A/N: Anyone wondering where the last part of the smuggler story is should know that it IS coming. Hopefully, sooner rather than later. In the meantime, enjoy some (slightly) spooky werewolf times!
Everything is pleasantly fuzzy by the time Rey leaves the bar and starts to head home. They were celebrating Finn's promotion, which included shots, and then dancing, and by the time Rey realized what time it was, half of their friends had already left.
She decided that seemed like a good idea.
She thinks she said goodbye to Finn and Rose, who were still there, but she isn't sure.
Whatever. She can catch up with them tomorrow. Which is Saturday. She thinks.
She glances up at the moon as she's weaving her way down the street and smiles. "Hello, beautiful," she murmurs at the partially full face. It's at least another week until it's completely full, but Rey can start to make out the eyes and full lips of the woman's face she always sees there.
"Beautiful, beautiful, Luna," she repeats to herself, tripping a bit on uneven sidewalk.
She's startled out of her thoughts as a loud clatter comes from a nearby alleyway. "Hello?" She walks closer, which sober Rey would have told her to stop, but drunk Rey is curious, and curiosity…did something. "Is someone there?"
A dark, four-legged shape slinks from behind a dumpster, and any lingering doubts she had vanish in the wake of— "Puppy!"
The large black dog freezes and looks at her, but it has nowhere to go, backed as it is into the alley. She practically skips up to it. "Hi puppy! I'm Rey! Are you a good boy?" The dog shrinks back from her descending hand but she doesn't give him the chance to bolt, seizing him by the scruff of his neck while she pets behind his ears. Other than giving her a wide-eyed look, the dog doesn't react. "You are a good boy, aren't you! Are you lost?"
She has the presence of mind to check for a collar, and on finding none, decides the best course of action would be to take the dog home. She can look for his people tomorrow, if he has any.
She half-leads, half-drags the dog the remaining block to her apartment and hurries him up the stairs to the third floor. "This is me!" she announces cheerily, and is proud that it only takes her two tries to get the door unlocked.
In the light of her living room, she's able to get a better look at her new friend. Larger than the average, the dog has thick black fur, matted in places, and soulful liquid brown eyes. A scar bisects his right eye and runs down his cheek. He eyes her warily and huddles against the wall once she releases him.
"Are you hungry?" she asks, and the dog's ears perk up before dropping again, but he watches her go into the kitchen and start pulling out a pan and bacon from the fridge. She should eat something greasy too, she reasons, ignoring the fact that it's early morning and if she eats now she won't sleep for at least an hour.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the dog slowly inch towards the kitchen and the tantalizing smell. He keeps giving her tiny glances, as though keeping tabs on her without trying to look like he is. She chuckles and puts a plate of freshly fried bacon on the floor while piling her own plate and sitting at the table.
"Go on, it's for you," she tells the dog encouragingly. He gives her one more glance before digging in, cleaning the plate in record time. The look he gives her this time is a little less guarded, and she smiles. "I'll get you washed up once I'm done."
He follows her into the bathroom and doesn't protest when she puts him in the bath tub. By now, time, the turn of events, and the bacon are working their magic to clear her head, and she notices things she hadn't before.
One, the dog is definitely male.
Two, he is too thin for his size. Definitely underfed and possibly malnourished.
Three, he has an intelligent look in his eyes, like he knows more than he lets on. She's seen it before in the smarter breeds, like border collies, and wonders what breed he is.
"I've always wanted a dog," she tells him as she pours warm water over his back. "I think we could be good for each other. As long as you don't have an actual owner, of course." She looks him in the eye. "Do you have a person?"
He blinks at her. No tail wagging or other recognition of the words. Maybe he is a stray.
"I think I'll call you Padfoot. He was also a big, black dog." Though she doubts this one will turn into Sirius Black.
He sits patiently while she cleans him before shaking himself dry, to her sputtering laughter.
The laugh fades into a yawn. Time for bed. Past time for bed.
She coaxes him into her room and puts a blanket down for him on the floor near her bed. "It's warmer in here," she explains to those brown eyes. "I keep the door shut to keep the heat in."
Then she crawls under her covers, asleep in moments with a smile on her face.
—
Her hangover is a dull throb in the back of her skull, which isn't as bad as it could be, but still, not great. She keeps her eyes closed as she sorts through the events of the previous evening.
There was the bar, the drinks, the dog—
The dog! She grins and rolls over, expecting to see him still asleep by the radiator.
That is not what she sees.
A massive, pale, dark-haired man is sleeping curled up on her floor.
