A Rabbit 27 November 2023 Buck
i.
“I would like to request a personal leave.”
Director Pine did not look up from his papers. He continued to slowly run the backs of his fingers over the stubble at his jawline. The sound of it was pleasant, rhythmic; it was coarse, but familiar. “It doesn’t sound like you’re requesting anything,” he sighed, tossing his papers aside to lean back in his large leather chair. He slipped his reading glasses from his nose, one of the arms pinched between his fingers as he rubbed a knuckle over one eye. His heart was beating faster than normal: he was exhausted and Buck regretted the bad timing.
Buck ducked his head and shrugged, his mouth twisting when he didn’t have anything to say. He wasn’t asking for anything. They could try, but no one could really keep him there. They all knew that. Still, Buck liked these people. He didn’t want to be disrespectful.
“How long?” the Director asked.
"Five days,” Buck said, his gaze flicking up to meet the Director’s eyes before he looked away again to a plaque on a wall that he couldn’t read, “Maybe a week?”
The Director nodded, considering, “Christmas?” he asked. It was clearly a trap, but not one the Director attempted to hide. His eyes challenged him, daring him to lie. So Buck didn’t.
“No,” he admitted, “Pack stuff.”
The Director was very good with his face, not a single emotion betrayed him, but Buck could scent the tiniest shifts in his pheromones. No sweat, no jaw clenches. Even if the Director took his time, Buck could tell he trusted him, so Buck offered a bit of trust in return.
“I wouldn’t go if it weren’t important,” he tried. His chest tightened. Fear ran through him for the briefest moment. The back of his neck prickled, as if teeth had slowly closed around it.
“I know you wouldn’t, Buck,” the Director acquiesced, stretching his neck, “I appreciate you at least telling me this time.”
Buck ducked his head again, flinching at the memory of how he ran off after a mission when he’d caught Texas’s scent on the wind. He glanced up, trying to gauge how sorry he had to be, but the Director was smiling, if not a little sad. He wasn’t angry.
So Buck breathed, nodded, and returned the smile, “Thank you, sir.”
--
ii.
Buck left one of his SHIELD-issued hoodies on Cyrus’s bed.
He said he was going to visit Texas.
He had never lied to Cyrus and this was not a lie. It was as much not a lie as saying that the nothing he talked to was a spirit that humans couldn’t see. It didn’t feel good. But it was the right thing to do.
He hoped Cyrus would use it.
--
iii.
It took two days to travel to Texas’s farm.
Twice, he hesitated, stopping mid-run to lay down and think. Well, not so much think, as feel. Texas had a pack now, a family, a mate, a pup. Twice, Buck waited to see if the tugging on his heart might snap, might lead him away from the path that jeopardized everything Texas had fought for. His breath fogged in the moonlight, snow drifted peacefully down, and the forest was quiet in his presence. All life halted around him, holding their breath in the presence of a predator.
And still, he ended up at Texas’s door. He couldn’t make this choice for Texas. He couldn’t take that away from him.
Sam’s voice was loud from inside the house. Buck waited outside with Otis, wearing SHIELD fatigues he left in their home. He watched Otis drag a stick through the snow, creating little pictures in the powder as they both pretended not to know that Texas and Sam were arguing.
“Papa Sam doesn’t understand,” Otis said suddenly, his raven hair hanging over his face as he stared down at his drawing of a tree, his cheek resting on one of his knees.
“What do you mean?” Buck asked.
Otis lifted his stick and tapped it on Buck’s hand, over the long white lines forever etched into his skin. He then lifted his face, the gnarled scar over his eye that had scarred it shut crinkled when he furrowed his brow. His gaze was so unbelievably and tragically wise for his years.
“He doesn’t understand what it’s like,” Otis whispered, a secret the three of them shared.
“He’s worried,” Buck said just as quietly. The voices inside weren’t so audible anymore, reduced to murmurs muffled by skin.
“I am, too,” Otis replied, looking down to dot little circles all over the tree in the snow. A Christmas tree.
Buck's heart clenched and he abandoned the thought.
“But I know Dad has to. He just. He has to,” Otis mumbled, nodding to himself.
Buck moved closer and wrapped an arm around the pup with a heavy sigh. Neither of them needed the warmth. And yet, they both desperately needed it.
--
iv.
Buck didn’t tell John.
He didn’t want a parting to be the last thing John remembered of him, if it went badly.
He wanted John to remember how deeply he was wanted, how desperately he was loved.
--
v.
