Sometimes I think that he prefers being locked in there, alone. The moon is full in the sky and, despite being forbidden to go anywhere near the door, I know from furtive peeks through the crack made by his claw one particularly awful evening that he's curled up on that spare mattress like a sickly dog, tossing and turning, working along with the heavy draught of Wolfsbane to combat animal instinct. I caught a tiny odd glint of relief this morning at the breakfast table when Sirius reminded him what the night was going to bring, as it bought him time away from human behavior. He seems to find it easier to deal with the "furry little problem" that he's been faced for the majority of his life, than the new concept of human relations beyond the few tight friendships he has already formed, and the acquaintances that he works hard to keep in the dark about anything that could frighten him. Oddly, he seems more comfortable in his painful transformation into a widely feared creature than in the aftermath of a consensual kiss. After succumbing to true emotion and free will, he's usually full of regret—"too old, too poor, too dangerous," he says to me, knowing full well that I couldn't care less. I think the only thing he has too much of is doubt.
Author's Note: This was written for the LJ community rtchallenge's August R/T ficathon. This was off of prompt number three--Bjork's "Human Behaviour".