pick you up from the cottage for the date. You were a beacon for trouble and having you driving around the countryside in the dark was just asking for it. It had taken a lot of back and forth over text, his stiff fingers fumbling over the keys before he had finally called you, all of the sass gone once he had you on the line.

He is walking out the door when his phone starts to buzz, he answers without looking assuming it's you.

"Too late t'back out, olready on my way."

"On your way where?" John's voice crackles over the line.

"Fuck, thought you were someone else," he grumbles. Simon hadn't told John or Kyle he had plans tonight. He had had the urge to gloat, gloat that he was doing something with someone that wasn't their sorry arses, gloat that he had managed to get a date with you.

In the end, the fear of the date going poorly had outweighed the need to rub it in their faces.

"Got plans ye didn't tell us about? Johnny finally back to his old self?"

Simon locks the door to the flat before lumbering down the dark stairs that lead out to the back alley behind the butcher's shop. With each step he considers how to answer, considers what John will think of him. Will he even care?

"He's still playing house."

"Course he is," he says with a sigh."Not goin' to tell me who it is then?"

Simon considers his options before settling on, "not much to tell yet. You and Garrick goin' to sit around and gossip about it like a couple of school girls?"

John huffs, "ran out of here like a bat out of hell earlier. Imagine I won't be seein' him until he gets it out of his system."

"Aye, this close to the full moon it could 'ave been anythin'."

Pain, anger, excitement, jealousy. Anything could have triggered an early turn.

"Am I waitin' up fer you?"

"Better not, I'll see ye in the morn."

John bids him goodnight. Simon knows the old man well, with no one else there to worry about he'll eat an early dinner, lock up the animals for the night and then drink himself to sleep in the den. On a warm night he might stay there till morning, on a cold night, like tonight, he'll wake shivering once the fires died down properly then drag himself to bed.

Simon had found him there more than once, brow furrowed even in his sleep, glass of whiskey abandoned on the coffee table, a book more often than not rested against his stomach, threatening to slip off his lap with each rise and fall of the old man's chest. John worked hard on the farm, he deserved the rest.

The road to the cottage was familiar. It looks like many of the roads that wind through the Highlands, but Simon has been here before on a handful of occasions before it was yours. Two man jobs with Kyle and that one last time with John.

You're already waiting on the front step when he arrives, fussing with your jacket, only looking up when his truck's tires crunch over the gravel drive. Your smile is bright and warm, and far more than a man like him deserves, but he enjoys it nonetheless.

"You're prompt," you tease, dramatically pulling up the sleeve of your jacket to look at your watch, walking over to where he has stopped the truck, window rolled down to greet you.

"Said I was goin' to be 'ere in ten, I'm 'ere in ten."

If the curt way he speaks bothers you, you don't show it. You simply roll your eyes and make your way over to the passenger side of the truck. Maybe he should have gotten out, opened the door for you like a gentleman. He's never been good at this romantic shit and he's still not really sure why he asked you. There's the lie he tells himself, that if you're with him you're less likely to get yourself in trouble.

You pull yourself into the cab, dropping a bag down onto the seat next to you before buckling up.

“So where are we off to? Is it a surprise?”

This, this is exactly why he needed to ask you on this date, keep you occupied for as long as possible so you didn’t wander off into the woods around the cottage. 

He grunted in affirmation, left hand firmly on the wheel, right rest on his right knee, fingers itching to reach over and take a firm grasp of your thigh, feel the warmth that bled through the pants you wore, feel the way your body felt beneath his touch. 

Simon could tell himself this was purely magnanimous, that he was looking out for you, but he would be lying to himself. 

You fill the quiet space in the cab of his truck, talking about the garden you planned to plant in the spring, your research into native plants, growing seasons, the kinds of thing John would be able to talk about, help with. 

You don’t hide the surprise on your face when he pulls into the village, turning down the alley that leads behind the shops. 

“You're not bringing me all the way here just to kill me? Would have been easier to do it at the cottage then leave me for the animals," you say with a laugh, not an ounce of actual worry in your voice.

"Easier clean up," he jokes back.

Your laugh at his dark humor sends heat down his spine. Its not often that others join in with him, and certainly never anyone as pretty as you.

He parks the truck, easily maneuvering into the spot behind the shop. It's dark in the alley even though the sun has yet to fully set, but the buildings block out any traces of light. You slip out of the truck, slamming the door behind you, peering curiously around the alley.

"Are we really going to the shop?"

"Nah, got a flat upstairs. 'S not much but," he shrugs.

You follow him eagerly, your steps echoing his as he leads you up to the unadorned door to his flat.

