Halloween AU: When the Wolves Howl Who: Nona and Marcus When: Halloween Night, modern Where: A cabin in the woods, sort of. What: Marcus wakes up in a strange place, with a strange woman making him bacon. Warnings: Blood laundering, Marcus probably being a dick, lycanthropy
There was nothing.
Blackness; a shapeless, dreamless void of consciousness the likes coma patients and those on the cusp of death only know, for god knows how long. Thankfully there was no pain, not like the red explosion of before. The last shreds of chaotic memory held onto things like tearing flesh and bone crushed with it’s tendons under pressure, but now? There was nothing. And then, the smell of bacon.
A piece of it peeked from between Nona’s lips, thoughtlessly chewed (and savored) like a piece of salty gum. She watched five other strips sizzle in an old looking pan on a wood burning stove. Everything in the derelict cabin was bathed in the oily orange glow of sunset, stretching through the dirty windows, a fire halo on her thick blond hair. It was clean, brushed, and pulled in a ponytail. She wore a button down dress, printed with lilacs. The kind you only see in movies about the Depression.
Her nose, cute and still small with the illusion of youth wrinkled; pretty and pale green eyes shifted to the figure hunched on the old wood floor. He was awake - or in the process of it. The bacon in her mouth disappeared, sucked in like a pasta noodle and swallowed.
“‘Bout time...” It’d been nearly twenty hours since she’d dragged him here, just as bloodied as his clothes were now. “Was wondering when you’d be up.”
----
“Fuck...” It wasn’t the first time that Marcus had come to in a strange place, in a strange position, with a strange woman talking at him. Nor was it the first time such an event had been accompanied by memory loss and the smells of breakfast. In fact, despite the fact that he seemed to be on a wooden floor instead of a proper bed, it was one of the better waking-up-after-a-bender experiences he’d had. His head was fuzzy, like someone had smeared vaseline over the lens in his brain, and he had no fucking clue where he was or who he was with, but at least there wasn’t a splitting headache to go with it. No room spins, no nausea... Hell, the bacon smell was alerting him to the fact that he was fucking hungry, so alcoholic gastritis was right out. That was good.
The blood was less good. Marcus closed his eyes, squeezing both of his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand, trying to regain clarity. When he opened his eyes again, the blood was still there, and till obviously blood. The cute blonde in the Little House on the Prairie garb who’d been slurping bacon seemed uninjured. Besides, she likely wouldn’t be cooking breakfast if she’d lost that much blood during the night. A mental inventory of his parts told him everything was in working order, so far as he knew. All limbs accounted for, nothing hurt or felt conspicuously numb. Dry mouth, disorientation, and a burning need to take a piss were the worst of his complaints. Blood wasn’t his, then. Another positive discovery, all told.
Too often, the blood was his.
Marcus shifted his gaze to the blonde, trying not to show too much of his hand. Women generally weren’t thrilled when asked for their names the morning after, or for an account of what happened. He shot her an amiable smirk, and decided to play it safe. What was the fun of just asking outright, anyway? “Sorry, chica. Didn’t fucking mean to sleep in.”
---
Without looking at him (transferring bacon to a folded cloth on the counter required at least some of her attention) one matching smirk twisted the young woman’s lips and barricaded an aborted chuckle. Clearly amused, she shook her head once, her ponytail dusting the hint of delicate shoulder blades.
“No you didn’t,” she answered, or rather parroted. Her eyes crinkled a bit at the corners when she shot him another appraising look, laughing at a joke he apparently didn’t know he made.
There wasn’t the slightest hint of fogginess in her gaze. Whatever happened last night - and the rest of the day after - she had it down. Her look was a knowing one, and his calculated nonchalance was adorable. Much better than the alternative.
“Bathroom’s back there,” she added after that thoughtful reflection, pointing with the wooden spatula toward a half-open door at his back left. Then she turned back to the pan and a bowl of brown-shell eggs waiting to be fried. “Don’t take too long. Nothin’s worse than cold eggs.”
---
“Heh. Gracias.” He snorted, taking her amusement in stride. Getting to his feet was an arduous process. How long had he been on the floor? Fuck, he was stiff. No wonder she was laughing at him. Hell, being passed out in bloody clothes was indicative that he hadn’t exactly shown her the time of her life. At least he couldn’t have been too much of an ass, if she was making him breakfast.
Marcus made his way into the bathroom, hoping to assess the damage. However, there didn’t seem to be any mirrors. Just a sink, a tub, and a toilet. All of which looked antique. Vintage. That fit somewhat with what the girl had been wearing. Chick was some kind of artsy, hipster bitch who idealized the 40’s or 50’s for some reason. Though that didn’t explain why she didn’t have a fucking mirror in the bathroom.