Buck and Texas barely crossed into the pack’s territory before the smell of mold filled Buck’s nostrils and his bond bubbled to life, like hot tar oozing just beneath his skin.
“So quiet.”
Buck hadn’t heard his voice in almost two years and yet it felt like it had always been there, waiting to be just close enough. Buck stopped in a small clearing, the forest dense save for a space just large enough for him to stand comfortably. In that clearing, the grass refused to grow and snow refused to stick. Texas paused at the edge of it, his ears pinned back to his head, but no more. A good and proud alpha, he would not submit to the painful memory of it. It was smart, at least, if nothing else. Any scent of Texas would be mistaken as the ghost of his entrails still clinging to the unhealed Earth.
Buck’s ears moved wildly about his head as he listened for the thundering of paws he knew was already heading for them. Texas turned and ran a bit further into the darkness. Buck was too big to hide, but Texas? He may as well be the shadows. He’d practiced long enough.
Even cut-off from the pack, unable to hear their thoughts clearly, Buck could feel the echoes of a conversation skittering around him, like roaches under foliage.
“I’ve heard you calling for me, wanting for me.” His voice was louder now. He was coming. Buck widened his stance and lowered his head, his eyes glaring unflinchingly into the treeline.
“Oh, my love, if I had known you were coming back to me so needy, I would have brought you a rabbit.”
Buck snarled, his temper slipping. His mate prodded at a raw nerve with a sick chuckle, he always knew how to make Buck feel small, how to make his thoughts seem stupid and his needs irrelevant. But Buck knew better now. He closed his lips over his teeth, the snarl settling into a growl rumbling deep in his chest. He calmed himself with a breath. He would not be controlled. Not anymore.
The growls and snarls came first. Then glowing eyes began to emerge from the darkness, then sharp fangs glinting with drool in the moonlight, then sharp-angled, misshapen things. A group of six began to circle Buck, one’s teeth chattering behind foam. They were grotesquely thin, their ribs jutting out beyond their narrow shoulders under raw, furless skin. Their backs arched, like they were shying away from their own hunger, each vertebrae protruding along their spines. Buck recoiled. He did not recognize any of these wolves by sight or scent. He hoped the last few good wolves of the pack had finally split off, because what was left had been ravaged by sickness and famine under a greedy, selfish alpha.
Buck and Texas were badly outnumbered, even skeletal as the others were. He could see it in their eyes, the craving, the watering maws; what they lacked in size they made up for in starvation. His mate had learned his lesson. He would need a small army to contain Buck.
Without warning, the wind changed and the smell of mold became unbearable. Buck spun around and the circle of wolves around him lunged and snapped at his movement.
“Lucky pup,” his mate sneered.
From the trees, attempting to take him from downwind, Dakota finally emerged. He was rail-thin and bizarrely older, much older than he should have been if only two years had passed. In a moment of weakness, Buck’s guard fell as he marveled. He tilted his head.
Dakota looked--small. So much smaller than Buck remembered.
Dakota’s eyes narrowed as he felt the thought float across Buck’s mind. He lowered his head and snarled and Buck quickly matched him, every muscle and sinew coiling, ready, and then--
Silence.
Eerie, strangled silence.
“Tantrum over, Buck? Finally coming home?” a voice came from the trees and Buck’s blood ran cold.
Slate stepped out from behind Dakota. His bare feet crunched along the cold branches and dead leaves below. He stood with his hands behind his back, his long human frame pale in the moonlight. He refused to afford Buck the esteem of coming as a wolf, as if he knew Buck would never touch him, even in his most vulnerable state. “Come now, let’s let it all rest, hm?” he shrugged, going so far as to flash a smile at Buck. Not a single one of them budged.
Slate looked horrifically healthy by comparison to the others, his chin tilted proudly to the moon as he stared at Buck, who towered over him at least two-fold in this form. He was at-ease, relaxed. Their prized alpha, the most powerful wolf for miles. He smelled of rot and gore and something unnaturally sweet, like antifreeze: he truly did not expect a fight.
And that mistake would cost him his life.
A streak of gray sprinted out from the shadows, ivory flashed around pale skin, and chaos erupted.
--
vi.
Slate shifted just as Texas closed his teeth around his neck and they disappeared behind trees in a tangle of fur and a chorus of snarls.
“Dead! He’s supposed to be--!”
The scent of blood blossomed and the circle of starved wolves bolted into action. Two of the six sprinted after the two alphas. Another two dove forward and snapped their jaws around Buck’s back paws before he could evade, one’s teeth slicing deep behind his Achilles tendon and yanking, sending white-hot pain up his leg and into his spine. He freed one of his legs and stomped--hard--and felt the sickening crack of the wolf’s skull beneath his paw. One.