You are oddly silent as you walk into the flat. He knows it's not much. There's a second hand sofa shoved against the wall with a crochet throw blanket Johnny had shoved in his hands one cold day. There's a coffee table with ringed stains that sits on a ratty rag rug. The living area was open into the kitchen where he had a butcher block island and a couple of mismatched stools.

Down the dark hall was the bathroom and what passed as his bedroom. He had brought fresh linens over from John's, making the bed with the fraying quilt and two lumpy pillows. It had been months since the last time he had stayed here and it was only out of necessity, John and him having drank too much at the pub for the drive back to the farm. They could have called Johnny and Kyle, begged the two younger men to pick them up, but neither man had wanted to ask that favor.

Simon had no expectation that you would end up in that bed with him, especially when his motive for tonight was to get you away from the woods, but maybe staying the night was the best way to keep you safe. No chance of you getting into danger if you were tucked into his bed, held firm in his arms.

"I wasn't sure what you had planned," you say, standing nervously by the island as Simon moves about the kitchen with ease. Cooking has always been one of his escapes, so even though he does most of it at John's now, there was a time where this kitchen was where he spent most of his time when he wasn't at the shop downstairs or in the pub.

You pull a plastic container out of the bag. He can't see what it is, but you push it across the island towards him.

"It's gingerbread biscuits. I don't know if they're any good," you explain.

Simon takes the container and pops off the lid. The smell of ginger and sugar is strong. Even though he didn't have the best Christmases growing up, the smell still evokes a feeling of nostalgia for something he isn't quite sure he ever had.

He pops the whole biscuit in his mouth, trying to ignore the way your eyes widen as you watch him chew. He thinks you're waiting for him to give his appraisal, confirm that they're good, but your eyes trail down, dragging over his neck as he swallows before settling on his lips. There's none of that uncomfortable pity or outright disgust that Simon is used to when someone looks at his scars, just open curiosity and perhaps a hint of heat.

"Well?" you snap, eyes finding his as you wait for the answer.

"Goin' to leave me the leftovers?"

You laugh, smile bright as you snatch one for yourself. "Guess I can always make more. You ever build gingerbread houses before?" He shakes his head in response. "Me neither, want to give it a go but didn't want the gingerbread to taste like shit."

Simon doesn't know anything about gingerbread or gingerbread houses, he had never considered that you might actually want to eat one after construction.

"Let me help you with dinner?"

Simon lets you help. It's not much, nothing fancy. He could have taken you to the pub, or made the drive out to Sully's, the restaurant everyone from the village went to, but this was better. Just two people spending time together. No one to watch him blunder through what was supposed to be a date.

You stand next to him, following his lead as he chops vegetables, herbs and potatoes. He tries not to think about the way your arm grazes his, the soft pressure, the drag of your shirt against his skin. It's too easy to then think of what it would feel like with your skin against his.

"I didn't take you for a vegetarian," you say as the two of you sit at the island, two plates heaped with veggies and potatoes, a bottle of beer for each of you.

Simon stabs a potato with his fork, "not a vegetarian."

You wait for him to expand, to explain, and when he doesn't you simply roll your eyes.

It's rude of him, he knows that. He's the butcher, of course you would assume he eats meat and think it odd when he's not serving up a juicy steak, a roasted chicken or even a cottage pie. He did eat meat, rare, straight from the bone. It was a hunger that he had been unable to satiate, that he didn't fully understand until he started his apprenticeship as a butcher and had open access to untouched carcasses, long before he met John and learned more about what he was, what he could do.

It had never bothered Johnny or Kyle, the palate of wolves was far from refined. It wasn't uncommon to find them stealing meat raw from the fridge in the days before and after a full moon.

"I was trying to figure out how you look like that without a steady diet of protein."

"Like wot?"

"All broad and muscly," you say simply, waving your hand over his body.

"Been lookin', have ya?"

"Hard not to. It wasn't your glowin' personality that had me saying yes to this date," you joke.

Simon swallows hard. He's thankful the island is firmly between the two of you because he isn't sure if he could stop himself if it wasn't. You're here, you're pretty and you're eager for him if the heat behind your gaze is anything to go by.

"I look like the type t'put out on the first date?"

By the time dinner is finished, the dishes washed, and fresh beers open the sun has long set, the moon making its way across the nights sky. Simon can see it from where he sits on the sofa, ghostly and ethereal where it peaks between the trees out the window. You catch him staring before he can look away.

"Oh wow, look at that."

You stand, walking across the room until you stand in the window as if in a trance as you peer out at the moon.

"It never looked like this in the city," you whisper the words to yourself.