After utilizing the toilet, Marcus peeled off his clothes to get a look at himself as best he could. Initial impressions seemed to have been correct. He couldn’t find any open wounds or anything of the sort. He cleaned himself up as best he could without the use of a modern shower, or an industrial hose. There was a lot more blood than he’d thought, and it was dried to him, coming off in flakes. Whosever blood it was, Marcus felt sure that the person must have been hospitalized. A pang of guilt racked through him at that, and he hoped that the asshole had at least deserved what he got... and didn’t know his name. The last thing he needed was a fucking arrest. After a glance around the bathroom didn’t turn up anything in the way of peroxide, Marcus just left the shirt in the sink, soaking in cold water. It was probably a lost cause; tattered, stained, ruined. He couldn’t help making a token effort, though. It wasn’t like he had a change of clothes. The jeans were also a mess. Still, he tugged them back on to be polite. Marcus didn’t mind walking around naked, but he hadn’t assessed the situation fully, yet.
He probably took too long, but he didn’t feel guilty about that. Wasn’t his fucking fault the bitch didn’t own a proper shower, and he could think of many worse things than cold eggs. When he returned, it was with some of his usual swagger. As if waking up in a bloody heap was just a normal Tuesday for him. “Hey, mami, got any food left?”
---
“Mami. That’s cute.” He hadn’t been too long, at least not for the eggs to have gone stone cold, and that was what mattered, right? At least that’s how it might seem by the cheek-fluffed smile on the blonde sitting at the table, a piece of bacon wobbling between her fingers and a heap more of it apparently for him. She pointed at it, eyebrows bobbing to make the pleasant point. “Of course, eat. By all means - I know you’re starving.”
Sweet and wholesome, that smile of hers wrapped around another bite. She was all sugar and lemon meringue pie, save for one tiny detail. Her stare. For the most part it was well within normal boundaries; friendly, warm, perhaps even innocent, but every once in a while it contained something ...off. The way it lingered on certain parts of his exposed torso, the quick but intense studies of his face... times where it couldn’t be certain if the girl ever blinked.
“So...” she started up, bubbly and a little over-warm, floppy bacon hovering in her hand over a now empty plate. “Crazy night, huh.” This added with an appropriate leer and a leaning smile.
---
“Heh, you fucking said it,” he agreed, a response to all three assessments. The night had been crazy, he was starving, and he did rather like the pet name. It assumed more familiarity than chica, and the fact that the blonde hadn’t been offended by it was telling. The look she’d given him was also telling. Marcus enjoyed being looked at, and took pleasure in flaunting a bit as he sat down to eat. Everything about his body had been meticulously calculated and executed to garner that very reaction. The muscles, the tattoos... Hell, Marcus was even particular about his hair. It wasn’t long because he didn’t want to bother with it. There wasn’t a single split hair on his whole head, and the man was picky about his products. As far as he was concerned, his vanity was hard-earned, so he wasn’t ashamed or shy about it.
The matter of the blood was invasive. It was weighing at him, and he knew that he should ask. Clearly, she knew what had gone down, may have even been involved, though she didn’t seem like the sort of girl who hung out in rough bars or clubs. For all that it did concern him, his hunger was taking precedence at the moment. The eggs were consumed first, but the bacon was clearly where his heart lay. Generally possessed of a healthy appetite, Marcus made short work of the pile she’d given him. There wasn’t space between bites to really ask questions, so Marcus set the matter of the blood aside, temporarily.
---
“Mhm.” The blonde woman nodded once, still happily smiling around her next bite of bacon. Sitting there at the head of a table that looked as if it was held together by the weight of the food placed on it, she was a vision of two very different times that didn’t quite come together seamlessly. A modern haircut, obviously very well taken care of in the body and skin, her manner of speaking - all of it very contemporary, but the rest of it? Out of place. And somehow at times, that seemed to include her gaze. Especially as a thick pause crept between them, because she was watching him. Closely.
“You don’t remember a damn thing,” she said leaning in with a slow grin. It was still sweet as her face, but with a little something extra - something hard to define, but definitely not so benign. “S’okay. You can just say it, y’know.”
---
He laughed at that, long and loud, eyes crinkling. Marcus didn’t mind being caught if she wasn’t going to give him hell for it. Tossing her a wink with a shrug, he swallowed his own bite and said, rather cheerfully, “Must’ve been some real shit. But I don’t question a hot woman making me breakfast. Hell, most times I don’t wake up in my fucking clothes, so I can’t fucking bitch.”
