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lupine

Summary: Dark gets himself in trouble, and the PA is the only one who can help. (werewolf!Dark au)

Pairing: Damien/Dark x DA/PA

Warnings: None really, just awkwardness, fluff, and angst

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It started with, of all things, a handkerchief.

One wouldn't think it, given the absolute state of devastation the studio is in. Lights and cameras alike toppled, glass littering the ground, holes in fake walls and shredded fabric draped over the skeletons of sets; a haze of smoke even hangs over the studio like an irritable cloud, the crackle of flames in some distant corner the clear culprit.

Above it all, the screaming.

“You mopped up all your blood with my hanky! I think that’s a problem, Host!”

“The Host scoffs. He never stole Bim Trimmer’s handkerchief; he would at the very least ask permission.”

Dark groans. Even from the void, the screeching and the arguing worms into his skull, pounding against the walls until it aches. That shouldn’t even be possible, given the circumstances, and yet.

Bim marches up, tossing the blood-dotted cotton cloth at Host’s chest. It connects with the softest thump and tumbles to the floor. “Who else is bleeding all the time? You’re paying for my dry cleaning!”

“The Host-“

“Oh, I was wondering where that went.” Wilford pops in from nowhere in particular to scoop up the crumpled hanky, wrapping it around one finger. “Say, thanks for finding it.”

Dark groans again, his impossible headache multiplying at both Wilford’s obnoxious aura and the extra noise. Cursing under his breath, he crosses through the void to appear before the three men. “That’s enough,” he grumbles, extending just a bit of power to darken the room. A bit of presence never hurt. “Wil, give it back.”

“But I have butterfly knife cuts,” Wilford protests, just as Bim squawks a scandalized, “Not with his blood on it!”

“The Host would like to remind Bim Trimmer that he does, in fact, eat raw humanoid meat.”

“It’s not raw,” Bim snaps, then turns to Dark. “He should at least clean it first. I demand—“

“But yours are the softest and most absorbent—“

“The air flickers as the Host describes it, flashing red and cyan—“

Gritting his teeth, because his borrowed heart pounding so hard can only be a precursor to even worse havoc, Dark takes a void portal out of the studio.

It’s only gotten worse over time. Everyone arguing over this, that, and the other, living in each other’s pockets— it was all bound to end in some kind of fight, given everyones volatility.

Starting with squabbles over dinner, over driving, escalating to room assignments and scheduling conflicts… now, apparently, over personal property.

He used to get headaches, being the mayor of such a large city. The stress of his job practically guaranteed it, a dependency on caffeine and workaholism resulting in little sleep only compounding the issue. Hell, before that night he was finally wearing down enough to see someone about it.

Now, the doctor’s out of the question, and they’re closer to a bomb going off inside his head.

Run it off, hunt, fight.

Dark sighs. The wolf doesn’t help matters.

Ever since he took this body— he regrets it, regrets it every day— he took in the wolf, as well; it’s the District Attorney’s long-held secret, finally come to light.

For the most part, it’s just another aspect of his new life. He’s a bit more irritable, his senses more powerful, but the wolf is content to take a back seat to more pressing matters it doesn’t have the cognitive wherewithal to care about.

When he gets frazzled, however…

He opens his eyes to find himself outside the manor, not in the void as he’d intended. Likely, the result of his wolf sensing conflict and wanting out, which explains—

Run it off!

It itches under his skin, tugging like— well, like an overexcited dog on a leash.

He isn’t fond of his friend’s final gift to him. Rolling his eyes, he shrugs off his suit jacket. No need to shell out for a second suit in a year.

He tries not to indulge the beast too often; God only know what may happen if he loses any more of his humanity to some creature he didn’t ask for. That said… it’s theirs, a last connection to who they once were.

In a strange way, taking care of their wolf feels like the least he could do, after…

Besides, the feeling of fully stretching into his paws, shaking out his thick black mane of fur just can’t be beat.

With surprising speed given his enormous size, he lopes off from his stash of clothes, paws pounding the grass and leaf litter. His markers aren’t fresh enough to the wolf’s liking, and it takes great care to sniff out the proper places to refresh: near the front gate, carefully skirt King’s grove so as not to interrupt, into the deep woods.

It’s where the wolf feels most at home, a great canopy overhead and underbrush hiding the most delicious and interesting scents. Thankfully, his body has no need for food, and so the wolf isn’t going to chase if he allows his mind to wander a little.

At least it’s a nice evening: a lovely sunset off to the west, visible in gaps through the trunks; a gentle breeze slowly cooling off the heat of the day. It’s enough that, with the exercise, he can start to cool his own ire and frustrations.

It’s simple enough to fix, really. A small portion of Bim’s costuming budget can cover new handkerchiefs, another restock of the first aid cabinet if Wil insists on practicing his butterfly knife.

Host can be left to his own devices, mostly, and the good doctor patches his eyes regularly.