Simon knows the feeling. The night sky in Manchester had never wrapped Simon in its embrace, had never stretched out endlessly over him, dotted with stars and galaxies. He had never felt the touch of the moon's grace before John brought him here.

You could have felt it more had you been outside, free of barriers, the glow of the moon on your skin, your hair, your eyes. But Simon wouldn't risk it. Just like he wouldn't risk fucking you on a first date. He would keep you here for as long as possible, let you drink his beers, share the biscuits you brought and when the desire to fuck you is almost too much to ignore he will bundle you back up, walk you to the car and drive you home.

He might not be a gentleman, but he could sure as fuck try to act like one. And if he managed to get a second date with you he would be brave enough to ask if a gentleman was what you wanted.

"A handful. Although, John has been here for years."

"Oh? Hasn't gone native though, has he?"

"Ha, he's a Brit through and through. But god, I think he's been here almost twenty years now."

You look up, curious. Soap seems to have picked up on it now, sitting close to your seat, close enough that he can rest his head in your lap.

“Not really my story, but he’s been a godsend. Offered me a place to stay when I was going through a tough patch. I live on the farm.”

“Oh, what’s that like? Does he have a lot of animals?”

“Sure does, they’re not really my thing. Grew up in London, was a proper city boy before I came out here.”

“Sure, sure, but what animals does he have? Do you get to see them?”

Kyle couldn’t avoid the animals even if he tried, much to his chagrin, but if tales of the animals were enough to cast away the melancholy then Kyle was happy to regale you with tales from the farm.

Your smile returns as he talks about one particularly pushy goat that John named Diablo. The beastie would try to fight anyone who stood still long enough, including Simon who had on more than one occasion threatened to butcher him. At the end of the day though, Diablo was protective of the other animals. John respects that.

Kyle doesn’t miss the way your fingers card through Soap’s fur as he talks. He doesn't miss the ease you have with the wolf. He knows John wouldn’t have left Soap here when he first came if John thought either of you were in any immediate danger, but Soap was still dangerous. Kyle couldn’t be sure how he had gotten the injury on his leg, but Kyle has been there before, lost to instincts while his other half, the other part of himself tries to heal, to mend flesh and bone that would have taken weeks or months for a human to heal.

A curse and a blessing.

Kyle does worry that Soap hasn’t seemed to shift back yet, but its hard to say if that because he’s stuck, still at the whims of instinct or if he’s content with the lapdog life he has found for himself. Kyle gets it, there was a time when he first came out here when he considered the merits of just letting go, letting nature take over. But Kyle had never been a quitter.

“Do you think — I mean, obviously I know he’s someone else’s — do you think you’ll take Soap with you?”

“Take Soap?” he asks.

“I know you said he’s not yours but he does belong somewhere doesn’t he?”

Ah, so this was why you were upset. He couldn’t say for sure how long Soap had been here, but Kyle knew from experience how alluring his attention was, how good the affection from that blue eyed wolf could feel.

“I suppose I could take him, but he would probably end up back here. He’s got a mind of his own. Not really your average wolf.”

Kyle wonders if you are anything like you aunt, on a very surface level you are. The kindness you have shown Soap was enough of a sign. A normal person would have run for the hills if they had stumbled upon a wolf. Your willful ignorance was as charming as it was concerning. What other kinds of danger would you run head first towards with no one around to help you, to guide you.

To protect you.

“So he likes being here?” you ask, smiling down at the wolf.

“I mean, if your baking is anything to go by this is better than what he was eating elsewhere,” Kyle says, taking a bite of the shortbread he had nicked from the plate you had set on the table. It’s buttery and sweet, and would have made your aunt proud.

“It’s good?” you ask with a smile. “I’ve only had Soap as a judge and he’s not very discerning when it comes to what he will and will not eat. As long as it’s not the kibble,” you finish with a laugh.

Kyle chokes down a laugh, when Soap was back to himself Kyle was not going to let him live it down that you had tried to feed him kibble like a proper dog. Seems even lost to his instincts he still had some taste. Certainly had taste in roommates.

“It’s proper shortbread. I’d come back in a heartbeat if you were offering up tea and shortbread. Actually, if you’re not busy this afternoon, I could show you how to make a fire in the fireplace and we could have a cuppa while we wait to see if everything is all set? Would hate to set it up and then find out in an hour or two that your place is full of smoke.”

“Could that happen?” you ask, eyes wide.

“It shouldn’t but I would hate for this to be the time I missed something.”

“Of course,” you nod along like that makes complete sense. “Oh, and what do I owe you? I tried to look it up online, but it was so hard to get a cost without requesting a quote.”

