Demoman's a werewolf I guess! Written for SirKai.
As Tavish lay on the ground, his chest and shoulder pouring blood onto the dead leaves beneath him, he comforted himself with the thought that he had, at least, lived a fairly exciting life. He would have liked to experience more explosions, and God, yes, he would have liked to steal his eye back from the spirit who'd stolen it, but all in all it had been a very good life indeed. He sank his fingers into the loose soil around him, hissing when the movement pulled at his injuries and made everything burn, and slowly, his right eye went as dark as his left one.
Tavish raised his hand to his forehead and groaned. "No more of the fuckin' benders," he promised himself as he sat up gingerly. He looked down: Lying in dirt, shirt torn, blood staining his clothes, missing his shoes
Blood staining his clothes?
He slapped his hands to his chest, running them down frantically over his stomach, up to his shoulders, and oh, oh, that had really happened, hadn't it? The wolf had really happened. "Fuckin' a," Tavish cried out, and it was only then that he noticed the rasping of his throat. He felt as though he had swallowed a cheese grater, and knew it came from having screamed while the wolf if it had been a wolf; the thing had been bloody huge tore him open. He hunched over his legs, staring at his bare feet, and pressed a hand to his shoulder.
It should have been ripped apart. He knew this as surely as he knew that he was lying on the ground in the middle of the woods, as surely as he knew his own name. But as Tavish looked down at himself, he could see only his dried blood on unbroken skin: No new scrapes, nor cuts, nor scars. He still had the scar from his liver transplant, and he still had bruises from where he'd drunkenly bumped into things, but the lacerations he could remember receiving the night before had simply disappeared.
"Christ," Tavish moaned, and he hunched over once more, turned to the side, and vomited.
It only took a few days to figure out what had happened. Tavish had grown up knee deep in the paranormal, had spent over a decade learning about the supernatural. His own left eye had been possessed and stolen, so of course he was experienced, of course he was able to piece things together. It wasn't like werewolves were uncommon to begin with; everyone and their mother had heard stories about them.
Besides, the fur growing over where he'd been wounded, combined with the sudden cravings for raw meat, were very telling. Then there was the frantic yapping of his neighbor's dog when he returned to his flat. And the fact that he had a good enough sense of smell, now, to know what everyone else had eaten for breakfast. And the fact that his calendar had the night he'd been attacked on listed as a full moon night.
Scratching at his shoulder, Tavish stuck his kettle beneath his sink and set about making tea. He had considered getting drunk, but really, he asked himself, should a fledgling werewolf be getting drunk? What if the alcohol somehow triggered a transformation, and he changed and gave into his desire to tear the neighbor's pomeranian limb from limb? The landlord would never let him keep his flat if he went around murdering animals.
He set the kettle on the stove, flipped his calendar to the next month to see when the full moon would come around again, and sighed. "Well, at least it's not on Christmas."
His kettle whistled, and he flipped through the newspaper while his tea steeped, steadfastly ignoring the pomeranian still barking three doors down.
After a week had passed, Tavish gave in to temptation and did two things:
First, he picked up some depilatory cream at the store, and got rid of the hair and fur on his chest and shoulder. He felt barren, and rather emasculated, but he could hardly stand to look at himself in the mirror with the fur on. Perhaps it was for the best.
Second, he went on another bender. Tea was only good for so long, and he wanted a distraction. Thinking about bleeding out on dry, cracked leaves was not a fun way to pass the time. Through his drunken haze as he tossed Laura (or Lauren, or maybe Lisa? Elizabeth? Erin?) on the bed, he thought that removing his hair might be all right if it always ended with women stroking his chest reverently, and babbling on about body hair being disturbing and coarse and distracting.