No harm done. If only he’d kept his cool head after that night— goodness knows that’s what he really needs. Then again, what is the PA for?

Breaking his heart all over again, it seems. Their reactions, their looks, their mannerisms… it’s all his old friend, every last inch of them.

Just without the parts that remember.

Not for lack of trying, and not that they don’t remember, it’s only… faint. Patchy. A sense of deja vu or odd familiarity as opposed to smiling so big and bright when they see him, like they used to.

A whine bubbles up from the wolf’s throat involuntarily, and Dark quickly tries to shake it off. He can’t cry, and there’s no point in it, anyway. No matter how badly he’d like to.

It whines again, despite his control. Before he can begin to wrest away even more and properly manage his emotions, the wolf yelps and leaps back, scrabbling over the ground.

The sharp pain hits Dark just a moment later.

It’s like a wasp sting, sharp in his foreleg, and a burn spreading through the limb soon after. His attention now caught, Dark brings himself back to the front, scanning the ground for whatever may have caused it.

No snakes, no actual wasps. Just a patch of flowers, mixed in with the brambles.

Softly draped petals, a soft purple occasionally lightening to a lilac in the middle of the petals. The scent stings his nose powerfully, forcing him to draw back.

Aconite. Wolfsbane. Shit.

He bends his great head down to sniff out the damage. The brambles are easy enough to pick out, and the burn fades as quickly as they leave his skin, but it still smells of the stuff.

Unpleasant, but not deadly, not with such a small wound and concentration. Probably.

He doesn’t think he can die, anyway.

Regardless, this plant needs dealt with before he can run into worse trouble with it. He can’t touch it, but that’s the one positive side to his unholy powers: he doesn’t have to touch things to move them. He closes his eyes and thinks his way back to humanoid.

…

He peeks one eye open. He’s at the same height, a long furred muzzle right there when he crosses his eyes to look down it.

He shuts his eyes and tries to refocus. Humanoid. Skin. Two feet.

He feels no shift in perspective, no cool air against bared skin, nothing. Just a massive black wolf in a lot of trouble.

Shit.

—

Dark waits at the edge of the woods, debating himself.

On one hand, telling everyone about this will just make it more complicated for him. Only the good doctor really knows of his condition, medically necessary for the sake of keeping others at bay during full moons and other… unfortunate occurrences. Everyone else will either panic, try to use his new form for ill, or make fun, and none of those sound like a mess he wants to deal with.

On the other…

He feels a begrudging fondness for his collection of Mark’s cast-offs, and he knows that it’s returned, if only as an equally-begrudging respect of his position. If he were to go missing, the entire manor would worry.

The entire manor would mount a search party for their wayward leader, and likely get into even worse trouble along the way. Not even to mention the disasters that would occur without him running around and putting out fires.

They’d even rope in the PA, and that…

That would happen either way, wouldn’t it? They’ve never been able to leave him to his own devices.

He at least tries to make himself smaller as he pads up to the back door, finding only a touch of difficulty with the handle. His forepaws are hand-like enough that they retain some dexterity; it’s the fitting through the door with his bulk that’s the problem.

Mid-wedging himself through the door, his sensitive ears catch a ping, the rush of electricity that signals a Google is on the way. In less than a second, their home defense officer— Red, as the most outwardly aggressive— stands before him.

“Stand back. Unidentified Intruder, you have approximately five seconds before—“ He pauses, brow furrowing. “Hold for a scan.”

If this is how he would treat any intruder, Dark thinks, it’s a good thing he can feel anyone getting too close, himself. He grumbles at the ticklish beam of light sweeping over his front.

Red reads the scans, but his abnormal confused expression doesn’t change. “What? You can’t possibly be—“

Dark gives him an icy stare, the deepest rumble in his chest he can manage.

Red simply blinks before his chest light blinks on. “… Paging Dr. Iplier.”

--

"Well... are you sure you aren't dying?"

Dark curls his lip, showing one fang lethal white.

"Right," Edward Iplier sighs, pushing back even further from Dark's hulking form on his wheeled stool. He can't get much further than a few inches before bumping into the wall of the clinic. "Well, you aren't. Your scratch is healing up, you aren't sick. You're just stuck."

Dark snorts. He had figured out as much on his own, and it didn't take a doctorate-- or a fake doctorate-- to do it.

"Unfortunately, I'm not exactly an expert on lycanthropy. Hell, you gave me the basics of the condition when I wasn't even sure if it was real." Edward spins a bit towards the counter, flipping through Dark's file. "Though I don't think any of the mythology mentions a werewolf getting stuck as a result of wolfsbane. Lost clothes or true love seeing them, perhaps, but not wolfsbane."

He looks back over his shoulder with a small grin. "Unless you happened to see the PA out on your adventure."

Immediately, Dark bares his full array of teeth in a snarl. As he does, however, the room flashes in red and cyan, the first expression of his power since his unfortunate brush with wolfsbane.