“Nothing for you, love. A friend of Soap’s is a friend of mine. A cuppa and another piece of this shortbread is payment enough.”

You bluster, mouth opening and closing as you struggle with a comeback, a retort to what is clearly too good of a deal.

“So you never want to leave the fire unattended, but the firescreen will do a lot of the work of making sure the fire stays where it's meant to be.”

You nod along, watching intently as Kyle stacks the kindling first and then the larger pieces. You could easily buy a starter, but Kyle feels better knowing you have a basic understanding of how to do it from scratch.

“You have a fire extinguisher?”

“Uh, let me check.”

You get up. Kyle can hear you rummaging around the space under the sink, a place Kyle knows your aunt used as a catch all.

“Get your hairy arse over here,” he whispers to Soap.

After begging for his own piece of shortbread Soap had curled up on the rug, watching Kyle and you build the fire.

He looks up at Kyle’s voice, lifting his head from the floor and blinking slowly.

“Now!”

Soap drags himself up, padding across the floor as petulantly as a wolf could, plopping down next to where Kyle is sitting.

Kyle wastes no time scruffing the wolf and pulling him in close.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Soap whines, the sound caught low in his throat, blue eyes boring into Kyle as he holds him.

"You left and you didn't come back. I was worried about you, and what? You were here? Playing house?"

Kyle can't keep the hurt from his voice. Now that he knows that Soap hadn't been off on a jaunt, visiting family or causing his normal kind of mischief Kyle felt guilty he hadn't looked for the werewolf more, hadn't pushed the issue, had been the last to learn that his packmate was shacking up with the first friendly face he had found.

It was typical of an injured wolf to go somewhere they felt safe, to instinctively search out comfort and maybe some part of Soap still found the grounds around this place to be a safe place, or maybe it was completely random that he had crossed paths with you.

It hurt to think that Soap hadn't searched him out, that Soap hadn't after all this time found Kyle. But the animal-like way Soap looked back at him, the easy submission to Kyle, it was enough evidence that Soap was still lost in there, not yet fully in control.

It was easy to understand why you would tolerate him. As wolves go, or dogs, he probably seemed like the smartest, bestest boy.

Kyle freed him, his fingers feeling stiff from the hold. It wasn't often that either of them exerted dominance over the other. It was more than just the physical grasp of the fur at the back of Soap's neck, it was something more primal between the two of them. Something that Kyle very rarely exercised, not when he owed so much to Soap.

"So how much of an issue is it if this thing is like ancient, ancient?"

You haven't noticed their new positions, face pinched as you read over the safety warning on what is truly a relic of days gone by.

"I might have one in the truck, I can check when I leave, if not John has some back at the farm."

You look up, clearly about to argue against that, Kyle gets the keen impression being helped in this way makes you uncomfortable, but then you spot Soap at his side, Kyle's fingers scratching at the soft spots behind his ears.

"Oh my god, are you being such a good boy and helping?"

Kyle doesn't miss the way Soap's tail wags harder as you walk closer, his whole body shaking as you drop down to your knees, depositing the fire extinguisher and pulling the wolf in for a hug.

Kyle tries to focus on the task at hand, building the fire, showing you what to do, how to do it on your own. He even tries to focus on the hurt from earlier, but all he can feel is that niggling of jealousy creeping up his spine as you press in close to Soap.

And when you smile over the wolf at him, nodding along at his explanation, completely unaware of the turmoil brewing under the surface? Kyle can't decide who it is he is more jealous of. You and the fact that Soap found safety and care from you. Or Soap, who has been clearly spoiled by your attention.

By the time you are showing Kyle out the sun is already starting its slow descent in the western sky. You're wrapped in a shawl as you stand in the open front door, forcing a plate of shortbread into his hands.

"Please, take this, share it with John. The two of you have been more than helpful."

You don't really give him a choice but to accept the offered plate. He holds it awkwardly in one hand, the bag of tools in the other.

Soap is there as well, sitting by your feet and looking up at him with those blue eyes. Unnaturally blue. The kind of blue that doesn't exist in nature. The kind of eyes that come from being born unnatural.

By the time Kyle is back in his truck, he's given you his number, agreed to a proper meal to pay him next time you need him, and promised to return with a proper fire extinguisher. Based on the weather forecast it won't be long before you need to call him to check the roof, if he remembers correctly that had been on his laundry list of projects for your aunt.

In addition to the childlocks you had ordered a bunch of gardening supplies to hopefully help you get the back yard under control. There wasn't much you could do this year in terms of the plants, fall was fully upon you if the chill in the air was anything to go by. You were a bit worried about the safety of the couple of ancient looking electric heaters you had found around the cottage tucked into corners but had decided that was a problem for another day.

