#jaywolf

The second armchair from the right is his favourite seat in the family room, and it is unfortunately Jason's favourite as well. He would have thought that, with tonight being the full moon and all, a werewolf would want to be somewhere out on the vast, wooded manor grounds eating baby rabbits or chasing his tail or something, but apparently their resident lycanthrope feels like having a night in. And while Jason had to take precious time to rinse off his dirty paws in the mudroom (lest he soil Alfred's floors), Dick had kicked his shoes into the coat closet with perfect aim and snagged The Seat for himself in preparation for a post-backyard-soccer-game movie night.

Dick is trying to enjoy the cute little dragon movie Damian put on, wrapped up in one of the old throws they keep in the hall closet just outside the den, except his stupid brother has planted himself between Dick and the screen, staring him down like if an evil horse were a fucked up dog. Dick doesn't need to speak wolf to understand what Jason wants from him; he just doesn't care.

"I got here first, Jase," Dick scoffs. "Will you move, please?"

The large, brown wolf does not move, in fact. His gaze is focused and heated like he's trying to spontaneously develop laser vision and kill Dick dead. He's slowly leaning into Dick, razor-sharp teeth inching closer, hackles raising, a low growl rumbling from his massive furry throat. Those finger-sized claws can (and have) tear bigger men than Dick clean into two. His eyes glow in the dim light, rage crackling behind the hard glare.

It's too bad Dick isn't scared at all. A regular person might feel a chill as an unnaturally huge wolf starts snarling and spittling into his face, but Dick has seen this moron with those goofy prepubescent puppy feet and pathetic little "awoo" howls. Jason looks scary and grimlike now, but all Dick can see is the big puppy who likes romance novels and belly rubs. Ignoring the growls that get louder as his hand gets closer, Dick flicks Jason's angry, scrunched up snout without fear. The wolf's eyes seem to burn with indignant rage, and he snaps his huge, killer maw at Dick's outstretched hand a few times.

"Jason," Duke snaps with exasperation from beside them on the corner couch seat. "Shut up."

The wolf turns his pointed gaze at the teen and Dick flicks him again. Suddenly, a nearly three hundred pound wolf pounces straight at him. The chair nearly tips over, even with the reinforced base that Bruce installed in most of the furniture when he got a kid who liked to do flips off of them.

The chair is just not big enough for two large men—much less one large man and a large wolf draped across his lap—but Dick remembers a time when he and a juvenile wolf fit pretty comfortably with fondness, so he'll accept the loss of feeling in his legs for now. Whatever shuts Jason up for the rest of the movie.

They know he's back when the property perimeter alarms are triggered and they watch on wildlife cam feed as he limps back to the house (there's a desire path gouged in the ground because he always takes the same path home, for some reason), clothes shredded and hanging off him, minimally injured but somehow drenched in blood. There are leaves and twigs and burrs stuck all over him. Sometimes, he looks ticked off or tired, but other times, he seems to be in a trance. Regardless, he always weaves through the same brush, touches the same tree trunks, and steps on the same paver stones until he makes it to the rear kitchen door, at which point he seems to wake up from his stupor. Sometimes, he has some kind of waterfowl in hand, and as long as Jason hasn't mangled it too badly, Alfred sees no reason to let it go to waste.

When asked about his transformations later, Jason just thinks it's weird that they think it's weird, and says something vague and chilling about just doing what the wolf wants.