Edward looks up to it just as he does, mystified. "Fascinating," he murmurs, and then-- "Hold on... actually, that just might explain it. We have no idea how varying sources of magic interact. Perhaps the sources that give you control of the void and this wolf form are at odds; the wolfsbane is only the catalyst."

It would sound stupid, and he might scoff if he weren't in this particular predicament, but...

Well, it's a better explanation than any other they've had thus far.

"The only issue there is, well... when it wears off." Edward frowns, drumming his fingers on his knee in thought. "I can do some research. Look into people more well-versed in magic than myself. If not a ready solution, they may be able to whip something up."

Dark stares him down.

"... it might be a while," Edward says sheepishly. "I can't guarantee finding someone fast, or how long any cure might take. You'll have to be a wolf for... a while. I'm sorry."

He'd say he isn't proud of snarling in the terrible doctor's face and storming out, but... he is.

--

He can’t do his job like this.

He has no powers like this— at least, not without extreme emotion— and his canine muzzle and throat make speech impossible. Even his forepaws, human-like as they are, are too unwieldy and large to write little notes on time sheets properly.

Besides, the gentler egos like Eric are terrified of him.

… More than usual. He just catches whiffs of clean laundry and pants-shitting Terror. Figuratively.

God, is he thankful it’s figurative.

Eventually, he just storms off the set, wedging his way out of the door and padding up the stairs. He’s no use being present for the filming, not until they need a massive wolf-creature for some project.

… Which might be an idea, really. He’ll… try to write it down. Perhaps writing big is the answer.

Thankfully, there’s scratch paper and pens on his desk, neatly placed as he prefers it to be. Granted, it’s quickly undone by a sweep of his huge paw, but a little mess is better than a broken drawer or cabinet door off its hinges.

The pens are newly tiny, and he needs to hold them as gently as he can in order to not squeeze them and get ink all over his pads. One in paw, he slides over a fresh sheet and touches the pen to paper.

He meant to make a big and legible list for the PA to work with when they eventually arrive, but—

The handwriting looks even worse than his very first attempt. As a child.

Dark grumbles, shoving the paper away to replace with a second fresh sheet. Breathe, slower, bigger letters. Don’t think too much about it.

Better, actually legible, but he’s going to run out of paper; the title ‘PA’ takes up an entire sheet, itself.

The wolf hates the tiny, focused movements anyway, grumbling to him about the growing cramp in his forepaw. There’s no point in making strange marks. To the wolf, it’s worthless— and anything without a point is not worth its attention.

Dark casts the pen aside, giving a frustrated huff. Being unable to communicate is worthless, and if he can’t speak or write—

His eyes catch the keyboard. It’s dusty, just as the monitor and tower of his computer. It’s well past his time, not to his tastes, but the more tech savvy egos insisted he have one in his office, just in case.

There are letter keys. Probably some way to speak the words aloud. It shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out, right?

He lifts one big paw to hover over the keys.

Nope. His ‘fingers’ are big enough to hit several keys at once, and if he were to use a claw to hunt and peck, he might just pierce the damn thing.

With a groan, he lowers his massive head to the desk with a soft thump, closing his eyes.

In too short a time, his ears perk at the softest knock— a familiar one, with an equally familiar scent. Fuck.

“Hey, Dark? It’d be really helpful if you actually came down. That was a little— we’re missing you down here. Things are a bit chaotic and I can really only handle so much of…” The PA sighs wearily. “All of that.”

Dark doesn’t answer. He can’t, and barks and growls and grumbles won’t really give them the excuse they’re looking for.

“Dark? I understand that this might be your own work hours, you might be busy, but— I really need your help here.”

The doorknob rattles, then turns, his office door slowly pushing inward to let in a thin stream of golden light.

He can’t let them see him. Dark scrabbles back a bit, claws catching on the fine rug, but it’s little use; he might have midnight-black fur, but he’s eight feet on his hind paws and hundreds of pounds of muscle. His head might just duck under the desk, but his shoulders are a no-go.

“PA. What are you doing up here?”

“Huh? Oh, hi, Google. I need to speak to the boss really quick.”

Oh, bless Google. He can’t say which of the four they are from sound alone, but if it gets the PA out of here, they’ll all get a reward.

“Oh, perhaps you haven’t been notified. Dark is indisposed at the moment, he won’t be able to meet you.”

“Really?” He can hear the raised eyebrow. “I don’t buy it. He leaves his static everywhere he goes, I can feel it.”

… does he? Dark sneaks a peek at his furred arm, but his fur lies flat.

“That may be, but you really shouldn’t—“

“It’s an emergency, it can’t wait,” the PA interrupts, and then, “Okay, Google, could you go check on the brawl downstairs? Thank you very much.”

Their saccharine sweet request is quickly followed by Google’s chime, and the door pushes open the rest of the way, filling the space with light.