An involuntary squeak escapes her lips and she claps a hand over her mouth. Should she call the cops? How did he even get in here? All she sees is miles of skin, because he is not wearing a stitch of clothing. Thankfully, his leg blocks her view of his groin.
His head jerks a fraction and her eyes grow wide. No! She woke him! Her mace is in her purse, and he is blocking her access to the door. She stopped keeping a bat by her bed when she moved to a safer neighborhood and has never regretted it more than this moment.
She watches, horrified, as sleepy eyes open and he lifts his head from where it was resting on his forearms. His expression looks just as confused as she feels.
His dark eyes focus on her briefly before blinking away to regard his arm, then sweep over his body, then meet her eyes again. He mumbles a soft expletive and drops his head back to rest on his arms.
It's a small consolation that he seems as surprised as she is that he's here, instead of wherever he should be, but the consolation does not go far.
"What are you doing here? How did you get in?"
His gaze snaps back to her but he doesn't say anything, only regards her warily.
"Answer me, or I'll call the cops!"
He flinches at that, raises a placating hand. "Please don't call the cops," he rumbles, and oh, his voice is deep. "Rey, isn't it? I'm not going to hurt you."
"How do you know my name? And how are you here?"
His expression turns apologetic. "You told me. And you brought—well, dragged me here."
She most certainly did not. She would have remembered if she had brought home a man built like a fridge. She wasn't that drunk.
"You even washed me," he continues despite her silence. "Thanks for that, by the way." He shifts and pulls out the blanket he was sleeping on, using it to cover his lower half before sitting up.
She tries to piece together what he's saying and why all of this is important, but her hangover headache is pounding. She brought home a dog, washed the dog, put down that blanket for the dog…
"You wanted to call me Padfoot," his voice is low, cautious, "but I think Remus would be more appropriate."
"You—" She now notices the scar running down his face and the puzzle falls into an awful picture. Her dog has somehow turned into a man and she's not sure if she wants to laugh or scream. "You're my dog?"
"Werewolf," he mumbles, his eyes downcast. "Yeah."
Her inner pendulum suddenly swings much closer to scream and she can't deal with this first thing on a Saturday with a hangover. "Get out."
His eyes meet hers for a split second before he nods quickly and shuffles out of the room, taking the blanket with him.
She indulges herself with a scream into her pillow, hating her impulsive drunk decisions, hating that she thought she finally could have a dog and the universe seems to be laughing, hating the last vulnerable look on his face, before rolling out of bed and heading to the bathroom.
The man is sitting on her couch, huddled in the blanket which is doing its best to cover his bulk.
"You're still here."
He looks at her, and she doesn't want to take the time to decode the emotions in his eyes.
"Why are you still here?"
His gaze drops back to the floor and his mouth opens and closes a couple times before he says, quietly, "Do you have any clothes I could borrow?"
"It's been a while since I had a boyfriend."
He gives her a bewildered sidewise glance and she sees more than hears him say, "What?"
Why did she say it like that? "I mean, I don't have men's clothes lying around. So no, I don't have anything you could borrow."
"Oh." And his eyes are back on the ground.
But you should have clothes at home, she wants to say. Though sending him out into the streets buck naked does seem a bit cruel.
Rey Niima is many things and she hopes cruel isn't one of them.
She sighs. She's probably going to regret this. "I can have a friend of mine pick some up and bring them here."
The look he gives her this time is a heart-wrenching cocktail of grateful and wary. "Thank you. That would be—" He swallows. "That would be great."
She pulls her phone out to call Finn. It rings out the first time and goes to voicemail. Right, he's probably still asleep. Who knows what time he got home last night, and it's still before noon today.
Knowing he'll call her back once he wakes up, she looks at the man again. "What's your name?"
"Ben." He's addressing her rug and she suppresses a sigh.
"Just Ben?"
He nods.
"Do you want some breakfast, Ben?"
He stills, before shaking his head slowly.
She remembers a dog where she could see his ribs and pulls out a second bowl for cereal anyway.
When she places the bowl in front of him he mumbles a "thank you," but doesn't look up.
She sits in the armchair across from the couch and focuses her attention on his face and untidy hair and not on the broad expanse of chest that doesn't fit under the blanket. At least, she tries.
She definitely doesn't notice the way he eats the cereal like his dog form had eaten the bacon last night: as fast as possible and with a decidedly possessive air.
Finn calls back when she's halfway through her own bowl and she steps into her bedroom to take the call.
"I didn't think you'd be up yet. Sorry if I woke you."
"My hangover woke me." His laugh echoes down the line. "We were there until the bar closed."
"How are you even moving?"
"Sheer force of will and a pot of coffee."
