Archive of Our Own ^beta

Two years pass in a blur of blood-soaked clothing and bared teeth, in a haze of memories so warped and emotions so sharpened that John barely knows who he is anymore. The world is quieter now, at least in ways that count. There’s less talking, less breathing, fewer witnesses. What’s left is the constant, aching throb of survival, the repetitive cadence of bones breaking, teeth sinking, howls echoing across empty woods. And through it all, he keeps track. Not of names, not of places, but of time.

He doesn’t know why he still bothers to remember his birthday. It's stupid, he tells himself. A relic from another life. But some part of him clings to it, as if keeping time could somehow keep him tethered to something real. Two years. Two whole years since the night everything ended and something else began.

He's killed many since then. Most of them with his own hands, some with teeth, some with claws, some with sharp weapons he didn’t really need anymore, just to feel a tad bit more like the human being he wasn’t, hadn’t been in a long time. Some didn’t even fight back. He can still feel their final breath warm against his neck. He doesn’t keep count, not in any meaningful way. But he knows it’s been enough to earn a reputation. They call him the Agent of Death now. He hates it, thinks it sounds ridiculous, overdramatic. But in the quiet, when there’s no one to lie to but himself, he admits it fits. Just not for the reason they think.

They think he earned the name because he kills without mercy, without hesitation, without remorse. They’re right, but not in the way they believe. He doesn’t check their eyes for the telltale shimmer—blue, red, gold—proof of past sins or innocence. He doesn’t care anymore. He can’t. He kills not because they’re guilty, but because they’re possible. Because they might have helped the pack that ruined him. Might have passed a message, opened a gate, looked the other way when the fires started. “Might” is enough.

The rumors about him spread like rot through werewolf and human communities alike. A werewolf that kills and eats his own. An abomination among monsters. A thing that should not exist. And when he's done, he won’t. He tells himself that often. When the last of the pack is dead, truly dead, beyond healing, beyond running, he’ll end it. End himself. Clean the stain.

He thinks the name Agent of Death fits for a different reason. Because death clings to him like a shadow. Because everyone who has ever loved him, really loved him, is dead. Because he brought that death to them. The name reminds him of Olivia’s eyes when he screamed at her. Of his son’s lifeless body crumpled on the living room floor. Of Lemar’s shattered skull. It keeps him going. On the days when he feels his will thinning, when the exhaustion turns to something heavier, something like despair, he thinks of the name. Thinks of hearing it in his wife’s voice, twisted with disappointment. He can almost see her sneering, spitting it at him. Agent of Death. Monster. Killer.

He studies himself like a scholar studying rot. He learns. He adapts. He becomes something more honed, more precise. Once, he’d been an extraordinary man, a soldier, a hunter, a protector. Now, he’s something far worse, and far more effective. The change took everything he’d been and sharpened it to a blade. His strength is unthinkable. On a whim, in a moment of unfiltered rage, he once drove his fist clean through a thick tree trunk. It didn’t even hurt.

He doesn’t breathe hard anymore. Doesn’t tire the way humans do. He chases his prey until their lungs collapse and their legs give out, and then he walks calmly over to them and ends it. No struggle. No mercy.

His claws are sheathed most of the time, but they come out when they want to, especially during nightmares. The fangs too. He’s woken more than once with blood on his tongue and claw marks gouged into the wall above his bedroll. His hands look normal when the claws are hidden, but his fangs… they’re always just a little too long. Talking was hard at first. The lisp annoyed him until he stopped speaking altogether.

He doesn’t need speech anymore. He needs silence. Stealth. Precision. And meat.

The hunger is constant. It claws at him from inside, always whispering, always begging. At first, he tried to resist it. Now, he embraces it. It makes the killing easier. Makes the rage more useful. And it’s not like he’s eating people. They don’t count as people.

Then there are the eyes.

Werewolves’ eyes mark what they are, what they’ve done. Gold for the innocent, red for leaders and killers of killers. And blue, for those who’ve killed the innocent. His glow electric-blue in the dark. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since his last kill. Doesn’t matter if it was justified. His eyes mark him forever. There’s no redemption from that shade.

He’d once dreamed, before the change, before the blood, of maybe ending up golden. Pure. Maybe red, if leadership came calling. But blue? Blue is rot. Blue is sin, irreversible and complete.