Despite his best efforts, he can’t make himself any smaller.

“I’m sorry for bursting in, Dark, but this is really— huh?” Their steps slow, still coming for his desk. “Are you hiding behind..? What is that?”

He can’t freeze and hope they’ll forget or get distracted; they’re too clever and stubborn for that, and he knows it well. With a groan, he scoots back and allows himself to peek over the polished top of his desk.

Framed by the hall light, the PA indeed looks just the same, but more ruffled, hair and clothes mussed and the bloody scent of blooming bruises and cuts on their skin.

Beyond that, their jaw hangs open, eyes wide; they remain this way, simply staring, for what seems like hours. Then, very quietly, they manage to say, “Dark?”

Begrudgingly, he nods.

After a second, they mirror his nod. “Okay,” they reply, a touch faint. “Well- first things first, do you think you can scare them straight? Ah… out of trouble?”

Adaptable and unflappable, that’s his— that’s… admirable.

A little scare would do them all some good if they’re forgetting human fragility.

He passes them on all fours, hoping to be a bit less intimidating and perhaps fit through the door better. By their muttered curse— “What the fuck?”— and his stilted push through the frame, one shoulder at a time, he fails on both accounts.

There’s a brawl, alright— he can hear the shouting before he even reaches the studio door. God only knows what it could be about.

Or, perhaps, the PA. He glances back over one shoulder.

They’re following him, at least, and they hesitate only a step before sending him a shrug. “I don’t even know with them, sometimes. They won’t listen to me. Or the time out alarm. Or klaxon. Or siren.”

Then it’s definitely an emergency— the siren usually does the trick, if not the klaxon. Good thing they came up to find him, if only to keep everyone from finally managing to kill each other.

Permanently, that is.

He only takes a moment to survey the scene once the PA opens the door. Much like last time, lights and chairs have toppled, shouting matches in each corner.

Dark sends one more pointed look back before taking a deep breath and letting out a piercing howl, cutting through the din and echoing off each wall.

When the sound finally stops resonating, both in his chest and off the walls, he takes a look around with his best glare. One could hear a pin drop, the squabbling egos looking over with wide eyes and thundering hearts.

Unfortunately, he can’t smile in this form.

“Alright,” the PA calls, coming from behind him with their hands still firmly over their ears. “You heard him, that’s enough. Now, clean up so we can get back to work? We’re behind enough as it is.”

Any almost-rebuttals quickly fall silent as Dark turns the full focus of his stare, and before long the multitudes are cleaning up in dutiful silence.

Really, he ought to do this more often.

Beside him, the PA sighs and lowers their hands. “Thank you, Dark. I wouldn’t have bothered you if I’d known… how did this whole thing happen?”

Dark huffs, ears twisting back.

“You can’t talk— I’m guessing it’s also a long story?” They wince sympathetically when he manages a nod. “Well… I know you’re pretty self-sufficient, but… if there’s anything I can do for you?”

Not unless they know magic, and… he wouldn’t ask it of them, anyway. After everything that happened…

Once more, without his permission, the wolf whines. He really needs to get himself—

“Oh, no, hey…”

The gentleness in their voice forces him to look, and they’re so soft. Their eyes to their soft frown to the gentle and careful hand reaching out for him; they’re soft and caring and them.

Trying so hard when his father died, even though he was a bastard no one should shed their tears over. When he didn’t make councilman his first attempt, arms tight around his shoulders.

When Mark—

He growls and backs up a step, only showing a hint of teeth. He’s not about to bite, or even snap, but he can’t.

Their hand pulls back instantly. “I’m sorry,” they murmur softly. “I won’t touch. I’ll see what I can do to help you out, okay? I’m sure you miss being… you.”

They have no earthly idea, and it kills him.

—

He opts to stay in the studio for the next while. Perhaps he may be unable to write time codes or give verbal direction, but no further outbursts occur with him sitting behind the cameras.

It isn’t to say that no one gets close, but as hearts race and scents turn acrid, the involved parties give him a quick, nervous glance before dropping the matter. If he’d known it’d be this easy, he’d have been in wolf form quite a bit more.

Perhaps not, though, as now that the issue is dealt with, the wolf gets… distracted.

It’s not an unusual thing, the wolf going off on some tangent or rabbit trail, following what piques its interest rather than what Dark would like it to do; fair enough, considering he’d rather it rest very quiet and patient in the back of his mind. This, however…

Sunscent blood. Who? What? We have to take care.

Firstly, sunscent. Undoubtedly its name for the PA, a scent and presence as close to a sunny meadow as he’s been able to feel in ages, and now marred by the metallic twang of blood.

Not that he likes it much, either. Even were he humanoid, he’d rush them off to Edward’s office before returning with an even firmer hand. It’s a poorly-kept secret how deep his fondness really lies.

The wolf, though, is a different story.

