#themuseic

- Rick gets a photojournalism assignment at some commune out in the PNW. The leader is young, eco friendly, charitable, blah blah blah. It’s an edgy human interest piece. It’ll be an easy thing: document two weeks of hippie dippie free love and then move on to the next assignment.

- And it is easy. Sure, maybe it’s a little more “cult-y” than he thought it would be, but nothing seems to be wrong, per se.

- He doesn’t get any free love of his own—he’s a professional after all—though he does develop a bit of a crush on one of the commune members (who happens to be the leader’s sister.)

- On his last night, the two of them take a walk around the grounds, and Rick is so close to confessing his feelings when—

- She turns to him, and in a hushed hurried whisper, tells him this place is dangerous. That horrible things happen, that her brother is fucking demented, that she has a son she’s not allowed to see. She’s been in this cult since she was a child, and she doesn’t ever see a way out. So when his assignment is up, he needs to leave—and never look back.

- Rick’s shaken. He leaves as scheduled, but her words haunt his mind. And she haunts his dreams. He always falls hard and fast, but even if she doesn’t feel the same—he can’t just leave her (or her son) there.

- So, he comes up with probably the stupidest plan in all of existence. But he’s got too much faith in photojournalism, and too much dumb hope.

- He joins the fucking cult. He has to prove himself, sure—but he’s a good enough actor and it’s not like he’s lying. He does want to join—one way or another, he’s going to save the day. He’ll document everything, sneak the proof out to the public, find a way to get her and her son out.

Clyde’s voice rings out from the kitchen: a crashing of cutlery as he rearranges plates and stacks up the dishwasher. Sundays are made for cleaning up the trailer: freshening everything up in time for the new working week, and you can’t say you find much fun in it.

Still - you’ll both go for a run later. Stretch your paws out on the forest floor, and that’s your absolute favourite.

You brush off your pants as you walk in from the porch, sweeping brush in hand.

“Did you check the top cupboard? The one next to the sink?”

He huffs, standing from a squat in printed shorts. He’s looking so handsome this time of year - thick muscle and coarse hands as he fumbles for the the cabinet handle.

“M’always puttin’ it back somewhere stupid...”

You move closer to help him, and Clyde’s lip twitches as his face contorts in discomfort.

There’s a moment that suspends, and suddenly - Clyde’s foot stretches up...

...CRASH--!

He yelps as he topples, pulling a plate down with him onto the linoleum floor. You rush to him as fast as you can, and Clyde’s face is blanched as he groans, scratching his neck with his prosthetic and cursing under his breath.

“What the Hell happened?!”

You cup under his neck and try to help him up - putting your weight into your feet as he staggers up, brushing off shards of china plate.

And his face is beet fucking red.

“Uhhhh...”

You pause.

“Wait...did you...”

“...shut up.”

You cup your hand to your mouth...

...And burst out laughing.

Clyde’s pout is fierce as he avoids your gaze; suddenly conscious of the ridiculousness of the situation.

It’s easy to forget, sometimes. Easy to spend so long in one form that shifting to another makes your brain all twisted up. Clyde’s awful prone to it, having spent a good few months as a wolf.

Scratching with your back paw’s all you’ve got, in those times.

“Oh sweet wolf,” you chuckle, pressing a kiss to his warm cheek. “You silly goofball.”