So he stops using his enhanced vision, the vision that causes his eyes to change from the normal blue color of his eyes to the more intense, electric blue he hates so much. He stops looking at his reflection. There’s nothing there worth seeing. Not anymore.

It was a good system. It worked. Until it didn’t.

He never saw the bullet coming. One second he was moving through the trees, silent and invisible, the next his gut was on fire. Silver. His body rejects it. His healing won’t work. He falls.

The blood spreads slowly, soaking into dirt and dead leaves. It’s warm, sticky, heavy with failure. As he lies there, the world dimming around him, he finds the bitter humor in it. After all he’s done, after all he’s become, he’s felled by one well-placed shot. It would be almost poetic if it didn’t hurt so goddamn much.

He could’ve dodged it, maybe. If he’d used his night vision. If he’d accepted what he was. But some part of him, deep down, still didn’t want to. Still thought he could be something else. Someone else.

Now, bleeding out in the dirt, he knows better.

He listens, barely, as the hunters argue over his body. One of them mentions a name. Val. It stirs something, a name he barely remembers. He must’ve heard it in passing somewhere, maybe someone mentioned it to him, maybe he read it. He’s not sure and he can’t think straight at the moment. Too busy bleeding out, too busy dying.

He doesn’t know if they’ll kill him or try to capture him. Doesn’t care, really. There’s only one thing that matters now.

He never finished the job.

Never found all of them.

And worst of all… he’s starting to think he became worse than the monsters he set out to kill.

--

He wakes up.

It’s not the gentle return of awareness after a long, healing sleep. It’s sharp. Abrupt. Light punches through his eyelids and forces them shut again, his breath catching in his throat. Too bright. Too sterile. And all at once, the last image floods in; blood soaking into pine needles, the forest floor greedy and cold beneath him. The night had been ink-dark. The pain had been all-consuming. The bullet had been silver. He was supposed to be dead.

But this? This is not death.

There’s a bed beneath him, too soft to be real, sheets crisp and clinical. The air stings of antiseptic and something subtler. Blood, diluted but undeniable. He forces his eyes open again, slower this time. The room swims into view. Pale walls. Expensive curtains. A single chair in the corner that looks like it’s never been used. This isn’t any forest. This isn’t any hospital he recognizes either. He knows instinctively, this was not a place he got to on his own.

Pain lances through his gut as he shifts, a raw, deep ache that yanks a low groan from his throat. He grips his abdomen. The wound is still healing. That’s when the door opens.

She walks in like she owns the air.

Countess Allegra de Fontaine. He knows the name, knows the face. Everyone in Old York does. She’s the kind of person you hear about long before you see. Wealthy. Powerful. Unreachable. A woman whose name is whispered with reverence and fear, depending on who’s speaking. She isn’t dressed regally, but the authority radiates off her. He stares at her a beat too long.

She clears her throat delicately and strides forward. “You woke up just in time,” she says, voice smooth as wine, but edged with steel. “I was going to check on you anyway. And what do I see? You’re already trying to reopen a wound that’s barely begun to close. The rumors must be true, then.”

He can’t find words. His throat is raw, his mind lagging. Nothing makes sense yet.

She seems to read his silence like a map. “Poor thing,” she says with something approaching sincerity. “You must be awfully confused. I apologize. This is no way to treat a guest. Or a patient. Or both. I’m Countess Allegra de Fontaine, but you may call me Val, if you’d like.”

He blinks at her. Val. The name slams into recognition. Of course. He’d heard it in a haze, voices arguing over him before the world went black. Val. He hadn’t connected the dots, hadn’t realized it was this Val. She sees the flicker of understanding on his face and laughs, clean, musical sound that feels foreign in this place.

“I see you recognize the name. I’m sure you’ve only heard good things about me.” She winks.

He says nothing. His body still feels like lead and fire. His thoughts are too scattered to make space for pleasantries.

“As for why you’re here,” she continues, circling the bed like a shark circling prey, “I must apologize again. My hunters… they didn’t recognize you. They’ve been ordered to shoot first, ask later. I’m sure you understand. Dangerous world and all that.”

He doesn’t respond, though the edges of her tone catch on something inside him. She knows who he is. She must. So why is she being so civil?