It wants… things. Things he’d be mortified to express, and the simple thought of it embarrasses him enough, already.

Herd them off to be treated, then somewhere safe and quiet. Tuck them in and curl around them so that they’ll be well-protected and warm, nuzzled into his fur.

At the very deepest part of him, how different is it than what he wanted as Damien, really? Wanting to keep them, however he could, to the point of flying in the face of his entire political career. He always wanted that.

The freshest deer is a bit of a change, but the principal is the same as their favorite meal.

And that’s not even getting into how much it wants to—

He groans to himself, ears hot, putting his head on his paws. Of course the wolf would also be… less proper.

The PA peers back at him, brow furrowed in concern. “Are you alright? It won’t be too much longer, but if you need to go, that’s okay.”

He gives a single thump of his tail, remaining immobile otherwise. He’s not going anywhere.

Not that the wolf would let him if he even wanted to.

That’s why, when he opens his eyes from a slight doze, the fact that they’re gone sends him into a bit of a panic.

He can’t get control of the thing before the wolf scrambles to its paws, shoving out past the chairs and cameras to the door, sniffing. The scent trails down the hallway, up the flight of stairs, and he follows it like a homing beacon.

All the while, Dark scolds and threatens. Damn it, you cur, calm down! They’re somewhere here, you don’t need to follow their every move!

Find them. Hurt, have to look after.

They aren’t that hurt. They probably went to the doctor, if anything, so can you calm down?

The wolf doesn’t calm down, but ceases to sniff in order to make a beeline directly for Edward’s office. As he approaches, his ears perk up, catching soft voices on the other side of the door.

“… you don’t know what to do.”

Edward sighs. “I’m no magician. I can patch up a cut, but something like this—“

“Well, you need to try harder,” the PA snaps, their hissing at the end coming from a place of pain rather than anger. “There has to be something to bring him back.”

“I am trying.” Though he sounds like a wellspring of patience, there’s a twinge to his stinging antiseptic scent that belies his frustration. “It’s not easy to find a magical expert, you know.”

“Shows what you know. I know—“Then, hesitantly… “I’m sorry, I… I don’t know where that came from. I don’t know. I’ll get to looking, too, see what I can find.”

They know… what do they know? As far as Dark’s aware, the only mage they’ve met in any capacity is…

They couldn’t remember Celine, could they?

“I accept the apology. I understand you’re worried, too. Anything to help would be much appreciated.” A drawer closes, and fingers drum on a solid surface briefly. “… you know, while we search, I think there’s something else you could do.”

“What is it?”

Dark also leans forward, intrigued.

“He seems more settled around you, always has. I think it’ll do him some good if you stick around until we find a solution; it might help him stay himself, and less upset, besides.”

What would be better for him and his meddling: a ripped up lab coat, or a new set of equipment? Both, perhaps, given the double-edged sword either option presents. Either stay himself at the cost of being reminded of the old them every moment, or be able to avoid the memory at the cost of losing himself to the wolf; either way, it’s a rotten deal.

“… I think I can make that work,” they murmur. “As long as I can, anyway. Mark can get… you know.”

… He can handle the memories.

Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, he makes himself slink back to the studio. Once back to his spot, he curls up and pretends to doze once more.

They’ll come looking for him soon enough, and when they do…

Their babysitting won’t be hell on Earth. Mostly.

—

He escorts them to their room the next day when they arrive with a larger suitcase than usual.

Sure, anyone else could, and they’ve been here often enough to find it on their own, but it’s only polite.

That, and the wolf wants to stay right by their side and moon.

He did it enough already as a human, he doesn’t need to do it more.

“I know it’s probably weird and you don’t like it,” the PA explains as they lug their suitcase into the room, “but… well, I’ll be honest with you. They think someone keeping you company will help you out while they look for an answer.”

It’s certainly weird, he can agree, but as for disliking it? He’s thankful he can’t speak. Rather, he wags his tail once.

“Yeah, okay. It won’t be so bad. I even have an idea for your communication problem, I think!” The PA unzips their bag, digging through various bits and bobs in search of… something.

Finally, when what he hopes is almost everything they carry in that damned thing lies on the bed, they pull out a notebook. “See? You can tell everyone what you think!”

He blinks at them, then slowly shakes his head. With one paw, he mimes writing with a pen before crushing it into an almost-fist.

“No, I figured as much. That’s why I filled part of it out.” With a smile, they flip open the notebook, turning pages for him to see.

He’ll admit, it’s clever; in their neatest and clearest large print, they’ve labeled pages with simple responses: yes, no, perhaps. There are even a few delineating needs like office work, down time, fresh air.

“And,” they continue, flipping to blank pages, “there’s space to add more. Like if you want to yell at someone or give some order. Or tell someone to fuck off if you want.”

Dark snorts, amused. What he would not have given to have that ability as the mayor.

