All Morse can think about is that he's never seen a werewolf transform.
He can smell the night air all around them as the sun sets, the cold setting in quickly as its light fades. Morse is glad for the thick winter coat he's borrowed for the scent; he's cold. Blood should warm a vampire to the core. The synthetics don't do much for his chills.
Still, Morse feels better facing this with a full belly. As much as he pretends bravado and flaunts his starvation, most of the time, his body feels heavy, sluggish. Human. It's true he doesn't mind being thought of as human; he identified with his mum most of all in childhood. But no vampire likes having to exert energy to perform simple tasks with natural speed. At least with the synthetics, he feels lighter and less achy. Banked hunger hurts every bone and muscle in the body.
It's been so long since he's been properly full, though. Usually, he only drinks enough to get by. The stuff can turn his stomach if he's not careful; synthetics taste about as bad as they smell. He's learned that tea, coffee, and scotch help, though not much.
Morse is drawn reeling out of his thoughts by a deep growl. Thursday is on all fours, his head bent down. The light of the moon shines in on his back, and as Morse watches, the DI's hair grows long.
It starts on his head, the hair there growing longer in a straight line down his back and two that start from his side burns and travel down, making a long, biblical beard. Hair in the same salt-and-pepper hue shoots out from these points of contact. Thursday is growing larger, the fabric on his body stretching until it tears. Arms and legs elongate, five fingers and toes become large, formidable paws with four claws and a thumb higher up. Morse watches in avid fascination, unable to help backing up until his back is against the door. Thursday growls and gnashes his teeth as his head grows larger, stouter, his nose a snout. The wolf, its long tail now complete, raises its head and howls at the moon. Yellow eyes alight on Morse, half-cowering at the door, and the wolf lunges forward, snarling, its terrible lips bared, revealing thousands of needle-sharp teeth.
Morse braces for impact, his arms stretched out to catch onto the wolf's shoulders. He does so, though it's no small effort holding the wolf back. He pushes hard, fighting the strength of the wolf, his muscles aching. The strength of a half-sated vampire is no match for an old werewolf. Morse ducks a few bites, knowing those jaws are strong enough to break bone. "Sir!" Morse pleas. "Sir, it's Morse!" He's not strong enough to hold the wolf back, so in a last-ditch plan of action, he slides down against the door, underneath the wolf, and at the same time, makes the coat fly up to catch on the wolf's nose.
Morse rolls into a ball and waits. Slowly, the growling dies down. He feels a wet nose prodding at his wrist. The vampire raises his head. The soft, brown eyes of his superior meet his gaze. Thursday sits. Morse uncurls and sits, too. "I thought you were going to kill me," Morse says, breathless.
Thursday snorts, shaking his big head. Morse can't speak dog, but it's clear that means "no."
"What now?" Morse asks. Thursday lies down on his side, his head resting on his paws, still looking at Morse. "Really, Sir? No urge to run?" Morse smirks. Thursday lets out a bark, what might pass for laughter in canines.
"I should've brought my opera," Morse says aloud. Thursday growls. "Everyone's a critic," Morse says with a laugh.
A few minutes pass in lazy silence. Morse is just amazed at the creature before him. Thursday is huge, at least three times the size of a normal wolf. Lying sideways, he is the length of the cell, nose to behind. The tail is curled around the haunches. Morse suspects that wolves go gray like humans do. Thursday would've once been all black, only gaining the gray as he aged.
The stones are cold and the cells are damp. Even in Thursday's coat, and even curled up as he is, Morse begins to shiver, a real chill setting in as the night wears on. Soon, despite his best efforts, his teeth are chattering. He feels a huff of warm breath and glances up. Thursday is motioning to his side. Morse initially shakes his head, but Thursday gives a commanding growl, followed by a deafening bark, and he is forced to obey. At first, he only sits close enough to feel the heat radiating from the wolf, but one brush of Thursday's tail sends him roughly into the warm, soft underbelly. Morse takes the hint and sits with his back resting comfortably against Thursday's belly. The warmth is soothing and surprisingly hot, but Morse isn't complaining. He barely knows what true heat feels like, seeing as he hasn't tasted blood since he was ten. A yawn escapes him and he glances over towards the front of the wolf.
Thursday's head rests placidly on his paws, his eyes closed. The wolf's breaths come slow and deep now. He's sleeping.
Morse shakes his head fondly and lies back as invited. Soon he, too, is fast asleep, enjoying the radiating warmth of the werewolf's soft hide.