She sees it again, his suspicion, and smiles like a cat with a trapped bird. “Let me clear it up for you. I’ve had people looking for you. Direct orders: apprehend, not kill. Sadly, your appearance made that difficult. You were a little… dirty.”

That’s generous. He remembers the state he was in; ragged, half-feral, bloodied and exhausted. She could’ve said “inhuman.” It might’ve fit better.

“But don’t worry,” she continues, “we got you cleaned up. Couldn’t risk infection. Had your beard trimmed, your hair cut. I hope you don’t mind. It’s important to be clean when healing.”

Humiliation burns under his skin. They’d stripped him. Touched him while unconscious. Made decisions about his body while he couldn’t even speak. But worse than the anger is the helpless understanding. He does get it. But he hates that he gets it.

He finally manages a word. Just one, scratchy and broken: “…Why?”

She seems pleased that he’s spoken, gives him an encouraging nod. “I’ve heard the rumors,” she says, sitting lightly on the unused chair. “And I’ve collected intel. Everything there is to know about you, I know. And I want to assure you… I don’t blame you for what you’ve done.”

He doubts that. Deeply. But he doesn’t challenge her. Not yet.

“If I were you,” she continues, “I might have done the same. In fact, I think I can help you.”

That draws his attention. Truly. He narrows his eyes.

“I have knowledge. Resources. I can find the ones you’ve been looking for. I know you’ve had a hard time tracking them since they scattered. You’re running low on leads. But I can change that.”

She watches him. Waiting.

He doesn’t want to owe anyone. Doesn’t want help. But he also knows the hunt has gone cold. He can’t do this alone anymore.

So he asks, voice low, harsh with suspicion: “What do you want?”

Her smile shifts. Less teasing. More sincere. “Nothing you can’t give. I want to work with you. You’d be useful to me. You have a skillset I could benefit from. Do some work for me, and I’ll help you finish what you started. That’s all.”

He studies her. Tries to find the trap. But she’s already rising to her feet, already moving toward the door.

“Don’t decide now,” she says, almost gently. “Heal. I’ll come back soon.”

And just like that, she’s gone.

He lies back slowly, the pain flaring and then ebbing like a tide. His body is broken. His mind fractured. But the offer lingers.

Work for her.

Hunt with help.

It’s tempting. Too tempting.

He closes his eyes.

And for the first time in two years, the darkness feels less empty.

--

So he accepts.

He isn't sure what else he was supposed to do. Val had offered him a way out of the dead ends, out of the crawling hopelessness he’d been suffocating in. And he had nothing left to cling to. She was right, about the leads, about the futility of continuing his hunt alone, about the exhaustion dragging at his bones. As shameful as it felt to admit, even to himself, he needed help. He needed someone who didn’t flinch at the monster he’d become. Someone in his corner. And Val… Val had stood in his corner from the very beginning.

And help she did.

After he’d fully healed, and it took time, more time than he would’ve ever allowed himself without her interference. Val started making plans. Serious ones. At first it was a series of strange tasks that barely made sense. Speech lessons, of all things, to rid him of the slight lisp he’d picked up, from the fangs he still wasn’t used to. Manners training. Lessons in etiquette, posture, poise. At first, he resisted, violently, even. But Val was immovable, a force of calm insistence. “If you want to interact with the world,” she’d said, “you need to look like you belong in it.”

And so came the wardrobe. The armor. The blades forged in old magic and silver. The new room in her estate. The quiet dignity of being treated like something more than a wreckage. Somehow, through the tailored clothes and daily routines, she gave him back a piece of his humanity. Or at least the illusion of it. He looked in the mirror and saw someone closer to what he used to be. Human-shaped, even if not human-hearted.

Val didn’t fear him. That was the part that gnawed at him most. She looked him in the eye. She touched his arm without recoiling. She spoke to him like he mattered. Like she saw the carnage he carried and thought, “useful.” She was self-possessed, sure of her power, so attuned to her supernatural nature that it made him burn with jealousy. She was a witch. No, a mage, maybe even more than that. Power flowed through her in a way that felt effortless. And unlike him, she didn’t see dependence as weakness. She made alliances not out of desperation, but because she could.

After weeks of reshaping him into something presentable, she deemed him ready. And only then did the real work begin.

She gave him the first name.

She kept her promise.