Another attempted to leap for his neck while Buck spun, snapping his jaws at the wolf thrashing its head wildly around his tendon. The last managed to sink its teeth and claws into Buck’s shoulder, its weight dragging it down and slicing into Buck’s muscle.
Dakota continued to circle, calculating.
Just as Buck snarled and turned his head to rid himself of the wolf at his shoulder, the wolf still on the ground attempted one more snap at his neck and Buck caught it by the lower jaw. He whipped his head to the side and the squelch of flesh tearing nearly drowned out the wolf’s horrid scream. Blood sprayed over Buck’s face and the wolf’s weight was almost instantly relieved from its jaw as it bounced to the forest floor. It tried to squirm, but was dead in seconds. Two.
Just as Buck dropped the dismembered jaw, the wolf behind him finally twisted hard enough to tear through his tendon. The snap reverberated through his body and the sharp pain forced a yelp from his chest. He stumbled, giving the wolf enough time to lunge for his other leg. The one at his shoulder bit again and again and again, drawing more blood and mangling the flesh.
With a snarl and a heave powered purely by adrenaline, Buck charged towards a nearby tree, white-hot pain shooting through his leg with each step, dragging the wolf behind with him. He threw his shoulder into the trunk, forcing his entire weight onto the wolf hanging there. Something cracked and the wolf squealed an agonized yelp before flopping down to the roots below. It convulsed, its limbs flailing wildly and its eyes wild with confusion. Buck rushed to its throat, his jaws easily large enough to encircle the wolf’s entire neck, and bit down to end its suffering. Three.
Something excruciating tore into Buck’s side and the smell of mold permeated the scent of blood. Dakota sank his teeth into Buck’s ribs and tore, sending dark blood in whetted spatters across the dead forest floor. Buck shook him off with a snarl before twisting and grabbing the last wolf by the loose skin at its shoulder blades. The pain of it made the wolf cry out and snap wildly, finally releasing Buck’s leg.
Buck turned and hurled it into Dakota. The two wolves made contact with a heavy thud, their limbs scattering dead leaves as they tumbled. The smaller wolf scrambled to its feet first and cowered when it looked up at Buck, as if only then realizing Buck’s size. It turned and took off into the night, its tail between its legs. Four.
Dakota pulled himself up after a moment, his gaze hateful and unflinching. “So this is what it is, Buck? After everything I gave you?”
Buck limped and circled as Dakota began to move, his head low, teeth bared. He refused a response and instead growled. And for a moment--just a moment--he smelled a campfire.
“Fine. I hope he’s worth dying for.”
Dakota lunged and Buck matched him, the two snapping and snarling at each other wildly, looking for purchase in a blindingly-fast succession of gnashing teeth. It was horrible and instinctual, no deliberation, no strategy, just pure, unadulterated bloodlust. Dakota pulled and ripped at Buck’s leg; Buck tore a bit of flesh from Dakota’s back. It was chaos until the two shrank back from each other in calculated harmony, sharing one last long look punctuated by deep, ravenous growls of animals fighting for their lives.
Dakota sprung forward again, but ducked under Buck’s jaws to sink his teeth into Buck’s chest. Buck bit down on Dakota’s ear and Dakota ripped himself away to fall onto his back, losing his ear in the process, his lips pulled back across his teeth in a desperate grimace. Buck could see it in Dakota’s eyes--the moment of realization that he was dead the instant he ended up on his back. He snarled and kicked in despair, his back claws slicing deep into Buck’s stomach before Buck slammed a heavy paw down onto his mate’s chest and clamped his jaws around his exposed throat.
Dakota tried once to thrash, but only impaled himself further onto Buck’s sharp teeth. He whined.
“Buck, please, wait--”
Buck snapped his teeth shut and the resistance made his skull ring.
The forest fell silent with a nauseating crunch.
--
vii.
When Buck drew back from Dakota’s lifeless body, the act of rising caused his vision to swim and his stomach to lurch. He felt something soft along his shoulder, holding him up, the smell of his favorite napping place. Texas ran his nose along Buck’s neck, helping him find his balance.
He blinked hard, past the stars and the creeping darkness--you hear things as a pup. Losing a mate feels like losing your heart. Everything becomes empty, hollow. Your body stops feeling like your own. That deep, beautiful connection flies off to the stars along with the fallen and you are left with a world suddenly silent after a lifetime filled with the voice of a love that can’t be described with mere words.