You planned instead to take advantage of the little bit of sun poking out from behind the clouds.

Soap must have had the same idea because the wolf had been gone overnight, returning in the morning to scratch at the back door that you could no longer keep open because of the draft. Other than a few twigs and leaves stuck to his fur he seemed fine. He had followed you out to the little garden after breakfast, lazying about on a sunny patch of grass. Content to just eye you occasionally as if you would disappear.

You busy yourself with clearing out the most egregious of the weeds that have taken over the garden, trying to identify any of the plants that may come back in the spring. It wasn't easy work and before long you were shedding your over shirt, a fine layer of sweat clinging to your skin.

"You wanna help?" you asked Soap, leaning heavily on a rake.

He looked up at you, mouth opening in a wide yawn before he flopped over on his side, rolling until his stomach was on display. You rolled your eyes. That wasn't going to work on you this time. Sure, a big bad wolf rolling over and asking for belly rubs had worked over and over, but you were dirty, sweaty and if you stopped now you knew there was a very high chance you wouldn’t get all the cleaning done.

"Later, Mama's got work to do."

Soap let out an impatient huff, flopping back over and stretching out in the patch of sun. You wondered how often was too often to wash a dog. You knew that when he left he was getting up to shenanigans in the woods, probably hunting, at minimum rolling around interesting scents. But it was easier to ignore that when you weren't seeing him do it. There was no way you wouldn't be thinking about how dirty he is tonight when he climbed into bed.

It was your form of an apology for the incident. You let him sleep with you, no more whinging at your door, sad puppy dog eyes waiting for you in the morning and Soap radiated heat like a furnace, so it was a win even if you question how hygienic it was to sleep with a wild animal.

You didn't even touch on the fact that it was dangerous. John had pretty much alluded to that during his visit. But if you pushed that line of thinking out of your head you were much happier with this new version of your life.

After his initial displeasure, Soap seemed happy enough to laze about while you worked. There was far more to do than you had expected once you started pulling away the weeds, debris and dead things. But you needed an idea of what you were working with, you could spend the cold winter nights planning for the spring.

You weren't sure when you had decided you would be staying, you had already reached out to the estate solicitor to see what your options were. The will from your aunt was not particularly straightforward or conventional, and you had gotten the impression the solicitor wanted to be done with it. The whole thing was very confusing, but why shouldn't you get the cottage if you were willing to live here?

That probably wasn't enough to actually stake your claim on it, but it was worth a try.

You looked over at Soap. What would someone else in the family have done if they had been approached by the wolf? You could not imagine your own father or mother helping him, nor any of your aunts and uncles. Certainly not your cousins, the ones your age who had already started getting married and having a brood of children of their own.

The family get-togethers had become more and more of a reminder in recent years that it didn't matter how much you had accomplished at work or how much of a nest egg you had in savings because you hadn't found a partner, hadn't started a family. You had lived in a city with almost 10 million other people and had never felt more alone.

You didn't feel that way here. It might have been the constant presence of Soap, the wolf becoming a fixture in your day to day. Or it might have been the fresh air, the open skies, the lack of urgency.

It was refreshing.

There were of course people. People like Mal at the pub, the other regulars like John, the butcher, the woman at the grocer. There were families, and friends, and people who gave you warm smiles when they saw you now even if many of them didn't approach.

Other than John, no one had come to visit you, the only other people who ever visited the cottage were delivery people, like the one you were currently waiting for.

And when you finally heard the sound of a car driving down the gravel road towards the cottage you were more than ready for a break.

From his spot on the ground Soap's head popped up, ears raised, twitching as he listened.

You didn't have a reason to worry about his reaction, you had received other deliveries before, John had come into the cottage, but you saw the shift in Soap's demeanor as he climbed to his feet. His snout was scrunched up, tail stiff, his hackles raised. None of that puppy-like energy that you had gotten used to.

"Hey buddy, you good?"

His ear twitched when you spoke but he didn't turn towards you, head locked on the side of the cottage, the overgrown walkway would take him directly to the front drive where the unsuspecting delivery person would be.

"Don't-" you started, the words dying in your throat when Soap took off at a pace you had not seen from him. "Oh fuck!"

You take off after him, feet skidding over the debris on the side of the cottage, branches grabbing at your skin and pulling on your clothes. The run isn't long enough for you to consider what might meet you at the other end of the cottage. Your one consuming thought, is that there will be a bloodbath, that Soap had finally snapped and the delivery person was going to be his first victim.

"Soap!" his name was on your tongue before you could think. A man in a neon vest was staring wide eyed at the wolf, his body pressed up on the hood of his delivery truck.

