Something was downstairs. Francis heard it digging around, letting out a low growl. As he crept down the stairs, baseball bat in hand, Francis wondered if this was how he would die: vaguely hungover and in his satin night robe.

The painting over the fireplace—which, from a distance, was romantic—had a large gash in it. Not a rip, not a tear, but a gash, as if some great beast had looked at Francis' taste in art and goneno. The various vases scattered tastefully around were left intact. Someone, something had turned on the light.

Francis edged through his living room, heart in his ears. It was in the kitchen. It hadn't been so kind as to turn on the light there. There was the sound of something glass tinkling, a click of claws against the tile, another low growl. Francis tightened his grip on the bat.

A dog's head popped out of the dark. It looked at him, green eyes blinking. It took Francis a moment to realize that this dog was larger than a Saint Bernard. Bigger than anything Francis had ever seen.

He stared at it. The dog's nose twitched. Then, it looked at the painting. Francis knew that's what it was looking at, but he was too terrified to check over his shoulder. The dog shook its head, then withdrew into the dark of the kitchen.

The back door opened. Francis felt the chill of the night air. The back door shut.

"A dog opened your door?"

Francis tapped his fingers against the counter he was leaning on, his casual pose doing nothing to hide the slightly manic look on his face. His hair was tied back, a few strands carefully left loose. His button-up was ironed and white, shoes polished to a gleam.

Francis was trying very hard not to freak out.

"It wasn't a dog," Francis tried again. "I wouldn't have called if it was a dog. It was—it made a cup of tea."

Animal control had been sympathetic enough on the phone at three in the morning, but in the sobering light of day, the man who had come over was mocking him.

Had Francis not been fearful of another late night visit, he would have flirted with the other man. Sandy hair, fascinatingly green eyes, a scowl that wanted to turn upwards. The man looked around the kitchen again. He had introduced himself as Arthur.

"I'm sorry, but do I know you from somewhere?"

Arthur turned sharply. "No. Any dog doors, trashcans left outside the door? No? Well, dogs don't usually break into homes. Are you sure you shut the door…?"

Francis followed Arthur as he wandered through his house. Even though his eyes were on the windows—searching for a mythical gaping hole the dog had squeezed through—Arthur moved around the coffee tables with a practiced ease.

Who was this man? Francis almost remembered. It balanced on the tip of his tongue.

And then Arthur glanced at the painting, and the slight shake of his head hit Francis like a sledge hammer.

"It was your dog!" Francis stumbled away, back of his legs hitting a couch. He sat down, staring at Arthur in horror. "It was—your eyes!" He looked at his shaking hands. "What do you have against that painting?" he asked softly in French.

Arthur had taken a step closer, but had frozen mid-stride. "I—of course it wasn't my dog!"

Francis looked at him. "It was!"

Arthur gave him a funny. "No, it wasn't."

Maybe Francis really was going crazy. Accusing men of being dogs, owning dogs that could make tea. Francis let out a shaky breath, standing and waving his hands like he was dismissing the whole conversation.

"Ah, pardon me. I did not have the best rest. Sorry for making you drive all the way out here, really. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, perhaps?" Francis led the way back to the kitchen, smiling over his shoulder.

"The oolong, please."

Francis' hands lingered on the pantry's handle. "How did you know I had oolong?"

There was a pause, and Francis looked over his shoulder. Arthur was staring at his feet like they had offended his mother. His fists were clenched, and his eyes flicked up to meet Francis' before returning. Francis opened his mouth to apologize, to say most people had oolong.

"I'm sorry for breaking into your house and drinking your tea."

Francis played the words over in his head. He even translated them into French and back again, just to make sure he had heard right. His instincts kicked in and he laughed, shaking his head.

"That's very—"

"I'm serious."

"But…" Francis cleared his throat and turned around, leaning against the counter. "You're not very… Furry. "

"I'm a werewolf," Arthur said, meeting Francis' gaze.

"You can make tea?"