The look he gave her was shameless, though surprisingly good-natured, considering the situation. The smirk was actually gone, for once. Altogether, it was probably the most honest expression that had graced his face since he’d regained consciousness. “Did I get your name, chica? Or just pass the fuck out on your floor?” ----
“Neither. You passed the fuck out in the woods on the way here.” Her grin grew two more degrees to the left, digging a deeper dimple into a naturally pink cheek. It could’ve been bubbly if not for the odd hole in that apparent story. He likely outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds, and should he hold an arm out from his shoulder, standing straight and tall the top of her head wouldn’t even touch his elbow. Her expression was clear and uncomplicated, but the sheer physics certainly weren’t.
“But for the record, my name is Nona. And I’m glad you liked your ‘breakfast’-” Standing up to gather the empty plates, a snicker lightened her last word, considering the sun was practically down at this point, and the room now warmly lit from two kerosene lamps and the wood burning stove. This light glowed oily orange in Nona’s pale eyes, bronze Spartan shields jagged and sharp, and taking their full reign when she hovered at his side to clear his spot. Slow and deep, and perhaps not as subtle as she intended, she drank of the air that surrounded him, and for the first time during their interaction, seemed distracted. When she spoke again, finally finishing the delayed thought, her tone was considerably warmer. Heavier.
“You’ll be needing it.”
--- “Heh, normally I’d be all for running a marathon with you, chica, but if I passed out in the fucking woods covered in blood, I’m guess I got questions to answer for somefuckingbody.” For starters, whoever had helped him get here. Though he had some questions for that person, as well. Why was outshining how for the time being, but it really hadn’t occurred to Marcus that Nona was insinuating she’d brought him here on her own. “Think I fucked someone up bad.”
Of course, he didn’t really know how to go about the discovery process with that one. Who he’d fucked up might remain a mystery, unless the guy decided to press charges. Or was in any shape to press charges. Marcus had put people in the hospital before... not generally during a drunken bender, and never with any sort of resulting amnesia, but it wasn’t impossible. The amount of blood on his clothes had indicated serious injury, unless there’d been multiple participants. Victims? Fuck.
He needed to get his shit together. Badly. Dallying with a would-be Florence Nightingale, however cute she was and however lustful her unblinking stares seemed, was not going to help him do that. With a sigh, Marcus rubbed a hand over his face, trying formulate his game plan. “Hey, you got a phone, mami?” ---
Another note of laughter like a soft velvet ribbon wrapped around her breath, barely discernable from her place by the sink. Her ponytail bobbed, more of a signal that she shook her head than the actual movement itself. “I do, but you can’t use it right now,” she commented mildly over plates in the sink. She left them there in organized piles, presumably to wash later.
“You’ll have time later,” Nona assured him, turning her spine against the kitchen counter where she folded her arms beneath her breasts. “But if you’re worried about having ‘fucked someone up’, don’t.” Another smile. “I took care of everything. And I’ll keep taking care of everything until you can handle yourself better. Just like I promised.”
--- That was less cute than the pile of bacon. As a rule, Marcus didn’t like to be told ‘no,’ but bloody clothes and blackouts weren’t actually that easy to just brush off. He also didn’t like her phrasing. I took care of everything. And I’ll keep taking care of everything... However drunk he’d been, he knew damn well he hadn’t signed up for any sort of caretaking. Not in that way. His demeanor shifted as he stood, turning colder. The smirk had dissipated now, leaving a face that was far from amused. More than being refused the use of a phone, Marcus didn’t like the accusation that he couldn’t handle himself. “Don’t know what you promised, chica, but I got shit to do and I’m guessing my car isn’t out front, so I need to call a fucking cab.”
If he could afford a cab, that was. Marcus hadn’t thought that out entirely. Hands slid to his jeans, checking for his wallet, his keys. That should have been the first thing he’d done, really, but he’d been distracted by hunger, and disoriented by the strange surroundings.
---
Despite the obvious shift in his mood, Nona’s expression remained sure and steady with a little upward arch of both brows. Perhaps a subtle challenge of her own, perhaps not. What was clear was the fact that she found no part of his size or demeanor intimidating.
In fact, she seemed to enjoy it.
“You don’t get it, mijo,” she chuckled lightly, despite the sudden sharpness in her grin. “You’re not goin’ anywhere. Not in a cab.”
Bumping herself off the counter ledge, arms dropped in a slow saunter sway by her hips in the vintage dress, her bare feet made almost no noise on the old floor. She rounded him, stalking him. “Actually, I don’t like miho; think I’ll just stick to Marcus. I’m sure we’ll find pet names for each other eventually, but for now,” I suggest you start paying closer attention.”