You don't know what to do. Soap is still creeping forward, each step closer to the scared delivery man. You've gotten other deliveries and he had never reacted like this, the last one had come to the front door and Soap had barely lifted his head from the spot where he was snoozing on the ground.

You had to distract Soap, had do something, if he attacks this man it will be your fault.

"Soap!" you try again to no avail.

Desperate to stop his progression you dart forward, grabbing at the thick scruff of fur on the back of his neck, your fingers not nearly strong enough to properly scruff him, but its enough to distract him.

The man scrambles as soon as the wolf's gaze is off of him, the box he was delivering discarded on the side of the gravel drive as he clambers into the driver’s side door.

Soap turns towards you, face still twisted into a snarl, hackles raised. He's close enough that it wouldn't take much for him to lash out, for those dripping canines to crunch down on skin and bone like you were nothing.

"D'ye want me tae call someone!" the man yells from the truck, window rolled down just enough for his voice to reach you.

You stare down at Soap, not daring to break eye contact, almost mesmerized by the uncanny shade of blue.

"No, go! Just go!" you cry out to him, voice hoarse, heart thundering in your chest.

When the truck engine starts up Soap turns away but doesn't make another move towards the truck.

You take a few steps back, the space doing nothing for your nerves or the tears that sting in the corners of your eyes.

For a moment, time stands still. Soap looks up at you, all of that raw power and potential for violence on full display. Then he blinks. And blinks again. And like the sun peaking through the clouds on a gray day the snarl melts away, his muscles loosen and the hair along his back lays flat and his tail gives a half-hearted wag.

"Soap?" you repeat his name again because you aren't sure what to say. Sometimes its like he understands you perfectly, his reactions not even just that of a domesticated animal, but so so human.

He blinks up at you, tongue lolling out of his mouth the way he does, tail full on wagging now. It's like nothing had ever happened. He trots over and smells the box, circling it a few times before disappearing into the treeline.

You're shaken. You fingers can barely get a hold on the box as you drag it to the back yard, not bothering to unpack it. You simply sit down in the dirt, back against the outside of the cottage and watch the clouds pass overhead.

It feels like it takes hours before your heart rate returns to normal. By then you are curled up in bed, tucked away under dusty wool blankets you had found packed away in a closet. Its colder now, far colder than it had been while you were working in the garden earlier.

When you hear the sound of Soap's nails clacking on the floor you don't move. You left the door cracked, too afraid to risk his ire, too afraid to have to face him again when he came calling.

His weight is heavy when he jumps into the bed, nuzzling and rooting around until he's burrowed under the blankets with you. A chill still clings to his fur as he presses his body against yours. He must sense your discomfort, or feel the way your muscles are tense, body held as still as possible because he whines.

It is a pitiful sound, one that rumbled in his chest as he tried to push closer despite there already being no space between the two of you. As the chill left his coat, so too does it leave your body. Your muscles loosen despite yourself, the warmth that poured from Soap's body doing the work of both protecting you from the chill of the night as well as the fear that had lingered all afternoon. Your fingers find their way into his fur, holding him close, unable to understand the dichotomy of Soap from this afternoon with the Soap that has cuddled up next to you.

For the moment you focus on the rise and fall of his chest, the soft chuffs as he settled down, the warmth. Maybe Soap was too much for you to handle, maybe you should reach out to John again for help. He worked on a farm, he seemed knowledgeable enough, perhaps he had an answer to your problem. You just weren't sure what the problem was because as you laid in bed you couldn't imagine giving this up.

It was stupid.

And dangerous.

And it was a problem for tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. You would enjoy this first, the warmth and the comfort, and then you would deal with the danger.

Simon knew something, mentioned you after you came into the shop. But the man was a steel trap when it came to gossip and he had given nothing away.

You were pretty enough, if pencil pushers visiting from the city was your thing. John liked his women with meat on their bones, and dirt beneath their fingers. The kind of women who weren’t afraid to get dirty and could keep up with the lads. He had yet to see the quality of your hands.

You were nervous as you approached, fingers twisting around the tie from the hood of your jacket, some old thing that was well loved and borrowed.

You stopped just next to his spot at the bar, your intentions to talk clear, but the courage to say something seemed to escape you.

“John?”

He nodded.

“Hiya, Mal said I could talk to you about a dog?”

“A dog? Do I look like a vet?”

“N-no,” you stumble over your words, “I just, sorry, I wouldn’t have even bothered but Mal said,” you stop, looking over your shoulder at the old man behind the bar who is giving you a thumbs up.

