Work Text:
The Coupris J-40 was promised to be a vast improvement on the prior model, in every way. Improved suspension. Swifter acceleration time. New pump system which promised smooth braking, even with the levers in the hands of the most incompetent drivers.
It stutters to a halt, brake pads creaking ominously, the right side of the car at an incline. You snort, but keep your comments to yourself.
The left-hand door bangs open, and you lean forward, hand on the back of the driver's seat.
"I don't like this."
The words come out in a mutter, sounding as if he's gritting his teeth against them. An impulse, or a compulsion, despite all better logic—as if he can't help saying them, even to you.
You sigh, loudly.
At your age, why bother hiding it? The night air drifts into the carriage, cool on your face.
You don't like this either. But the tram won't run into the forest. Jean may not know how to treat a car, but of your limited options—unfortunately, at a time like this, he'll have to make do.
Lowering your cane, you make a sweep of the ground below the door. There's the incline, of course. But no potholes. No boulders. You lean the cane against the side of the Coupris, and lower yourself, boots crunching in the rocky soil. You take up your cane again, let it rest on against shoulder as you straighten your gloves. Now you'll just have to hope the trail hasn't grown over.
"You don't need to like it," you tell him. After all, he can't stay.
But you don't need to say that part. Every handler knows it—on the full moon, it's dangerous to be around other wolves. "Stranger wolves," they're called in the RCM manuals, but the term isn't entirely accurate to the situation you've found yourself in. It's his old partner you're chasing after tonight. In some ways—perhaps that's worse. Best not to take chances.
"Yeah, well." He clears his throat, drumming on the left steering lever. "Why'd he run off this time, anyway?"
The instinct to needle him is overwhelming. It'd get him off your back, certainly:don't you have a partner to deal with?
A cruel remark, in his case. Handlers and wolves—it's an intimate partnership. Too intimate, maybe. No, definitely. Everyone knows it. Every pairing in the department has at least shared a handjob. But the full moon—most of the wolves run in packs. It's different than the conscious turning, the turns they do for work or pleasure, turns where the wolf remains very much human. Many of the wolves in those wild states have mates.
Many have families.
Keeping these thoughts to yourself, you focus on dusting the front of your jacket.
"That's what I came to find out," you say, eventually.
It's been a long time since this has happened. Twice in the time you've been partnered with him. Once because he had been drinking, and thought he'd have time enough to sleep it off before returning home. The second—
Drool dripping on to your back. The ragged huff of your breath. Crying out—
You find yourself reaching unconsciously down to your left thigh, going to scratch the phantom itch. Hurriedly, you mask the action, shoving the hand into your jacket pocket.
It was the full moon after that one when Harry ran off the second time. You'll always remember his face the morning after, stricken and pale. The shifting tension in his body when his hand brushes the scars. An entirely misplaced guilt—the wound had been superficial, hadn't even required sutures. There are risks to these things, particularly during this time of month. Wolf or not, you know by now—knew then, too—Harry would never intentionally harm you. You are not his responsibility.
You sigh, still feeling the weight of Jean's gaze. Nor are you Jean's—though there's a particular closeness here, too. The 57th was a much quieter precinct. The boundaries, more industrial land than not; the rare occurrence of the wolves overall... You had never worked with other pairs, with other wolves, so closely as you have since your transfer. And perhaps that's all it is.
Or perhaps it's this thing you share: being a handler so long. Never outgrowing the childish urge to tame something wild. Whatever it is, you know he won't leave if you don't give him an out.
"If we aren't back in three days—"
"Oh, yeah, fucking fantastic. I'll scrape your bony ass off the trails then. Take your goddamn intestines out of the trees. Maybe I'll find Harry, too. Do you want me to shovel the pair of you into the same coffin?"
You snort as he slams the door shut. It is hard not to smile, though you know it only makes Jean bristle.
"If we fit in one, may as well save the department a little money."
"Fuck that. You're practically the captain. It's going to be the works. Flowers, a fucking brass band. Separate coffin for every limb I find. Harry can fuck himself. Hey, don't dick around out here all week, okay? I'll see you on Thursday morning."
The engine fires up, an anemic rumble—or so you perceive, after years with the Kineema. The smell of mazut and exhaust, the faint heat of the vehicle before you. You're still too close for him to back up, and you know he'd prefer not to drive forward. It's a turn you could have taken easily, but Jean treats the MC with suspicion and disdain, as if it's a particularly stupid horse prone to bolting. You do feel sorry for it, despite yourself, though you check the urge to pat it in sympathy.