The PA smirks. “I figured you’d like something like that. I think you’re allowed to say it, considering— you deal with enough.

“Also,” they continue, whipping out their pen to add to the collection, “it has thicker pages so it’s easier with your claws, and I put a long string through the rings so you can carry it around. How does that sound?”

They think of everything, don’t they? He thumps his tail in approval, bowing his great head when they reach out to loop it around his neck. It rests comfortably, little weight or texture to bother him.

“Is that good? Any changes, Dark?”

He lifts the book to scan through his responses. Finally, he settles on Not yet.

“Good! That’s what the other pages are for.” They smile at him, the sort of smile that makes the wolf want to jump up on the bed beside them and curl up. “I’m gonna settle in a little. Meet you down there in twenty.”

He forces himself down with the promise of being able to use his fuck off one time. It’s hard to choose, really, and a close race, but Bim gets it.

If Blue wasn’t going to be so stoic about everything, he’d have the honor. Alas.

—

First things first, now that he has a follower with hands, that wolfsbane patch has to go.

The trouble is in getting them to understand what he wants them to do.

“I know you want me to follow you outside,” the PA says with thinly-veiled frustration, “but why? You can do whatever it is you do out there on your own, can’t you?”

Dark grumbles and nudges at them, gently as he can. It still nearly knocks them off their feet.

“Hey! Don’t manhandle me,” they spit, glaring up at his full height. “Listen, if you want it so bad, I can go out in a minute. What do you even want me for, anyway?”

Frustrated, he flips through his pages and shrugs, lifting to them emphatically. How the hell is he supposed to do that?

Thankfully, the PA is smart enough to put the pieces together. “I didn’t cover every base. Hmm… oh, okay, just give me a few minutes— may I see your book?”

Gingerly, he hands over the notebook, watching as the PA scribbles on various fresh pages. It only takes a few minutes before they hand it back, and he curiously flips through the new entries.

“An alphabet for you,” they explain, and it is: three or four letters to a page, big enough to be visible and point to without muddying the word. “It’ll be slow, but it’s better than getting upset with each other. Now, literally, spell it out for me.”

He huffs a laugh, raising one claw. Wolfsbane patch. Remove it.

The PA mutters along, writing on their own notes to keep track. “Wolfsbane— oh! You mean that part is really..?”

He nods, shivering at the memory of burning scent and pain. Unfortunately.

“Well, if you’re going to be running around out there, yeah.” They close their notes and scoot back from the desk. “I’ll go see if I can scrape up some tools, I’ll meet you outside.”

It’s endearing, seeing them with big shears and a bucket and gardening gloves. All they’d really need is a sun hat to be the picture of a gardener. At the very least, it’s sweet enough that he doesn’t mind taking his time in walking through the woods while they pick through at their own pace.

“I knew wolves had big territories,” they comment, only a little out of breath as they slide down a small hill behind him, “but I didn’t really think you’d take the time to build one up. It… doesn’t seem high on your priority list.”

He huffs an agreement, too busy walking ahead to pull out his notebook. They’re right, a territory wouldn’t be very pressing— except the wolf needs a space to call its own. More than just the confines of a big house, anyway.

He can smell the aconite before he can see it, his lip curling in distaste as he forces the wolf to get closer to the scent of bad danger. He had to have been really lost in thought to miss it before.

“Is this..? Oh, jeez.” The PA stope beside him, eyeing the patch of flowers mixed into the brambles. “That’s… a lot of trouble.”

Dark eyes them curiously. The PA leans back away from the flowers, an uncomfortable expression on their face as they take it all in, which strikes him as supremely odd; humans can’t smell it like he can, won’t be repulsed by the mere brush of the petals against there skin. To them, it should just be a flower.

It isn’t, though. It isn’t upset at the size of the job, but the nature of the job. The flowers, not the brambles, but the PA smells of nothing but human.

… could it be a memory?

“You weren’t kidding.” The PA sighs, the tension falling out of their shoulders. “Okay, this might take a little while. Make sure nothing comes to eat me while I’m toiling away, alright?”

And it’s gone. It never lasts forever, does it? He gives them an agreeing rumble and settles down to wait, alternating watching them dig and scanning the trees.

For both of them, it’s boring work. The PA cuts, scoops, dumps, tugs and mutters at the brambles, over and over; the only sound of progress being the rustling of plant matter falling into their bucket.

As for him, there’s little to do. No creature in their right mind would tangle with the combined scent of wolf and human coming from this area. The repetitive rustling grows stale fast, and he can’t even really enjoy the PA’s subtle scent, tinged with wolfsbane as it is.

If it wasn’t necessary, he wouldn’t have insisted, that’s for sure.

When the PA is nearly done, their bucket brimming with flowers, something snaps out in the woods. They don’t seem to hear it, but Dark dials in, ears and nose turning to the sound.

Danger. Keep away from them.

