Disclaimer: I don't own anything, and I'm not making any money off anything. I'm actually pretty poor.
Author's Note: This is the first chapter in a fairly intricate story. It's also only the second fan fiction I've ever published, and the only BWoC fic I've ever written. Reviews would be super appreciated! I'd like to know how I'm doing, since I haven't really written anything in two years or so. The "ruler" is meant to show a memory. Just let me know if it doesn't make sense, ok? Now, onward! Enjoy.
Merton found himself outside her house in the middle of a cool summer night. A summer night like any other, he thought, except I'm about to ask a girl, who is totally oblivious to the situation, to come help me fight off an evil demon with my best friend, the werewolf.
He felt himself stiffen as his pulse quickened slightly. He searched around himself fruitlessly for nothing in particular as his mind raced to find a different solution. He knew, however, that there was nothing but this left to try.
Merton had met her at the art gallery a week earlier. He watched her for a long moment as she sipped her wine. Chardonnay, he supposed. Maybe he could pass for eighteen. Maybe he could look sophisticated, too. What if I get caught? Then I'd look like a total idiot.
Eventually he found the courage to shuffle up next to her. His eyes remained trained on the center of the painting in front of him as he stood in silence. He thought that maybe he was sweating; his palms felt awfully wet.
"Are you a fan of van Gogh?" She had spoken - no, asked him a direct question. A question he hadn't answered right away, but instead repeated to himself.
"Yes." He responded, amazed at his loss for words. She nodded.
"I think he was a bit of a fool, too eccentric, maybe. Not that I mind eccentrics." She smiled and passed him a sideways glance, her glasses bouncing the glare of the intense lighting. She sipped her wine.
Again he found himself leaning on the hood of his hearse, waiting for nothing. He was alternating between pacing and leaning, and had been doing so for a half-hour. He was procrastinating badly; again unsure of what he should say. He had rehearsed his explanation to her, trying to make it sound as sane as possible (or as sane as one could make a werewolf out to be). A sigh escaped his lips and he pulled his jacket a bit more tightly around him, noticing the slight chill in the air. He looked toward the sky and reveled at the clarity of the stars, there were no clouds to be seen. The moon was waxing, he noticed, soon it would be full.
Merton thought back again to the art gallery, to the opening no one wanted to attend with him. He had read about it in the town newspaper, a van Gogh exhibit. He liked van Gogh, he could relate to him.
He learned, after fifteen minutes of awkward and mainly one-sided conversation, that the girl he watched minutes earlier from across the gallery was an organizer of the event. She didn't choose van Gogh, she told him. She wanted Monet. Or maybe an Impressionist mash of deranged feeling and lighting. No, she said. That was Munch. Expressionism.
Munch. Merton thought, a soft smile appearing on his weary face. The way she spoke so satirically of these artists, as if she were the elite in herself, entertained him a great deal. Still, though, he had to admit she had a lot of knowledge.
Apparently it was to come in handy, although she had not yet agreed to help. She had not even spoken to him, as he was still cowering in the protection darkness granted him.
"Would you cut your ear off, Merton?" It was a softly spoken question, and he was unsure of what to say. She turned slightly to look at him. His eyes remained fixed on the painting. "Would you cut off your ear just to prove your love?"
He considered her question a moment longer than he normally would. "Maybe I would do something less crazy. I would go to some length to prove it, though."
She sighed. "Such lengths for such a cold emotion."
He looked at her through his peripheral vision. Her gaze was fixed back on the painting.
"Starry Night," she read slowly, "1889. Do you know when van Gogh died?"
Merton did not. He still wasn't sure. She hadn't told him, she just stood in silence again.
That was why he was here, he suddenly realized. A sense of urgency flooded his mind and he pulled himself together. He stared at the dark house looming over him. He shivered slightly and walked forward slowly, surveying the area. Eventually he came to the side of the house, to the left of the garage. The second storey held a window that seemed to shine brightly in a sea of darkness, as if it were mocking the night.
He stepped backwards slowly, in calculated movements. The chill in the air seemed to grow worse, as if to hurry him away from this place. He was tempted to turn and run away, but that would mean leaving his friend - his best friend - in mortal danger.
Merton felt a cold, hard force hit his back, and he twisted to see what was blocking him. A white picket fence pushed against him, trying to lunge him forward. This is not your place to be. Get away from here. He shook his head softly and returned his gaze to the window.
He only saw it for a moment, a wisp of blond hair trail by the glass. His heart sped up. He picked up a small stone, smooth and rounded, easy to throw, and gently tossed it at her window. A satisfying clink sounded, and Merton watched as the stone began to bounce off the shingles, the eave, the ground.
He looked up. Her face filled the pane, obstructing the light. Her brows were screwed up in a vain attempt at recognition, but he knew it was too dark to see. She opened the window slowly.
"It's me, Merton!" He whispered hoarsely. She appeared to be thinking for a moment, as if she were unsure and forgetting.
"What do you want?" She seemed slightly annoyed, he thought.
"I really need your help. It's an emergency." He attempted to appear sorry, tried to gain empathy. "Please!"
He watched her cock her head to the side. She looked him over for a short moment and nodded. She closed the window. A moment later, the light was gone, no longer glaring at the world.