"you dangle on the leash of your own longing, your need grows teeth." -- Margaret Atwood, The Animals in That Country; from âSpeeches for Dr Frankensteinâ
cw: wounds, implied violence, talk of blood, uhh me being mushy over werewolf Joseph, gender-neutral reader
The fire crackled softly, its glow spilling over the cabin walls, painting the room in hues of amber and shadow. Flecks of light flicked across the worn wooden beams, dancing along the edges where the dark gathered. He sat still, nestled in the warmth, the flames reflecting in the depths of his eyes. His pointed ears twitched at the occasional crack of the embers, but otherwise, he remained motionlessâwatchful, calm.
You approached from the doorway, your steps shifting against the creaking floorboards. Kneeling beside him, you set down the first aid kit, its zipper cutting through the stillness of the room.
His gaze shifted, tracking your hands as you laid out gauze and bandages with routined care. The faintest of huffs escaped his nose, his version of acknowledgment, as he extended his arm toward you. No words exchanged. There never were.
"Letâs get these changed," you murmured, your voice barely disturbing the air between you.
You took his arm in your hands, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips, the rough texture of old scars mingling with fresh ones. The bandage unraveled slowly, each layer revealing the healing beneath. A faint tremor passed through him, so subtle you might have missed it if you hadnât been so close.
As you worked, the fireâs glow bathed the two of you in warmth. He watched, eyes flicking between the fire and the slow movements of your fingers as they worked the fresh bandages into place.
It was routine now. Heâd sit by the fire, youâd kneel beside him, tending to wounds that spoke of violence he never explained. You didnât ask. Instead, you learned to listen to the small cuesâthe soft exhale, the shift of his posture, the way his eyes lingered on you before returning to the flames.
The old bandage crumpled in your palm as you set it aside, your thumb ghosting over the newly healed skin. The worst of the inflammation had faded, the edges of the wound knitting together. You took a moment, letting the quiet settle around you again before speaking.
"Itâs healing well," you said, the words softer than you intended.
A low rumble stirred in his chest, vibrating through the space between you. His eyes flicked up, locking with yours for a heartbeat, then returned to the fire. You couldnât help but smile.
"Youâve been a good patient," you added, your fingers resuming their work.
He didnât answer, but the subtle way his body relaxed beneath your touch was enough.
The bandages on his arms were easy, but the deep gash in his sideâstill raw, still stubborn in its refusal to healâwas the one that troubled you most. You didnât know what had caused these wounds, nor did he offer any explanation. His body bore the marks of bloodshed long fought and endured. Scars layered on scars, and yet, here he was.
You worked carefully, your fingers brushing over his side as you unraveled the last of the bandage. His breath hitched, just barely, but you felt itâa flicker of discomfort. The gash along his torso, though healing, was still raw, angry. You winced for him but kept your focus, your hands steady as you cleaned the wound with gentle, practiced movements.
He didnât pull away, but his gaze slid to the floor, a subtle shift that made your stomach knot. It was in these moments, the ones where the silence between you felt more like a weight than a comfort, that you wished heâd let you in just a little more. But he never did.
âAlmost done,â you whispered, though he didnât need the reassurance. You weren't sure if it was for him or for yourself.
His chest rose and fell with a slow, deliberate rhythm, as if controlling the pain through breath alone. The firelight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the curve of his lips pressed into a thin line. His pointed ears twitched again, though you couldnât read it yetâfrustration? Agony?
You wrapped the fresh bandage around his torso, your hands brushing against his skin with each pass. He didnât flinch, didnât react, though his body seemed to relax minutely with each passing moment.
You tied off the bandage, your fingers lingering for just a moment too long, the warmth of his body seeping into your palms. You cleared your throat, pulling your hands away, suddenly aware of the closeness between you.
âThere,â you said softly, settling back onto your heels, giving him space again. "All done."
For a long moment, he didnât move. His eyes, dark and unreadable, lingered on yours. Something hung in the airâlike words he wasnât ready to speak. You waited, your breath held tight in your chest, hoping for some sign, some crack in the silence.
Instead, he dipped his head in a slow, deliberate nod. It wasnât much, but it was something. The quiet between you felt different nowâless heavy.
You stood, the old bandages clutched in your hand, and moved to toss them into the fire. The flames licked at the fabric, devouring it in seconds, casting the scent of smoke into the air. You watched the embers rise, your back to him, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened, how the room felt smaller when you were both in it.
Behind you, you heard the softest shift of fabric, the weight of him rising to his feet. You turned just in time to see him step closer to the fire, his gaze fixed on the flames, expression unreadable. He stood just beside you, the space between you barely enough to call distance.
It wasnât much, but it was something.
Without a word, he reached for a log by the hearth and placed it on the fire. The flames roared briefly before settling into their steady crackle, the warmth spreading further through the cabin.
You stood there, side by side, staring into the fire.