He bares his teeth, a subsonic growl in his chest as his hackles raise.

“Dark?” The PA pushes back their hair, giving him a look. “What is it? What’s out there?”

He can’t see anything through the underbrush, the trees obscuring anything closer to his own height, but the wolf has other senses. Softer snapping, rustling— the sounds of eyestalking, an ambush predator waiting for the right moment.

Besides that, it smells… smells of earth and smoke and rot.

And oranges.

His growl rises to a snarl as he backs up towards the PA, keeping himself fully in between them and the being in the woods.

“Dark?” They rustle behind him, the soft thump of their shears to the ground. “Alright, we should go, then. We can— we can come back and get rid of the rest of it.”

A smart idea. As much as he hates turning his back on a threat, Dark turns around to herd the PA ahead of him, out of the woods. It’d be faster to carry them out, really, the lingering wolfsbane of their gloves be damned.

Anything to get them away from that scent.

A glass of orange juice, a veritable grove on his estate— Mark always loved his oranges.

—

No.

“You’re gross. You’re getting in the tub.”

Dark curls his lip to bare fang. No. I’m a grown man.

“You’re an overgrown baby,” the PA snaps. “A grown man would accept help when it’s being offered— I’m embarrassed, too, but you’ve been running around for a week getting into who knows what. Even if you weren’t, you still get greasy and smelly.”

He grumbles. The gall— he smells like a wolf, thank you. Just as a wolf should—

Should…

He’s not a wolf.

He may not eat but damn it if he doesn’t keep himself clean and neat. His suits are always pressed, his hair always clean.

Besides… he has been a little itchy of late.

With a second, more begrudging rumble, he lowers his head. Yes. I can do it.

The PA grimaces. “As much as I’d love to leave you to your own devices… you don’t really bend or grab well enough, anymore. Besides, you have more fur than just on your head, now.

“I don’t want to do it,” they add at his pointed look. “It’s extremely odd to be washing my boss. But you need the help and… it’s not like you’re in a human body right now. I’ve washed a dog before, it can’t be that different.”

A little hurtful, really. He’s not a wolf but he certainly isn't a dog.

“Here, I’ll cut you a deal, okay? Anything on your front and below the waist is yours to deal with. I’ll get the stuff you can’t reach.” They hold out a hand. “Deal? And I won’t use the strong scent stuff. I’ll find something mild.”

He’s still displeased, but… they aren’t giving up on this, and he’d like to not it h and shed anymore. With a sigh, he gives them his massive paw. It’s easily twice the size of their hand, but they shake it firmly anyway.

They keep their promise with the shampoo, at least. It’s in a massive container, but it has a subtle clean scent and promises to be good for dog fur. Which is close enough, if insulting.

Few bathtubs would be large enough, but Wil likes to luxuriate now and then, and he’s off doing who knows what— probably in his disco with his beau— so it’s free and clear. Small, still, but free.

The PA handles any water dealing, turning taps and testing until they’re satisfied with the temperature. “I can’t fill it up a lot,” they say apologetically, “just because of your mass, but it should cover you pretty well once you get in.”

True to their word, the warm— really, bordering on hot, how do they stand it?— water covers him a decent amount, enough to feel like he’s actually bathing and not just sitting in a puddle.

“So, um…” The PA busies themself in handing over the soap. “You can… do your half. Just woof or growl or… whatever when you’re done, okay?”

They smell of spice, embarrassment. He can’t blame them— this is the most awkward situation he’s been part of since…

Well, at least since university.

Once his cleaning regiment is finished, which is about as easy as the PA initially said it would be, given his limited mobility, he gives them the promised woof through the door.

“Good?” They peek around the corner, then smile. “Good! Okay, now just get comfortable. As much as you can, anyway— I’m probably going to have to pour the water on you. Sorry.”

He grumbles. Whatever gets it over with faster.

It’s unpleasant at first, his fur sodden and too warm, the cooler soap a shock against his skin, but…

He has to admit it. The PA has incredible fingers.

They don’t scratch him with fingernails, don’t scrub too hard, but the pressure they use is just right, soaping up his mane in repeated circles. It soothes his itchy skin, a gentle and caring touch that just makes sense from them.

He slumps further and further into the tub as they work, sleeves rolled up to their elbows as they work in pleasant silence. His eyelids grow heavy, and he rests his chin on the side of the tub, grumbling quietly.

“See? Not so bad.” Their voice is quiet, too, a hint of a smile in their tone, and their hands move to get his neck, his chin.

The wolf adores that, loving attention and deference from his—

It doesn’t matter what the wolf thinks of them, but it does feel good, and it isn’t fully the wolf that whines when they move to take their hands away.

The PA laughs quietly. “If you didn’t have fur I’d say you’ll get prunes. I’m rinsing you, just be forewarned.”

It’s not half as nice as their gentle fingers in his fur, but he must admit he feels better, clean and relieved of his burden of twigs and dirt and loose fur.

