fossilised | werewolves

werewolves

Pumpkin Spice.

It hits the shelves the moment the temperature dips below eighty, before the summer officially ends and the leaves give hint at changing color. It's become an American way of life. Lattes might claim it to be proof of their success and staying power but it's expanded into hand soap and e-cigarettes now. You can't find anything, really, that hasn't been pumpkin spiced these days. Pumpkin pie is too humble to try and reclaim it anyway, and has quietly retreated to Thanksgiving where it waits to mark the end of the most beloved season in New York among straight white girls.

Steve Rogers, while neither straight nor a girl, has whole heartedly embraced the trend and the moment Starbucks announced that it had come back out for a Limited Time Only, Steve had rummaged in his sock drawer for a gift card he was sure had money left on it and stood in line with the masses to claim his holy grail.

It's a comfort. It's a promise that there's going to be something else to look forward to in the coming months when holidays rear their ugly and beautiful heads to remind you that your family is dead and most of the kids you lived with in foster care and group homes have disappeared out of your life. It makes Steve's day and he's already day dreaming about boots and puffy vests the moment he takes his first, iced sip. Steve isn't really a day dreamer, but his head can get stuck in the clouds on the best days and distraction comes easily in a city where you're never and always alone at the same time.

There's charcoal under his nails and a moment of joy in his heart from the iced latte he grasps so fiercely the day he sees Bucky across the street. He'd know him anywhere, even with that long fringe of hair he hasn't seen since before he went off to basic training. The light to cross the street between them is red but Steve ignores the risks. There are two lanes each direction, and all four are packed with yellow cabs and black Uber cars. No one can go fast enough to do him any damage.

The latte gets dropped along the way and Steve doesn't care. It's been over a year and a half since he's seen Bucky. It's been six months since he last heard anything from him actually. He hadn't even gotten a birthday card this year.

"Buck!" Steve is just a skinny guy, five foot four, maybe 100 pounds if he's got art supplies and an easel on him. He has fallen arches and a heart arrhythmia, but they aren't keeping him from shimmying between cars and nearly getting run over. He's out of breath when he makes it across the street and though he's lost his drink, he needs to bend over and cup his hands on his knees to steady himself anyway so it all works out. "Hey." It's smooth and followed by a smile. Something bright and cheery and all too Steve Rogers hopped up on artificial sugar and flavorings.

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Fenris has been confused ever since he accidentally fell to Midgard, a painful and degrading stripping of his powers that left him only a fraction of what he used to be. Still larger than any mortal wolf, still with the ability to make others somewhat like him if he bit them and his power subsumed their petty mortal blood, but without the power to then enthral them to his will like he should be able to do.

He just wants a way home.

But he has been here for weeks, trapped and ever more hungry, ever more desperate. There are more mortals than he ever thought possible, and their world is covered in metal and concrete, lacking the magic that would take him back over the branches of Yggdrasil and to where he should be.

And now he's being cornered by some scrawny little thing, treating him as though he were a genuine stray. He is Fenris! Son of Loki! Demi-god! He howls in fury, and then bites without thinking, a furious snarling attack that leaves him with the taste of hot blood in his mouth.

...well... that may have been a mistake.

One should expect to get bitten when cornering a large animal and so Steve isn’t angry at the wolf-dog for doing exactly what it was supposed to do. He does, however, raise an arm to defend himself, pushing at the large, surprisingly soft shoulder of the creature that would dwarf him on hind legs. Steve falls back, half in shock, not quite feeling the pain of sharp teeth around his forearm, but the jaws do not continue to latch on and the dog bounds over him. It’s nails scrape the sidewalk.

Steve cranes his neck, mostly to make sure it doesn’t dart into the street where it can be hit by a car, and then rolls over. The pain finally hits him, and hits him hard. He presses his hand against the wound and groans, feeling warm wetness spread across his palm. Not good.

He doesn’t have time to call anyone. Lately, he’s used to not having anyone to rely on other then himself.

Steve Rogers stumbles into the Emergency Room of the hospital he’s spent every near death moment of his life in and let’s a big nurse shove him into a wheel chair and sprint him through double doors. After that, he blacks out.

It’s morning when he comes to, pale and with dark purple circles around his eye. The light hurts and he lays an arm across his eyes before he realizes that he’s stood Bucky’s sister up and that she must be worried sick. His phone is next to him and he reaches out blindly for it to text her.

Sorry. Went hunting alone. Stay away from it. Getting a series of rabies shots. Will be fine. Call you later.