She chuckles, shaking her head. "Effective if not enjoyable."
"True enough. What were you calling about earlier?"
"I need a favor."
"Shoot."
"I need you to pick me up a set of men's clothes: shirt, pants, and underpants, size large or extra-large, and I really need you to not ask why."
"Now I'm definitely going to ask why."
"Well, I can't tell you why right now. I'll pay you back, and I don't need anything fancy. How soon can you get here?"
"Maybe an hour? Rey, what's going on?"
"Just, please do this for me? I'll explain everything later, I promise."
"Okay…" He sounds suspicious, and she hates that, but it isn't like she can tell him she accidentally brought home a werewolf. It's more of an in-person conversation.
"Thank you! I owe you one."
"Yeah, yeah."
She heads back into the living room and Ben is exactly where she left him. "My friend will be here in an hour."
He nods. She's getting the distinct impression he doesn't talk much.
"Are you going to be alright getting home?"
His brow furrows while still fixed on her rug. "Where are we?"
Does he have memory problems, too? "My apartment?"
She catches the smallest eye-roll and hides a smirk. So he does have a bit of an attitude. But he surprises her with his next question.
"I mean, what state is this?"
What state? How can he not know?
"Brooklyn? New York?"
His lips purse before he nods again.
"Where did you think we were?"
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug.
She shakes her head at his non-answer and stands to look out the window. So this is her life now. Picking up strays that turn into handsome strange men who don't talk.
Wait, handsome?
She studies him again out of the corner of her eye. Maybe not handsome in the typical, Hollywood cookie cutter way, but compelling. And yes, handsome.
Ugh, she is so single.
Yet his question about the state is nagging at her. And his surprise at being human. And— "How long have you been a wolf?"
His eyes dart up to meet hers, wide and unsure, before he drops them again. He shrugs a little and shakes his head. "I don't know," he murmurs, barely audible.
"You don't know?!"
Another head shake.
"I thought werewolves only transformed on the full moon?"
"Not always. I mean, it's always on the full moon, but you don't always change…back."
Rey can't imagine what it would be like to be stuck as a wolf. "So you could have been a wolf for years?"
"Maybe," he mumbles.
Her head starts pounding again just thinking about it and she goes to make a pot of coffee. She returns with two mugs. "Coffee?"
"Yes, please." He holds his hands out for the mug and the blanket slips off his shoulder.
Malnourished or not, this guy is built for strength. She briefly wonders what he would look like if he was healthy and happy, before mentally chiding herself on her wandering thoughts.
Ben is not staying. Don't get attached.
They drink their coffee in silence, the blanket safely resecured over his shoulders.
Rey's mind is swirling with questions, but she bites them back. The more she knows, the more it might hurt to let him walk out that door. But he can't stay. Between the two options, that one is definitely worse.
Eventually, Finn calls to let her know he's outside, and she buzzes him in. He tries to see into the apartment when he comes to her door, but she grabs the bag of clothes with a smile and blocks his view of Ben.
"What's going on?" he asks in a low tone, a wrinkle between his brows.
"Come by this afternoon, and I'll tell you," she says in a matching tone, knowing without checking that Ben is listening.
He leaves grumbling, and she hopes he'll understand.
"Here." She thrusts the bag at Ben. "You can change in the bathroom, and then I think you should go."
He nods and takes it without meeting her eyes, arranging the blanket as he stands. When he reemerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, she notices the shirt is a little small and the pants are a little big.
But they were free, for him, and literally beggars can't be choosers.
"Good luck," she tells him, because it feels like she should say something and she doesn't quite know what it is.
"Thank you," he responds in his quiet voice. He stops in the doorway. "And thank you for your kindness." He meets her eyes one more time, then he's gone.
Finn does come by that afternoon, as she requested. But now that he's here, she finds herself not wanting to tell him what really happened. Something about those vulnerable eyes and the quiver in Ben's lip as he thanked her makes her want to keep Ben's secret.
Everyone has heard stories of werewolves. No one expects to actually meet one.
So she tells him that she wanted to help a homeless man who needed clothes, which may not be too far from the truth, and Finn squints at her.
"You need to be careful, Rey. Who knows what some of these guys want, or how they can take advantage of you."
Ben didn't want to take advantage of her. She didn't think he even wanted to be in her apartment at all.
She nods like she agrees with what he says and finds a way to change the subject. Finn is more than happy to discuss an upcoming vacation he's taking with Rose to the Bahamas in further celebration of his promotion, and she tries to put Ben out of her mind.
But if she thought she'd forget about him, she finds she was sorely mistaken.