Eventually, December came, and the full moon was five days away, and Tavish nearly broke everything in his flat because good lord, the pain and the rage and the restlessness had all hit him so suddenly and so completely that he needed to do something, do anything; there was smoke in his brain, a heady haze that permeated every corner, and he couldn't tell if he wanted to fight or fuck or just start screaming and tearing off his skin; he couldn't tell if he even had skin anymore or if he was made of fire, made of fur
Four days before the full moon, he spent twelve hours stuck in front of the toilet, a twitching, quivering mess, heaving until there was nothing left inside and then continuing to heave, dry and painful and terrible. His skin was greyed and flat and he felt like he was being stabbed all over. The pomeranian kept barking.
Three days before the full moon, he slept like death. He dreamed of running, feeling the wind between his fur, rushing past his ears and snout; he dreamed of the hunt, of pouncing, of feeling blood between his teeth and claws. In his dream, he bit the pomeranian's neck, and it finally shut up.
Two days before the full moon, his body felt hotter than the sun, and he gripped his mug so tightly that it shattered and he spilled tea over his hand. It felt cold, despite being fresh, and he could barely stop himself from pouring the boiled water in the kettle on his skin to alleviate the heat; logic still trumped desire, and he jumped into the bath, and he let the water embrace him. The pomeranian kept barking.
One day before the full moon, he heard his neighbor shut her door with the dog still inside, and he gritted his teeth until his jaw felt like it would shatter, and the pomeranian still kept barking, and he opened his door, and he opened his neighbor's door, and he grabbed the pomeranian by its neck and he held it until it shut up. He stared at its motionless body, listened to the rush of blood in his ears, and he left. He walked from the city to the woods.
On the day of the full moon, he transformed, and oh, it was grand. It was horrible. It was everything.
On the day after the full moon, Tavish woke at the crack of dawn. He dragged himself back to his flat, clothes still torn and blood-soaked. No one saw him. He could hear his neighbor crying in her flat. He sank onto his bed, and slept the whole day through, feeling empty.
Two days after the full moon, Tavish finally moved when he heard a knock at his door, and he opened it to see a petite woman dressed smartly in a skirt and blazer, her glasses taking up much of her face and making her look so, so young. She smiled at him, unfazed by the blood and the torn clothing and the fur peeking up from under his collar, and she offered him a job.
Tavish accepted.
Three days after the full moon, Tavish was on a plane to the United States, and he had almost nothing with him. He clutched the tiny bottle of airline booze and he was glad.
Two years, Tavish reflected as he grabbed the newspaper from the kitchen counter, could do a lot for a man.
Well, it hadn't been exactly two years, he amended as he sat at the table and scanned the front page. He had been bitten in November, and it was only September now, but twenty-two months hardly seemed different from twenty-four. It helped that he had five jobs in which destruction was key, where he could take out his frustrations. It also helped that he was fabulously wealthy, and living on a property large enough for him to transform on without much risk. What didn't help was the fact that he was living with his mum, who was as nosy as she was blind.
"And why aren't you working today, eh? Another 'morning off,' is it? More like you've been laid off, I suppose!"
Tavish looked over the top of the paper at his mother, and smiled despite her glare in his general direction. "It's me one mornin' off, Mum, same as every month." He was glad she hadn't noticed that all of his days off came directly after the full moon. He realized she was blind, and so couldn't possibly have seen the moon and figured him out, but it was still a relief; part of him believed, even now, that his mother could figure out anything he did.
She sniffed. "I suppose one day off between five jobs is all right, then. Not nearly the best you could do, and still a bloody disappointment considering, but good enough for now."
Tavish stood as the kettle started whistling, and made his mother a cup of tea. "You're goin' soft on me, Mum." He laughed as made his own cup of tea, and set them on the tray with the kettle, walking to the couch his mother was seated upon.
"If you call me old, I'll take your other eye. Make you look like a proper Demoman once and for all."
Tavish bit back a groan as he sank onto the couch himself, his body still sore from being pushed to the limit last night during his transformation. It didn't wreck him as it used to, but he still ached like nothing else. "Who'll make your tea when I lose the other eye, hm?"
His mum scoffed. "Eight million dollars a year, and you're willing to buy a mansion, but not an assistant? You've no priorities, lad."
Tavish laughed and pressed his mother's tea cup gently into her hand.