John rolls his eyes, meddling old man was almost as bad as Mac.

“This was a mistake, I’m sorry, I’ll just-“ you turn to leave, John’s attention falling to the worn jacket, to the patch haphazardly sewn to the sleeve. The patch he recognizes.

“Stop,” he says the word without much thought, not even sure what he’s hoping to accomplish. “Where did you get the jacket?”

You looked down, fingers twisted around the frayed tied.

“Oh, um, I found it. It was my aunt’s.”

Aunt’s?

“I’m staying at her place, she, uh, passed away a few months ago. Maybe you knew her? It’s the little grey cottage.”

John knew it, had known it, well, years ago. It almost felt like a lifetime ago.

“I’m familiar.”

You stood, anxiety pouring off you, waiting.

Finally you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest and frowning at him.

“So can you help me or not.”

“Didn’t tell me what’s wrong with your dog, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, before launching into a story about your poorly trained dog and something about child locks. It didn’t matter to John, he knew the moment he saw that patch he would help you.

——

The cottage is both how he remembers it and not. John stands outside, frozen on the steps not prepared at all to enter the cottage he had visited in his youth. A time long forgotten, a bright moment in a life of monotony.

John wasn’t a coward, he walked up to the door and knocked, not much different than he had done so many times before, eagerly waiting for his mentor to let him. John had always been welcomed with a broad smile, the Scot pulling him into a bear like hug.

Tonight though, it was you pulling the door open, smiling at him with far more confidence than you had had at the pub.

His name was on your lips before you attention was drawn away, the yipping of whatever unruly beastie you had brought with you when you moved in.

Only, when you flung the door open the rest of the way it was no dog sat next to you, no willful overly zealous breed as he had assumed, the kind that needed a stern owner and a heavy hand.

No, it was no dog.

"You out of your bloody mind? That's no dog."

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. There were far more incriminating thing he could have said about the sneaky bastard who was taking advantage of some city bird who didn’t know what she was getting herself into.

And when that mongrel dragged his gaze away from you, blue eyes going wide when he spots John he scurries to cower behind you like the coward he is.

“This is your dog?” he asks, because why on earth were you trying to pass a wolf, a werewolf for that matter, off as a dog.

“Yeah, this is Soap. He’s maybe not like your average dog, but he hurt his paw and he’s got a gnarly scar on his back leg, and I just, I thought someone else should take a look at him.”

"Scar on his back leg?" John asks, eyeing Soap because of course this mangy mutt figured out a way to get you to say his name without revealing what he really was.

"Yeah, had it when I found him," you reached down behind you, fingers digging into the fur behind his ears.

John frowned. It had been weeks since any of them had heard from Johnny, not an uncommon occurrence, it certainly hadn't been long enough for them to start worrying about him. And had they been worrying it would have been for nothing.

"So, would you like to come in? He's being a bit shy, but he's usually pretty chill."

You looked down, brows furrowed as you studied him. John could only imagine what he had been like since he showed up here.

"Aye, let's see if we can sort this out."

John was settled down on your couch, he supposed it was yours now, but in a past life it had been someone else's and he had sat on it many times before. He tried to keep the memories from creeping in, but it was hard to ignore when you can back to him with a steaming cuppa in a delicate piece of china he had held before.

He accepted it with a forced smile, taking a sip and sighing.

"PG Tips?"

"Yeah, I noticed the shop in town doesn't carry it. I've been saving them for special occasions. I figured a fellow Brit would appreciate it."

John wanted to argue that this was not a special occasion, he was on the verge of lying to you for however long he was here about himself, about the dog sat at your feet, about type of town you had unwittingly found yourself in.

"Were you close with your aunt?"

You bit your lip as you gave it thought, "I wouldn't say that. My dad and her weren't close, I only remember her in snippets, holidays with my family back when the lot of us would get together for Boxing Day, all the cousins piled in to one house, the parents drinking mulled wine late into the night. She was there a few times but then she stopped coming. My dad never really talked about her after that, nothing nice at least."

John had heard versions of this, about the family, about the aunt. The woman that had MacMillan in a tizzy. The woman he dragged out here to the Highlands and then left behind when death came calling.

John didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to relive those memories.

"How did you end up here?"

"So you know she died, yeah?"

"Aye."

"The family didn't know what to do with the place, a bunch of fancy estate stuff blocking them from selling it off, so I offered to come out here. Take care of the place. I had never been to the Highlands, barely ever came up to Scotland, but it felt like the right thing to do."

"And the wolf?"

"Found him when I was trying to do a little memorial picnic not too far from here."

"Didn't anyone tell ye not to wander the woods alone?"