You take up your cane, and start walking toward the path. It's much the way you remember—the large boulder where you need to turn, keeping it to your left and the MC to your right. The incline of slope continues up a bit before leveling out. The ground is rough, but your cane is sturdy, and the woods less treacherous than the open-air markets you indulge with Harry. It is only when you are on the trail, with the quieting weight of the pine boughs above you, that Jean backs up the MC.
Pausing, you listen to the glacial pace of the wheels grinding back over dirt and rocks. Wait for the grinding click of Jean shifting gears, wait for the sound of the motor growling faint into the distance.
And then, you are alone.
Breathing in deeply, you give yourself a moment to orient in the eerie silence of the woods.
Of course, you have been out here enough times that it is not completely foreign. And the decline of your vision makes little difference on a night like tonight. The smell of rain, the pressure in the air—tonight, the moon is obscured by thick clouds.
Still, you grew up in the city. In buildings full of bodies, the constant noise of humanity's press. The stink of smoke and engines and horses and men—you could never be truly comfortable here in the wild. You shake yourself, and continue further down the path.
You listen for rustling in the woods, for the huffing rasp of Harry's breath. Like you, he's getting no younger. The wolf limps, too; sleeps fitfully, whimpering, curled up on an old rug by the radiator.
Why did he run off, this time? The wind rustling the trees, the steady tap of your cane and your footsteps—the lack of sound is as eerie as in your memory. Your mind wanders.
Practically the captain, your mind replays. Alone, you can laugh about it. In another lifetime, maybe; another planet. Even then, you doubt it. It's miracle enough they let you stay on, that they made an offer at promoting you once, years ago. Lieutenant-Yefreitor Kitsuragi. Pryce was still... Well, they knew you wouldn't accept it then.
And you still wouldn't accept it, now. A promotion would mean no more field work. The partnership with Harry would be dissolved. And what then?
The path turns slightly, and starts to slope downward. You step carefully. A little further along, the path grows rockier. Large boulders, and then a gap between two of them. The den that's mostly abandoned, one wolf oceans away.
What would happen to Harry? You wonder sometimes if he should still be in the field. What are the two of you, now, anyway? Consultants, two lieutenants on permanent desk duty. But neither of you can stick to that, and you're both far too stubborn to quit on your own accord. You still collect interviews, collect evidence, accompany Harry as he sniffs out the scenes. Two weeks ago, Harry caught the scent of a suspect, and hauled off in a dead run. Limped back half an hour later, tail between his legs. Guilty, you supposed. His doctor had said the cartilage in his joints is frankly nonexistent; that running in either form is accelerating the inevitable. The bones in his hips and knees are being ground into gravel, day by day. You had waited for him, filling out forms you no longer need to see, sorting the evidence you'd already gathered. When he slumped beside you, you'd knelt down to stroke his shaggy head.
Tapping carefully, you isolate one of the boulders near the entrance of the den. This is familiar, but not even a necessary landmark at this point. Because there's also the shift in the air, the sudden humid prickle on your skin; the all-too-familiar stink of sweat, of wet dog.
Another step, and you can crouch down, ignoring the ache in your own hips and knees. It's not so bad for you. Harry spent last week laid up, unable to put any weight at all on his left leg. You can hear him, now. The huff of his breath, a low whine, the uneven fall of paws, one dragging slightly behind.
Well, at least he's alive. You lower the cane to tap out the area you intend to land. It's unlikely you'll whack Harry with it, but if you did...
You sigh, pulling the cane back to rest it on the ground, preferring to lower yourself, first. You're very far from its replacement, here. And the den is small, dark and familiar. You can feel Harry back away from you as you drop down, grunting as you land.
Is it petty to let him cower? Without question. But then, it's been a long day, and you rarely deny yourself a little pettiness. Reaching up, you grab your cane, rest it in the den near the entrance. Like this, Harry is massive. A huge, furry weight is compressed in the the space you don't fill.
One step forward, and you can reach out for him. You've often wondered about this den. Did he find it? Dig it out himself? When he hit stone, did he think he'd figure out a way to make it bigger? Did he think they'd find another den, did they ever truly intend to have pups?
Whatever the wolf before intended, it doesn't matter, now. Your hand comes to rest in the thick fur protecting his neck. Reach out with the other, and you can grip the underside of his muzzle, threadbare and little slack on the left side.
"Harry," you murmur, bringing your face closer to his. The wet smear of his nose, the breath fogging glasses you wear now mostly from habit. "We're getting too old to keep running from each other," and his tongue smears over your face as he whines his agreement.