Fuck the comb, though. God, he hates combs.

—

It’s late at night, and they’re still working.

Granted the PA is in bed, but the lamp remains on and a book remains in their hands, their face determined as they scan the pages.

He knows that look. Study focus— they could be at this for hours more if left unchecked.

He grumbles from the doorway, only poking his head in.

“I’m a little busy,” they say, absently. “Just give me a minute.”

Sounds about the same, too. He pushes his way through the door and pads to the bed, placing his forepaws on the covers and grumbling again. Bed. Sleep.

“I said it’ll be a minute.” They flip a page.

They may be stubborn, but he remembers his tricks from long before their memory begins. He hefts himself up on the bed, grabs the book in one forepaw, and sweeps it under their extra pillow.

“Hey! I was reading that!” The PA glares at him, trying to reach past his bulk to grab the book. It’s to little avail, given his size; they simply end up pressing into his mane. “Move!”

Rather than follow orders, he flops on top of the pillow. No, he says with his notebook. Sleep.

“You’re such an ass,” they mutter. “I can push you off this bed, you know.”

He snorts. No, they couldn’t, not without some serious backup from someone a lot stronger. He’ll be staying right here until they go to sleep, one way or another.

Finally, the PA sighs. “Fine, I’ll go to sleep. Are you really going to hog my bed like this?”

In reply, he simply gets comfortable, curling in his hind legs and tail.

He doesn’t expect them to curl into him, burrowing into his mane, and he lifts his head curiously.

“I hold that pillow when I sleep,” they murmur. “So if you’re taking it, I’m holding onto you. If you don’t like it, you can go.”

The thing is, he does. His wolf is content with keeping them close and safe, and he’s always wanted to hold them near and dear since he was truly himself, all those years ago.

Hell, they used to do this very thing in university, after long nights of either studying or partying. It was easier and more comfortable than drawing straws over the floor, and it was never that awkward waking up in the morning sprawled across each other.

The only difference is their hand stroking his mane, rather than his their hair.

“You’re really soft. Bath was a good idea.” They shuffle a little to breathe while still remaining curled up into his side. “You really don’t mind? This isn’t just a weird power play?”

He huffs a laugh.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

They’re quiet for a long time, stroking his fur and breathing deeply. Dark is almost certain they’ve finally fallen asleep when they speak up again.

“… Your name can’t really be Dark, can it? That’s just what people call you.”

He looks down at them curiously. That’s a line of questioning they’ve never gone down before, and one he ached for them to attempt. If they knew his name in tandem with his face, with their bits of memory…

Maybe it would all come back.

“What is it actually, if you don’t mind me asking? Like— you can tell me to fuck off if you want, but… I’d like to know.”

They scoot back some so he can fumble with his notebook, flipping to the alphabet pages. Slowly, he spells it out: Damien.

The PA reads it as carefully as they do everything he says, mouthing the letters as he points them out. “Damien,” they murmur, brow furrowing. “Damien… that sounds familiar.”

His heart skips a beat.

“I’ll think of it later, I’m sure. Right now, I’m actually pretty sleepy— guess you caught me before I passed out,” they laugh. With a sigh, they tuck back into his mane. “Good night, Damien. It was nice meeting you again.”

The again catches in his mind, rolling over and over, but he can’t take a moment to really consider the possibilities; just as they snuggle back in, he feels… odd.

Not quite so big, not quite so wild. Beyond that— cold.

He looks down at himself just as a confused PA does, brow furrowed. “What—“

“Damien?” The PA’s eyes widen and the scramble back. “You— you’re back to normal!”

It’s true. No more thick black fur, no claws or muzzle or fangs. Rather, it’s his cool grayed skin, a humanoid figure with a scar in the gut, an old silvery mark on one forearm. “I… how?”

He winces at his own voice, rough from disuse, but the PA doesn’t seem to care. “I don’t know… there are a lot of legends and things, and— hell, maybe it finally wore off! How do you feel?”

Damien flexes his fingers, works his jaw. “Strange,” he replies, slowly. “I suppose I grew used to the wolf form. I— ought to leave.”

The PA opens their mouth— to protest?— before glancing down, then quickly back up to his face. “Yes, sure,” they say, staring very intently at his nose and not anywhere else. “Um. I’ll see you tomorrow, we’ll— we’ll tell everyone.”

“Yes.” He may be embarrassed at the nudity, but… “If you ever require a pillow to hold again… I’m not often busy this time of night.”

They pause, finally looking him in the eye. They search for some time, really searching for his sincerity “… really?”

He gives them a faint smile, just a corner of his mouth turning up. “What can I say? You’re awfully good at cuddling.”

Very slowly, bashfully, they smile back. “So are you. Good night, Damien. I’ll see you tomorrow— and I might take you up on that offer.”

The wolf can’t wait, and truthfully, neither can he.

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