"No, they told me not to stay out after dark. And it was midday when this guy came lumbering out of the woods, bleeding and maybe a bit hungry? Do you think it's possible he's someone's pet? Do people keep wolfdogs up here?"

"Why do you think he's a pet?"

You looked down with misplaced fondness for what you thought was just an animal. Johnny rolled over onto his back, paws flopped forward, stomach on displace. You reached down, fearlessly rubbing your fingers through his thick fur.

"Doesn't really act like a wild animal does he?"

"Why don't you make us another cuppa, not the good stuff, and I'll give him a once over. It's just the front paw and the back leg?"

You nodded, pointing out the spots before giving Johnny another belly rub. Once John was alone with the wolf, Johnny was wiggling back onto his stomach and watching you leave with a clear look of apprehension.

"Come 'ere you numpty."

Johnny turned to John, ears laid flat against his head, reluctantly crossing the living room, clearly favoring one of his front paws, but not enough to worry John. Werewolves had remarkable healing, that shouldn't take that long to heal without intervention. John was more worried about the injury that had gotten the wolf in this mess.

Johnny stopped just out of reach, whining deep in his throat.

"Show me."

John kept his voice low as he directed the wolf, you clearly had your theories about the beast you had let enter your home, but he wasn't going to be the one to add to them.

The wound on Johnny's back leg was deep, healing well, and not something he should have gotten while out for a run of the mill jaunt in his wolf form. John had long ago solved Johnny's full moon issue, but there were still times that the werewolf wasn't in full control on his shifting, times where instincts were stronger than magic. Whatever had happened to him had him hiding out in a form that felt safe, in a place that felt safe.

You were likely in the wrong place at the wrong time and whatever had drawn Johnny to you had kept him here. He would shift back when he was ready. It wasn't the first time John had dealt with a werewolf or a shifter who got stuck after an injury, instincts driving them to protect themselves. It was likely that Johnny was barely aware of what he was even doing when he found you.

However, based on healed the wound was, he should be getting close to full control over himself.

When you returned you had a new steaming cup of tea, the bouquet not as delicate and well crafted as PG Tips, but it was warm against John's fingers.

"Why don't you have the fire going?" he asked once you were settled back down in the oversized armchair.

You looked wistfully at the empty hearth, "I've never lived in a house with a fireplace, I wouldn't know how to do it. Or if its safe? I don't think my aunt was really getting around too much in her final years here."

John fights down the discomfort he feels at knowing that was the case and that she was alone. He let his own hurt keep him away for years. Maybe this was penance, sitting across from a woman who looks nothing like her aunt, but is somehow wandering around the village in the woman's jacket, serving tea in her cups, and has her affinity for attracting trouble.

"You should be more careful bringing stray animals into your home."

You shrug, pulling your sweater in around you tighter, as if that will be enough to keep you warm once the winter has settled in.

"Well he's here now, but I pinky promise not to let any others," you teased, winking at him. "Whats the diagnosis, doc? Is he going to make it?" you asked the question while digging your toes into Johnny's thick fur.

"He's gonna be fine, limp should be gone in no time, the cut is healing up nicely. What have you been feeding him."

"I tried kibble," your exasperation has John laughing, because of course you tried to feed a werewolf dog food. "Stop it, obviously that didn't work, he's more likely to eat biscuits and shortbread but he'll eat steaks, sometimes I'll give him stew. I got a bunch of meat from the butcher. Do you know him?"

"The butcher?"

"Yeah, big guy, silent type? Wouldn't hurt him to smile or something to be a little less morose. But I guess I can't complain, he's been giving me a really good deal on the meat."

"Has he?"

"Yeah, oh and," you sit up a bit, looking at him across the living room as if this is completely normal, "what do I owe you?"

"Owe me?"

"Yeah," you wave a hand down at the wolf, "it means a lot just knowing he's not going to suffer or anything. I was worried I was going to have to figure out taking him to a vet."

"Don't worry about it, just doing the neighborly thing," he says while standing up from the love chair, mug deposited on a lace doily because you haven't made many changes since being here.

"We aren't even neighbors."

You followed him to the door, ignoring the wolf who was whining by your side.

"Got a feeling I'll be seeing more of ye around. Don't let him boss ye around and if he leaves don't take it personal, yeah? He might not act like it but he's a wild animal."

"So you're not going to tell me that I need to kick him out?"

"If I thought you could I would, looks like you're stuck with him for now."

You thanked him again, and waved him off, disappearing back into the cottage, probably to cuddle more with that idiot of a werewolf. John could refer you to someone to help with the chimney, maybe with some of other things around the cottage, but first John needed to see a butcher about a dog.