But when Buck’s vision returned, when the sickness passed, even with every corner of his body throbbing with sharp, dripping pain, all he felt was himself. Finally. After years of emptiness, of torture, fear; after years of feeling like he’d never know the kind of love the stories talked about, he felt whole. Something in his chest swelled, something that had been taken from him, and he suddenly couldn’t breathe with it. It took up too much space, made his breaths shallow and quick. It smothered him, this wholeness, and he was impossibly, irrevocably happy.
Texas craned his head to press tiny licks to Buck’s cheek, whining softly, spurred to worry with Buck’s hyperventilating. His tail swished against Buck’s thigh and Buck finally turned and pushed his nose into Texas’s neck, running his face over Texas’s head. It was over. It was over and they were okay, Texas was okay, they were okay. Texas gave a happy little huff before stepping back.
With the space between them, Buck checked Texas over. His fur was matted with blood and Buck could not exactly tell how much of it was his own, save for a long, obvious gash in his thigh. Texas didn’t give him much time to study, however, as he began to walk back in the direction of his farm, favoring the right side of his body.
Buck watched him and for the first time, felt the winter chill. Something thick dripped from his stomach. He did not move to follow.
Texas turned back with a soft yip. When Buck still did not move, Texas spun around and gently nipped at Buck’s tail to tug, but before Buck could pull away, Texas straightened, dropped Buck’s tail, and jerked his head around, his ears up, listening to something Buck could not hear. Texas turned a moment later, whining a little more incessantly, desperately, and Buck only stepped close enough to press his nose to Texas’s neck and push him towards his pack. His mate was calling him home, and Buck wanted him to go.
Buck turned and began to limp in the opposite direction, towards his own home, towards the Christmas trees and pudding and hugs and campfires. Texas barked, once, whining, pleading, demanding. And Buck turned only enough for their eyes to meet, for them to share a silent conversation, even without a pack bond to pass thoughts through.
Buck is bleeding very badly.
Buck would be difficult to carry, even for a completely healthy wolf.
Texas is bleeding very badly.
Texas is in no condition to carry Buck.
Buck made this trip once before, he can make it again.
So, in exchange for their freedom, Buck took one last choice from Texas. He turned and began limping through the trees. After a long moment, he finally heard the rustle of Texas starting off for home.
--
viii.
But he knew. Buck might not have been very smart when it came to books and art and history and math, but he knew his body and he knew that the way he was bleeding wasn’t right to survive this trip. Not this time.
Still, he tried.
To keep going.
Every step felt like the last, like his leg might give out from under him, like his stomach might rip through the seams, but with every step he promised, just one more, because he could, because he was free.
The forest was alive with sounds, even in the early hours of the morning, even in the dead of winter. Mice scurried, a squirrel moved about its tree, even an owl turned to hoot at him as he passed.
His paws stumbled and he crashed into the snow. He sighed into the softness of it before forcing himself to stand and keep walking, leaving a trail of rubies behind him.
Some time later, after the moon had lazed her way across the sky just a bit, his body shifted by instinct. Smaller, he would not need as much blood, it thought.
He kept a hand to his stomach and he kept walking. Blood dripped from his elbow from the butchered wound at his shoulder; the scarlet from the bite on his chest oozed and mixed with the wine red falling from his abdomen, he couldn’t feel his foot anymore. And still he walked.
He walked until he was uncertain of if he could really even see anymore.
But he was whole.
He shivered from the cold and dropped to his knees.
He got up again, took a few more steps, and then fell.
He did not get up a third time.
He rolled, instead, his hand laying loosely on his stomach. He stared up at the stars, so beautiful and bright so far from the city. He focused on his breathing. But he was tempted.
He was tempted to pray.
He thought--this is divinity. The little flecks of light in deepest black--the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.
He began to whisper, his voice even and calm, so at peace, so whole.
“I’m going to hunt you a rabbit.”
He laughed between breaths, crinkles deepening beside his eyes, because imagining it was the purest joy. It made something inside him leap into his throat, a pure, childish thing he thought had died a long time ago. A thing that belonged to an angel now.
“Rabbits are best for courting,” he swallowed, tasting metal, “Because they’re so small, you have to get really close to eat it together.”
He closed his eyes, unable to fight the heaviness of it anymore. “It’s romantic.”
He sighed. His bed of snow was suddenly very warm. He smiled at his dream.
“I’m going to hunt you a rabbit."