----
The response to the pet name was instinctive. Marcus threw words like mijo and mija around freely, among a plethora of others, but he didn’t care for them being applied to himself. She wasn’t his girlfriend, nor was she his mother. The fact that she was trying to act like one or the other was offensive, and could indicate that she was a crazy bitch, which wasn’t anything he wanted to get involved with. Aggressive, crazy bitches were a turn-off, even more than lovestruck puppies. Generally, he got a thrill from hearing his name out of the mouth of a stranger, but in cases like this it could be worrying. If she knew his first, than she probably knew his last (he always gave them in tandem), which meant she might know other things. Like his number, or where he lived.
He really needed to cut down on the drinking.
“Puta, you can call me whatever the fuck you like. I’m out.” He sneered, giving off an air of being unimpressed, and started for the front, scanning for any of his shit in case he needed to grab something on the way out. The shirt in the bathroom was a lost cause, anyway, so that could be abandoned. Hell, just about everything was replaceable. Marcus liked to think that he was fairly easy going, but her tone irritated him. Veiled threats, cryptic statements, and an assumed familiarity that he was comfortable dishing out, but not accepting when it was mixed in with the other two. She was cute, but not that cute. He tended to prefer brunettes, anyway.
---
His abrasiveness was hardly a surprise, but Nona’s level of amusement still dimmed as he lumbered out the door. That strong front of grating testosterone was a good part of why she picked him, anyway. A mountain man with the alpha attitude grabbed a lot of attention, deservedly, but not all of that attention was positive. It also tended to blind a man with hubris. She let him go without so much as a ‘fuck you too’, thin fingers tapping the inside of her arm. Not like he’d get very far.
Outside, the touch of purple left by the setting sun was almost completely gone. It was dark, and the thick woods only made things darker. A ribbon of grey stretched from the small house into the trees; an overgrown driveway that didn’t seem to have an end. It presumably did, but Marcus wouldn’t have been able to see it by the time Nona’s shadow darkened the cabin’s open door. Her hands lifted to the first buttons of the dress, undoing one, then another, and another. She took the first step off the porch to follow him, controlled and unhurried.
---
He sensed that he was being watched, possibly followed. Perhaps it was more assumption than instinct, but Marcus didn’t turn around to check its accuracy. Too much of the situation had read as fucked up. Time to extract himself, even if it meant living with a mystery. Self-preservation had to trump curiosity sometimes. That was the way of it. He did look for his car, but it seemed the bitch hadn’t been lying about that. It was nowhere to be seen.
Neither was the main road, for that matter. Just the impossible driveway and the woods surrounding them. Since darkness was settling in, Marcus opted for the driveway. Wandering the woods at night without so much as a fucking shirt on was stupid even for him. Nevermind that it was fucking October, and the crisp Autumn air was going to grow teeth the later it got. Strange, that he didn’t already feel cold, but Marcus had always run hot-blooded, so he was able to chalk that up to nature. Not to mention adrenaline. She’d gotten under his skin a little. Pissed him off. That could account for immunity to any temperature above freezing.
Once he got to the road, he was sure he’d be able to orient himself. Maybe hitch a ride. He obviously had no weapons on him, and the his state of undress might earn him sympathy from the right kind of seasoned trucker. Especially if he spun a story about being mugged, or a vengeful ex. Hell, he’d even name her Nona in the tale, as a credit. Mugger if a woman stops, bitch if it’s a man, Marcus decided. All he had to do was actually find the road. Where the fuck was it, anyway? How much property could the bitch possibly own?
The driveway kept turning, to a point where he was tempted to cut through the woods to save time, but even the light of a full moon would be hindered by the thick trees. It’d be a bitch to see. At least the moon was full, and as it made its appearance he was initially grateful for it. He could figure out the direction he was going by the moon and the stars, right? Or the general time. Some shit like that. It was a landmark in an unfamiliar place. As he looked at it, he was struck by how clear it was. They must have been a ways from the city for a fucking sky like that. Marcus was deciding that it might just be enough light to see by, even in the woods, when the pain hit.
It was like a sledgehammer to the spine, doubling him over with an almost audible snap. He had time to think gunshot, time to picture the blonde woman’s smirking face, and form a kind of broken jigsaw puzzle’s worth of images. Had she shot him? He hadn’t heard a shot. Were there silent bullets that could hit every joint and tendon all at once? Some kind of buckshot dipped in acid? Was that even a fucking thing?
He fell like a broken doll, writhing, hoping to fuck he wasn’t paralyzed. He didn’t start screaming until the skin began to split. First in a long seam down his spine, then it felt like everywhere all at once. The flesh opened as the muscles beneath it grew and twisted, reforming the skeleton at his core. Sharp, heavy talons tore deep scars into the pavement of the driveway, and Marcus no longer had the wherewithal to wonder where the claws had come from. Paralysis wasn’t a fear. All he wanted was an end to the fucking pain. Any end to the fucking pain.
As his throat transformed itself, the scream was choked off, and the only sound he was able to make was a mournful howl.