The intel she passed along was precise, uncannily so. A location, a name, a date. He’d gone out with two of her hunters, and by dawn, a werewolf who had been present the night of the village massacre was dead. Slaughtered. And the thrill, God, the high it gave him, was unmatched. It wasn’t just the kill. It was the retribution. The reclamation of something lost. That night, he slept without dreams.

In the months that followed, it became a routine. She fed him names. He completed the work. In between the vengeance, he served her interests. Missions, tasks, retrievals. Some assignments required nothing more than his presence, his angry glare, his silence, his aura. Others ended in blood. He never asked more than he needed to know. The why didn’t matter. The who didn’t matter. What mattered was that she kept delivering, and he kept hunting.

They worked well together.

Too well, maybe.

He trusted her. It had happened slowly, then all at once. Her logic, her power, her vision, it all made sense. He didn’t ask about her past, about her adopted daughter Mel, who had once offered him a warm smile and left behind a book she thought he’d like. He didn’t pry. Didn’t want to ruin it. Whatever she had going on, it wasn’t his concern. She gave him purpose, and he gave her results.

Time passed. More than he expected.

He kept track of it in his mind, still counting birthdays even when he did nothing to mark them. He’d had three since entering her service. Three years. A long time for someone who once thought he wouldn’t live another week. But things were different now. Quieter. Focused. The chaos that used to thrash inside him had stilled, replaced by something colder, sharper.

The name Agent of Death had faded from the whispers. He was still hunting, still killing, but now with precision. With restraint. No more public bloodbaths. No more bodies in the street. He moved like a scalpel, not a hammer. And that was Val’s doing too, he knew. The way she smoothed over his reputation, the way she made him vanish from the gossip chains. It had her fingerprints all over it. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.

He had a goal. He always had. Only now he had the means to reach it.

There couldn’t be many left. He’d killed too many of them for there to be more than a scattered handful. He could feel the finish line. Taste it. And with it came clarity. He would finish this, and then… he would go. End things. Remove the last monster from the equation. He was a coward for wanting that escape, maybe. But there were worse things to be.

Then came the shift.

The mission was different this time. Longer. The kind that pulled at his instincts and set his nerves on edge. Val had called him to her office personally. There’d been something in her tone that he couldn’t place. Not hesitation, exactly, but something close.

The name she gave him was unfamiliar. But it rang like a bell he would hear again and again.

Robert “Bob” Reynolds.

He’d never heard it before.

But it wouldn’t be the last time.

John would never admit it aloud, but nerves curled in his stomach like a coiled serpent, tense and waiting. It was the kind of nervousness he hadn’t felt in a long time, the kind that made his palms sweat and his throat tighten. The kind he’d felt when meeting Olivia’s parents for the first time. The kind that had nearly stolen his breath when he held his son for the first time. Anticipation, laced with dread.

They had arrived at the house. Or, more accurately, the farmstead. Calling it a house seemed reductive. The property was sprawling, larger than John had imagined, though he realized belatedly he hadn’t really imagined it at all. It was too big for a single person to manage alone. That fact alone raised a few questions he stored away for later.

He ascended the porch, leaving the men a few meters behind. It wouldn’t make sense for them all to crowd the front door, and he was leading this mission, after all. It fell on him to be the face of it, even if he wasn’t the friendliest or most approachable. He assumed Val had sent word ahead, informing Bob of their arrival. He hoped so, at least. Standing in front of the worn wooden door, he smoothed back his hair and adjusted his coat. He looked like hell. Wild, weathered from travel, and damp with road.

Just as he raised his hand to knock, the door creaked open. Standing there was a short, dangerous looking woman with blond hair, holding a shotgun squarely aimed at his chest. His hands went up instantly, instinctively.

Then came her voice, sharp, unimpressed, and unshakable. “Why the fuck is a dirty mutt like you lurking around my house, huh? What do you want from us?”

Before he could even formulate a response, a loud crash sounded from deeper inside the house, followed by a startled yelp and the sound of rapid footsteps. A tall, anxious-looking man with mousy brown hair appeared in the doorway, all flustered limbs and panic.

