Work Text:
It’s raining when Alder gets off the bus in Chalkway town centre. It’s dark, too— they’d taken the late bus, and darkness falls early at this time of year, especially here. They pause on the edge of the pavement for a moment, shielding their phone from the rain as they check the directions their brother sent them. They can feel their thirteen year old self laughing at them for not remembering the way to their own grandma’s house, but it’s been… god. It’s been easily ten years.
It’s a walk from the bus station, they remember that much. Chalkway backs directly onto the Blue Mountains, and Grandma had lived right on the last street separating the town from the open hillside. Alder follows the narrow street, the pavement shining damply under the orange of the streetlamps.
As they move off the main streets the streetlamps stop, leaving the roads dark and lonely. They’ve never liked the dark. By the time they reach the front gate of the house where their grandma died, they’re tired and cold and on edge. The gate sticks, as it always used to, and their fingers are numb as they struggle to grip the unfamiliar ring of keys.
As soon as they open the porch door of the dark house, there’s the sound of a scuffle from inside, then barking, and despite their bad mood, Alder smiles. The dogs are the only reason they agreed to this, really. Tilly and Cassie are German Shepherds, sisters, three years old. Alder’s never met them before, but unfortunately, the moment their brother had mentioned the fact no one knew what to do with the two dogs, they’d felt their heart melt.
It had been late at night when Toby had rung them. He’d sounded harried, and Alder couldn’t blame him for it. He works a lot, and his wife, Rebecca, is four months pregnant. And now their grandma had died, quickly and unexpectedly, not even leaving enough time to say goodbyes. So when he’d asked Alder to go and stay there up in Chalkway, “Just long enough for us— you— to get it tidied up, and so the neighbours don’t have to keep feeding the dogs—” they’d agreed. It’s not like they’re up to much anyway, not like he is. They can work a shitty job anywhere. Alder’s always been a little too good at drifting.
The dogs tackle them the moment they get the door open. “Hi!” they say, dropping to their knees to pet them both, “Hello! Let me just close the door quickly, I can’t—” they gently shuffle their way through the wall of dog to close the door behind them, and dump their bag by the bottom of the stairs.
“C’mon then, show me round,” they say to the dogs, slipping their boots off, and they follow them down the hallway. The light isn’t working, so they creep carefully into the kitchen in socked feet. Everything is still and untouched, dirty dishes in the sink, old mugs on the worktops. They could almost believe Grandma is just in the living room, watching some quiz show and dozing.
She isn’t.
The moon is big and almost full, shining through the window. They try not to look at it as they quietly move to close the blinds. The dogs still fuss excitedly at their feet.
At all once, they feel very, very lonely.
—
They don’t sleep very well that night. They don’t dare touch the main bedroom, the one that used to be their grandma’s, so instead they slip back into the little room where they used to sleep when they were little, staying over on school holidays. They get up to let the dogs out at six am, and they just kind of… don’t go back to bed after that.
The garden backs onto the hills. It’s narrow and overgrown, high fences on both sides, but lower at the bottom, just a thick hedge and then the hillside. The dogs tear about in excitement, making Alder smile despite themself. The little pond is frozen over, and they nearly slip on the ice on the little stepping stones leading through the gravel.
They remember being a child and sitting on the edge of that pond during slow summer afternoons, counting the newts that they spotted in there. It doesn’t look like there’s anything living in there nowadays, too clogged with pondweed and algae. Everything is bright and dripping, the first ray of wintery sunlight showing from over the horizon.
They’re suddenly restless. They turn and call the dogs. “Come on,” they say, “Let's go for a walk.”
—
The moon is full tonight, and Alder is trying not to think about it as they walk the dogs, but they can feel it. It aches in their bones, makes them twitchy. They don’t walk far. There’s time for that later.
When they get home, they leave the front door open so the dogs can play in the front garden. They’re busy grabbing something to eat just inside the kitchen when they hear it. Someone opened the front gate— but the dogs aren’t barking.
Every instinct in Alder goes on red alert and they aren’t sure why. Suddenly they feel like they’re panicking, struggling for breath against the sudden wave of tension. They walk silently into the hallway.
No, walking isn’t right. They stalk.
There’s a person in their garden, they realise. He doesn’t seem to notice them as they stand frozen in the doorway. He’s small, blonde hair tied back low, and he’s kneeling on the lawn, petting the dogs. Tilly is rolling over on her back, and Cassie keeps nipping at him affectionately. He looks barely Alder’s own age.
Not a threat, Alder thinks, trying to calm the wolf, but there’s something about him that makes every hackle rise, and they don’t know what it is until he looks up, startled, and sees them, and they see the flash of silver in his eyes in the wintery sunlight.
“O— oh,” he says, scrambling up and back. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise—”
“Who are you?” Alder asks, and it comes out sharper than they intend it to. “Sorry, I just...”
“No, no,” he says, “I’m sorry, this is your territory— your, uh, house?”
The dogs try to jump up for his attention, and he soothes them as best as he can without looking away from Alder for an instant. He looks tired, now Alder’s looking. Tired and scared.
Scared of them, they realise, and they don’t like how that feels at all.
“Yeah,” they say, taking a deep breath and consciously trying to de-escalate. “I’m Alder, this was my grandma’s house.”
“Lillian,” he says, and Alder nods. “I’m sorry to hear about—”
“It’s okay,” Alder says, before he can carry on. “We weren’t close. Who… who are you?”
“Right, I’m so sorry,” he says again, and he looks so flustered. “I’m Owen, I live, uh,” he gestures vaguely at the hill. “I used to walk the dogs for Lillian when she was… alive. So I’ve been coming back to see them, Morgan’s been feeding them, she lives next door, I didn’t know anyone was here, and I especially didn’t know there was another—”
He cuts himself off.
“Another wolf,” Alder says in a low voice.
“Right.”
They stare at each other for a long moment. Alder is very aware that they’ve barely slept and they look it. This guy, Owen, looks like he wants to run away but has forgotten how to move his feet. They don’t know what to say. They’ve never met another werewolf, not like this. Not… out of context. They’ve met wolves in the city, when the moon is full and they’re chasing their way across asphalt and concrete. They’ve never met a werewolf in— in a post-Lillian Harris world.
“Are you okay?” Owen asks suddenly.
They swallow hard. “Why do you ask?”
“You look…” he trails off awkwardly.
“Go on,” Alder says, raising their eyebrows.
He shakes his head. “I don’t think I will, thank you.”
They laugh despite themself, just a little. Then they stop before it turns to sobs. “Thanks for taking care of the dogs,” they whisper.
Owen nods, and starts to back out of the garden slowly. “Take care, Alder,” he says, and Alder stays frozen as he closes the gate behind himself and walks away.
—
Alder spends the rest of the day feeling sick and warm. When dusk falls, they slip out of the house and lock the door carefully behind them. Then they walk, up the road until the road ends and they’re left with the hills. The hills that roll on for miles and miles, moon drenched and alien, and they carry on walking, stumbling across the grass until the old familiar pain is too much for them and they sink to their knees. Finally, finally, they let themself cry.
When it comes, they almost welcome the oblivion of the change.
They don’t see the other wolf, pale golden in the moonlight. But it sees them, and it tips its head back and howls.