Steve has a knack for neat texts. He just wishes he had Bucky’s number. Or that Bucky would have had a phone. He’s feeling like a pumpkin spice latte. Iced. His body feels like it’s on fire and he wonders if that’s because he hadn’t actually been lying about having to get rabies shots. He’s not pleased.

He is, however, confused when a nurse comes by half an hour later with his release papers. Becca hasn’t texted back, likely because she’s in class, so Steve only has to focus on the bearded man in the scrubs. He feels like shit. He also thinks this guy’s cologne is way too strong.

“Uh... don’t you guys have to stitch my arm back on?” Good thing Bucky isn’t here.

The nurse shakes his head. “The bits was shallow. We ran tests and your bloodwork looks good. You have a few stitches, and they’ll dissolve on their own. Do you have anyone you want us to call to get you?”

Steve frowns and then shake his head. “I’m good... thanks.”

It’s going to be slow going getting home. He still feels too warm and the smell in the subway today is overpowering. He almost throws up twice before he finds himself standing in front of Bucky’s building. It’s much closer than his own and his legs feel so heavy. Hopefully Bucky won’t mind if he crashes here.

Fenris retreats back to a dank hole and tries not to think about the awakening that he can feel on the edges of his consciousness. He hadn't been sure it would take, sometimes the effect of his blood can kill a mortal if their body isn't strong enough to withstand it and that human hadn't looked particularly hale. But apparently his spirit is more than strong enough, because Fenris can feel the changes beginning, feel the rise of a kindred spirit.

Poor human, he has no idea what the next few weeks have in store for him.

Bucky is still up when Steve makes it to his door in the early hours of the morning. He doesn't sleep much, and a nightmare that woke him a couple of hours before had put paid to the idea of any more sleep tonight. It was a blessing to have a distraction, it saved him from running yet another pointless sweep of his perimeter, though confusion turned immediately to concern when he opened the door and saw who it was.

"Steve? What the hell are you doing here? Jesus, you look like-- is that blood on your clothes?"

This is bad. Really bad.

"Who have you been fighting this time?"

Steve gets exactly no where for answering because Penny’s growl hitches up to a rumble behind Bucky. Steve doesn’t step back, he doesn’t give up his space, but he does look just a little sad. “I thought I was a dog person, but I guess not,” he complains, crossing one arm in front of his chest, cupping his elbow with the other hand. “Your sister is going to kick my ass. But I’m fine. It looks like a lot of blood, but I didn’t even need stitches. Just some rabies shots.”

He rolls up his sleeve to prove that there are just scratches there now, angry scratches, but ones that didn’t look like they had bled at all. It doesn’t make sense, considering the amount of blood on him.

Or that he distinctly remembers watching his blood gush out of his arm.

Penny growls again, just on the verge of barking, and this time Steve does step back, looking a little confused.

Bucky's confused fear turns to slightly chargrined understanding. Of course Steve managed to tangle with the big dog that Becca had been talking about on the phone, and of course he'd managed to get himself bitten. Still, if he's talking about rabies shots and he's not an inpatient, then it must not have been too bad.

"Hey-- Penny, quit it. Sorry, Steve, she can probably just smell the other dog on you, and it sounds like it was pretty feral."

He hauls Penny out of the room by her collar and shuts her in the bedroom with an apologetic pat on the head before going back out to Steve.

"You feeling okay? Did they say there might be any side effects from the shot?"

They’d said a lot of things. He’d been given instructions, discharge papers, the usual print outs that hospitals do as they’re trying to keep you for only as long as needed. Steve just can’t remember what was said. At least he did stuff the print outs into his pocket, folded just about a hundred times. He goes fishing for it on the way to the couch, handing the wad of white and pink paper over to Bucky before he collapses into it.

All Steve wants to do is curl up and sleep. His head feels heavy and full of cotton. Even with Penny still whining and growling from behind the door, Steve finds himself drifting off.

There’s a comfort here, dog aside, a safety. Steve knows he can relax here, which is probably saying more to exhaustion than to anything else. “Just gimme an hour and I’ll get out of your hair.”

Steve must have lost more blood than he thought, or else he had been in shock and now that the adrenaline was wearing off it had left him exhausted. Or even maybe some of the stuff they had given Steve at the hospital was a soporific, but it was obvious that he wasn't in any state to be going anywhere.

"Shut up, idiot, just go to sleep."

Bucky can handle one night of having someone else in his place, he wants to prove to himself that he'll be able to have Steve as a roommate. He wouldn't wake him in an hour, he'd just get a blanket and cover him over, and leave him until he woke up naturally.

Steve does as he’s told. He sleeps through the entire day. School goes unattended and work goes missed, both his first and his second jobs. They’re used to this, though. Steve isn’t the healthiest of students or employees and so he misses from time to time. There are a few texts on the phone he’s left on the table but none inquire where he is, just that they hope he feels better.