He shoved himself in front of John and pushed the woman’s shotgun downward. “Yelena, Yelena, 'Lena, please. I told you about this, didn’t I? I told you they might arrive today!” He turned to John with an apologetic smile and a hand thrust out in greeting, vibrating with nervous energy. “You must be Walter, right? I’m Bob. This is Yelena. Yelena, please, put the gun down. I already told you, he’s not a threat!”

John’s face twitched at the name. Walter. The use of it scraped against his ears like sandpaper. He didn't shake the outstretched hand.

Yelena grunted, eyes never leaving John. “Yeah, Bob. You told me someone from Val was coming. What you didn’t say was that one of them would be the fucking Agent of Death.”

At the mention of the name, her grip on the shotgun tightened and she raised it again; this time leveling it with his face. Bob stumbled to the side, mouth falling open in shock, but John felt something colder than steel settle in his bones. He didn’t flinch, but the dread was real.

His voice came out low, dangerous. He spoke at the sime time that Bob let out a meek "what?". He was angry, ashamed. “How the fuck do you know that?”

He had been certain Val had wiped his old name, erased the legacy he’d tried to bury. That title didn’t belong to him anymore—or so he’d hoped.

Yelena’s lips curled into a vicious smirk. “I have my ways. What, you think you’re the only one with connections? Don’t flatter yourself.”

John bit back a response. He didn’t need to like her, and he certainly didn’t need her approval. Good thing he wasn’t here for her.

Bob, meanwhile, looked stricken. “Is that true? Are you really him? I thought the Agent of Death was dead...”

John exhaled slowly, trying to keep his temper in check. His ears burned from shame and heat. “Yes. That was me. But I’m not him anymore. I haven’t been for a long time. Val wouldn’t have sent me if I wasn’t trustworthy. If you can’t trust me, then trust her.”

Something in Bob’s face shifted. His eyes darkened, the boyish nervousness replaced with something sharper. “I trust her even less than I trust you. And I just found out you used to be a cannibalistic killer. That should tell you everything.”

John’s jaw clenched. None of this was going the way Val had suggested it would. He thought Bob was a friend of hers, or at least someone who didn’t loathe the sound of her name.

Raising his voice slightly, John tried to regain control. “Alright. Don’t trust me. Don’t trust her. I don’t give a damn. But you got her letter, and you know the mission. If Val wanted you dead, she would’ve sent me here to kill you, not to walk you home. You and shotgun blondie over there would already be corpses.”

Yelena laughed, sharp and derisive. “You think you could kill us that easy? That’s cute. Doggy’s got a bark. But I’ll rip your tail off before you even snarl.”

Bob groaned and threw his hands up. “Enough! Please. Can we all just stop talking about killing? I’m starting to feel like throwing up.” He seemingly hadn’t been joking about that, because the next thing he did was gag. Then he composed himself again.

He looked at John but was speaking to Yelena, eyes narrowing. “Even if Val wants me back in one piece, I agree with you, Lena. I too would have preferred anyone but Walter here.”

John’s patience snapped. “It’s Walker. Not Walter. One more time and Val’s getting you back with fewer limbs.”

He flashed his fangs. Not enough to really intimidate, just a reminder.

Bob took a step back and scowled. “And you’re supposed to be one of her best? That’s hilarious.”

“Why’s that funny?” John snarled.

“Because you’re an asshole.”

John lunged forward, grabbing for Bob’s collar, but Yelena stepped between them like a blade. “That’s enough,” she snapped. “We get it. Both of your dicks are massive. You can stop swinging them around now.”

She turned and bellowed into the house. “DAD!”

A few seconds later, a mountain of a man with a long beard appeared in the doorway. Seriously? How many people lived here?

Yelena spoke to him in a language John couldn’t understand, and after a brief exchange, the man nodded, took Bob gently by the arm, and guided him back inside.

Yelena, on the other hand, stepped onto the porch fully, the door shutting behind her. She stood facing John, her expression unreadable.

He opened his mouth to speak, unsure what he was even going to say, maybe an apology, maybe just another snarky comment, but she beat him to it, raising one stern finger in the air. Her voice was sharp and unwavering. "Don’t talk. You’ve done enough of that. Just shut up and listen for once. What I’m about to say matters, so I suggest you take mental notes if you can manage it."