Sixteen hours pass and it’s dark again when his eyes open. Steve stretches, forehead a little wet from sweat, but he feels pretty damned good. He flexes all of his muscles, toes to fingertips, and adjusts the waistband of his jeans. He feels uncomfortable, like what he’s wearing is just a little too small.

Likely, it’s because he slept in them and he pays it no attention.

“Buck!” It’s probably not normal for most people to lay on a friend’s couch and demand them to be present, but that’s what Steve does, eyes closing as he rolls onto his back. “What are you cooking? It smells amazing!”

Bucky hadn’t slept at all that night. He alternated between prowling the apartment with a restless energy that couldn’t be quelled, in his room attempting to comfort Penny who really did seem like she thought Steve was a threat now, and watching over Steve to make sure that he was okay. Only the fact that there didn’t seem to be any evidence of fever, and that Steve’s breathing was as unobstructed and steady as it ever got, made him not panic when his friend showed no sign of waking.

He had decided that if Steve hadn’t woken up by nightfall that evening then he’d take him into the emergency room and take the consequence of Steve being irritated at him for being overly cautious. Thankfully that didn’t end up happening and he was at Steve’s side the second he heard his name.

“...Jesus, Steve, you scared the hell out of me and that’s all you can say?”

“Sorry...?” Steve pulls his knees up as he sits, bracing himself on one elbow. Bucky doesn’t look good. He looks stressed and exhausted. He smells a little like sweat, like worry. It bothers Steve, it makes him feel like his gut is turning. The last thing that Bucky needs is to worry about him. “I’m fine, look!”

And he really is fine. He feels a little achy, maybe a little feverish, but he also feels good, like he’s been breathing all wrong for years and is now just noticing how much better it can be if he does it properly.

“I’ve been— Shit, it’s dark?! Did I sleep all day?! Oh my God, I missed work...” It’s just too late to call now. Everywhere is closed. That doesn’t stop him from sending furious texts.

"Yeah, you slept nearly 24 hours, if it went on any more then I was gonna take you to the hospital. You didn't wake up no matter what I did, Steve."

Bucky's eyes were ringed in dark smudges showing how concerned he had been, and a whining from the bedroom said that poor Penny was still shut up in there. He had taken her out twice in the middle of the day as far as the sidewalk so she could relieve herself, otherwise she'd been denied her duty as Bucky sat beside Steve.

"You sure you're feeling okay? Think I've got a thermometer around here somewhere, we should take your temperature."

Because sleeping for that long isn't normal. Ever. Especially not for Steve, unless he's really sick.

The idea of some random, forgotten thermometer being shoved into his mouth is not one that Steve Rogers honestly wants to contemplate right now. He gives Bucky the side eye, though a particularly poignant whine from behind the bedroom door does draw his attention. He feels badly and vindicated at the same time. He’s always been like that, though, guilty as it makes him feel, whenever Bucky’d choose him over a girlfriend. Being Bucky’s number one is a matter of pride, and also part of the reason Steve’s never minded being a loner. How can you be a loner when the coolest guy you know likes you better than everyone else?

“Forget the thermometer. I want to know what you were doing to me to wake me up,” he teases, a brighter, bluer shine to his eyes than there ought to normally be. “And I want to know if there’s photographic evidence that you’re going to upload to Twitter so that I can prepare myself for the onslaught of social media trolls.”

He also wants to mention, again, that he’s hungry. That he could probably eat Penny up right now. And that it’s perfectly reasonable for him to do so. He just props his elbow on the back of the couch and drops his temple to it, smirking.

Bucky had never understood why people thought of him as the cooler one, when it should have been evident to pretty much everybody that Steve was the coolest guy on the planet. Not that everyone else's ignorance bothered him that much, because it meant that he had never needed to fight for Steve's attention growing up. Though he had been in more than one fist fight with some jerk who had genuinely wanted to know why Bucky was "wasting his time with a loser like Rogers".

"It ain't funny, Steve," Bucky frowned at him, though his concern was thawing now that it was obvious that Steve really was okay. "You took another year off my life, you're gonna be the reason I'm grey by the time I'm thirty."

A spitting from the stove tells him that the bacon is done, bacon he had forgotten that he was even cooking when Steve woke up.

"Aww crap. Well-- Penny won't mind it burned."

“Hey! First dibs!” Steve’s body hurts but that doesn’t stop him from scrambling up to his feet and half climbing over Bucky’s lap to sprint into the kitchen. It’s not that big of an apartment, so there’s no time for Bucky’s longer legs to catch up with him.

As if the whole burning fat thing isn’t a problem, Steve fishes out one of the strips of bacon from the pan, blows on it twice, and eats it like his stomach is made of cast iron. He makes a sort of intense, pleasures sound and then glances over his shoulder as Bucky follows him.

There’s grease on his lips still as he smiles somewhat guiltily. “I like bacon. Don’t waste food.”

Because obviously bacon is the whole point of their conversation now, Steve is going to ignore whatever Bucky is trying to make him feel equally guilty for. Even if he thinks he’d look just as gorgeous with silver in his dark hair.

Even if he's used to Steve brushing off concerns about his health, this level of nonchalance is a new one even for him. It's annoying. Bucky has been stressed out of his mind for the last day, he hasn't slept at all, and he's missed all of his appointments today; the least Steve could do is take that seriously.

"Steve! Jesus, you're gonna burn yourself."

He brushed into the bare kitchen and opened a cupboard to show one plate and one bowl, he didn't have a whole lot of possessions these days, and got the plate down to put next to the pan.

"Are you sure you're okay? You're acting kind of weird."

“Me?” It’s normal for Steve to brush anything off that concerns him. He doesn’t want people to notice him, to see the twist of his spine, how his chest looks caved in, or the scars on his body from many, many surgeries. He doesn’t like it when people see his illness either. Not even Bucky. That said, he’s never outright ignored Bucky so much either.

Bacon on the brain, he picks at another piece, eyes turned towards the plate.

“I’m not acting like anything. I’m just hungry. If I slept for a whole day, can you blame me?”

He’s still wearing a ripped shirt covered in his blood. Penny is starting to scratch at the door, huffing under the gap. This whole situation is weirder than usual.

Steve’s more or less completely finished the entire plate before he takes a step back in socked feet to open up the fridge. It had never been unusual for Steve to raid the Barnes’ refrigerator before, so while the act itself is normal, up until a few minutes ago, Steve has been very conscious of Bucky’s space and trying not to overstep. “Any more?”

Bucky hasn't quite figured out what's setting his teeth on edge about this yet, because he's still so unused to his own boundaries and issues that it hasn't occurred to him that Steve has been super careful about not overstepping any of them. He just knows that something itches in the back of his head as wrong when Steve just goes over to his fridge and starts digging around inside.

It registers as wrong enough that he lets Penny out, needing her support. She doesn't go for Steve like last night, but she's obviously wary of him with the way her ears are back and her tail is down, and the way she puts herself between him and Bucky like a mother protecting her cubs from a predator that's wandered in.

There's another two packs of bacon in the fridge, along with orange juice and eggs.

"I guess it makes sense you'd be hungry, we could call in for food if you want? If you're not heading into work tonight?"

Penny doesn’t smell right. Steve isn’t sure why, he doesn’t know that she’s giving off worry and fear in her very scent but he does know that he doesn’t like it. It makes him feel nervous, like he’s doing something wrong. It makes him want to go.

Thankfully, the moment Bucky reminds him that he has a job and roommates and class the next day, he’s shoving the bacon back into the fridge. “Ah crap. Crap, I don’t— I’m real sorry, pal, I just gotta run.” He skirts Penny quickly. He wants to give Bucky a hug, but he can’t. Not wanting to cross the dog, not wanting to make the situation worse, he takes himself and his hunger and his strangeness out of the apartment.

“Ill come check on you tomorrow,” he calls, as if Bucky was attacked, and shoots off various texts as he half jogs home. That he’s not out of breath by the time he gets there says a lot, but he’s too distracted to notice.

None of his clothes fit him. His shoes are too tight. He itches and he burns as he tries to be helpful to people at the art store who are buying supplies he knows they’ll never use and will go to waste. He barely swallows down his anger.

Leaving work means passing Bucky’s apartment. He finds himself climbing the stairs with feet that ache. The buttons on his shirt over his chest are almost bulging, threatening to burst. The itching hasn’t stopped. Going home makes the most sense, but he can’t not see Bucky.

Bucky has had another really bad day. He should have slept after not managing it at all the night before, but the exchange with Steve that evening had left him antsy and unable to settle. Something had been off, and he couldn't quite put his finger on what, just that Steve seemed less... him than usual.

He spends his time with Penny instead, soothing her and walking her. She seems oddly clingy, even for a dog that's trained to stick by him, like she senses a threat and is determined to protect him no matter what. And that, in turn, ramps up his situational paranoia by a significant degree as well.

By the time Steve makes it to Bucky's apartment again that night, he's moved all his furniture back against the walls because it gives him a better line of sight on everything and is sat wedged into one corner with his eyes unblinking on the doors. He knows someone is coming even before Steve knocks, because Penny starts a low and insistent growling, her hackles well up.

“Buuuuuuck.” Steve’s voice is a whine, and he knocks on the door again before he tries the bell. There’s no hesitation about knowing Bucky is there there. He can hear Penny, sure, but more than that, he can smell Bucky, his anxiety is already ticking up against the back of his neck. It’s uncomfortable and it makes him feel almost more desperate to get inside. “Bucky, please. I don’t know what I did, but I’m real sorry. I’m a whole lot better now, you know? I’m sorry I worried you!”

He’ll throw out whatever he can at this point because going home just seems so impossible. How can he go home when Bucky is in there?

He presses his forehead to the door and grumbles something nonsensical, about willing to wait if he has to. The floor is cold, concrete has always been his enemy in the fall and winter, but it feels pretty good for once, counteracting the burn in his skin and his now much too small clothes, pulling against sensitive flesh. He stretches out his legs and lets his head hit the back of the door.

He’ll be there all night if he has to. He’s already decided it.

He doesn't need to be there all night.

It's only a few minutes later when the door opens to reveal a Bucky who looks distinctly worse for wear with dark smudges under his eyes and a laser focus to his darting gaze that suggests he's taking in every minute detail of his surroundings obsessively.

"Steve, what the hell are you shouting about?"

Penny snaps her teeth behind Bucky, before hunkering down to her belly as if before an alpha dog. She doesn't like this at all, she can smell the danger in the air.

"Why aren't you back in your crummy apartment getting some sleep?"

“You’re here,” Steve immediately complains, still leaning against the door as he looks up over the top of his head at the man glaring down at him. “You shouldn’t be alone. It’s not safe. I told you I was attacked, like four stops over on the subway.”

What Steve can do to protect Bucky, sitting outside, unarmed, and as scrawny as he is, is probably not something he’s really listed out. It’s not important.

Wanting to get out his clothes, however, is.

“Can I borrow a shirt? Mine is being weird,” he complains, as if this is a normal thing. He can smell something on Bucky that is starting to really agitate him, too. It makes him scratch at his chest, causing a button to finally give up the good fight and burst. The bit of plastic skitters to the ground and rolls down the stairs.

Bucky knows Steve Rogers better than he knows himself, and he can see a difference. Steve is taller, broader, but only by tiny amounts that have Bucky doubting whether what he's seeing is real, or whether his screwed up perception of reality is now altering even what his best friend looks like.

But then that button pops off.

"Did you eat peanuts again?" It's the first thing he can think of, the last time that Steve ate something he was allergic to he had swollen up to almost twice his size and ended up being able to fit into nothing of his own clothing for three days until the steroid shots properly kicked in. "...come on, come in, I'll grab you something."

Peanuts. Of course! “I don’t know. Probably. No one knows how to clean up their kitchens anymore.” The easy way that Bucky diagnoses him doesn’t even surprise him anymore. No one knows him better than Bucky does, though no one has ever taken the time to either. He feels better, having a reason for his symptoms. He’s not extra puffy in his face and hands, but he does feel like his skin is burning and he’s a little off of his usual game. He’s never had an allergic reaction that’s made him more capable of smelling things, but perhaps he actually isn’t, and his nose is just more sensitive. “I don’t want to go back to the hospital.”

Luckily, he tends to keep unused medication laying around. Sometimes Clint breaks into his stash for painkillers, but the guy pulls himself home looking about as bad Steve had the night before after the dog attack.

He kicks his shoes off at the door, his feet feeling much better, and undoes his fly too so that he can breathe again. “Do you have any Benadryl around? That should help.”

Steve tries to be careful with his buttons but two more are lost before he can get his shirt off. He curses under his breath, but lets it go.

"No, I don't."

Bucky wrestles with himself a moment, though there's no outward indication of this. Different to the man he used to be, who wore his heart on his sleeve at all times, now he tends to keep his emotions very tightly under check. It's a lesson learned from being tortured, never let them see you in pain or afraid. So even though he doesn't want to go out, and the idea of leaving someone - even Steve - in his home without supervision itches at the back of his brain, it doesn't show much when he adds his next offer.

"But I'll run out and get some. You can't have eaten much, or you'd have a rash too, but you should still take something. The closet in the bedroom has some sweats and shirts you can wear."

That's about all it has. His closet is a depressingly empty affair now, two pairs of pants, three pairs of sweats, and about six assorted shirts or hoodies. There's also a handgun and a rifle hidden in the upper compartment, ones he probably shouldn't have now that he's been discharged.

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You were missed!

<3

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