She stepped in closer, eyes hard, expression set with quiet fury. "Bob’s... sensitive. He’s been through some shit. The kind of shit that doesn’t just go away. And the last thing he needs is someone treating him like crap on top of it. So here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to promise me that you’ll try, really try, to be decent to him. You don’t need to coddle him, I’m not asking you to braid his hair and sing lullabies. Just don’t be a goddamn asshole on purpose, alright? Either you agree to that, or I’ll make you regret it. That’s a promise”

John blinked. He didn’t know this woman, not really, but there was something in her eyes that told him she meant every word. No bluff, no performance. Just raw, blazing sincerity. Still, he couldn’t resist getting one last jab in before giving in.

“You two sleeping together or something?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “Seems to me like Bob’s a grown-ass man. If he’s got an issue, maybe he should be telling me this himself instead of sending his little girlfriend to do it.”

He gave her the kind of smirk that practically oozed arrogance, the same kind that had landed him in more fights than he could count. Predictably, her reaction didn’t disappoint. Her voice gained an edge that could cut through steel.

“He’s my best friend. Practically my brother. And unlike you, he’s a good fucking person. He doesn’t like making people uncomfortable if he can avoid it. That’s why I’m talking to you instead of him. You want to keep pretending like you’re too cool to care, fine, but if you don’t promise to be civil, then you can turn your pretty pony around and ride your smug ass out of here without him. You can go explain to Val why you came back empty-handed.”

John had already been planning to say yes, but hearing Val’s name made him sweat under his collar. The very idea of facing her without Bob in tow was enough to speed up his pulse. His response came out faster than he expected, more sincere than he meant it to.

“Alright, alright, calm down. No need to get your panties in a twist. I won’t be mean to your precious Bobby, okay? I said it before. I’m not who I used to be.”

She studied him carefully, eyes narrowing as if she were scanning his soul. After a beat, she nodded once. Seemingly satisfied. But before turning to go, she made sure to throw one last threat over her shoulder.

“If you break that promise, I’ll know. I’ve got ways. So don’t test me, Walker. Don’t make me regret giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

With that, she scooped up the shotgun she’d propped against the door, then turned and disappeared inside the house. The door slammed shut with a finality that echoed louder than words.

John stood there in stunned silence, staring at the door that had just been metaphorically, and literally, slammed in his face. He glanced around, noticing the stone fountain not far from the porch. So much for getting a warm welcome or a hot bath. It looked like if he wanted to clean off the week’s grime, he’d be doing it the old-fashioned way.

He exhaled slowly, lips pressed into a tight line. Maybe he should’ve sent Luke after all. Let the pretty boy handle introductions next time.

--

After that exchange, the talking seemed to be done, and John was grateful for the silence. All he wanted now was to get back on the road and put as much distance between himself and the farmstead as possible. He didn’t have to wait long. Soon enough, Bob stepped out through the front door, the old wood creaking beneath his feet as he paused on the porch. He was flanked by Yelena and her father, and to John's mild surprise, one more unfamiliar figure emerged behind them, a tall woman with long, dark brown hair that shot a nasty glare his way the moment that she spotted him.

Still, despite his internal dismissal, he couldn’t help but notice how the group gathered on the porch was acting as if Bob were heading off to war, not just a brief trip across country. Hugs were exchanged, arms thrown around shoulders, promises whispered into hair. It was overdramatic, sure, but it stirred something bitter and envious in John’s gut. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him like that. A friendly pat on the back or a hand on his shoulder, nothing he was used to anymore. And definitely not a hug like the ones these people were exchanging.

Bob eventually descended the steps, waving one final time before heading toward the horse someone had prepared for him when he was inside, doing god knows what. John noted the way Bob spoke to the horse, gently feeding it a piece of carrot, running a hand along its neck. Then, with a surprising amount of ease and grace, he swung himself into the saddle and trotted over to the waiting group. John hadn’t expected him to be so comfortable in the saddle, but he said nothing.

Luke greeted Bob with a warm smile, reaching out to shake his hand and introduce himself. The two exchanged a few friendly words and shared a short laugh. They’d get along well, John thought. That was good. It meant Bob would have someone to talk to, and it also meant John could keep his usual distance, just the way he preferred it. No awkward small talk, no forced conversations. He could ride ahead and brood in peace.

They set off down the dirt path they’d come from, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the fields. John glanced back once to see the group of people still standing outside the house, watching them go with long faces and misty eyes. The intensity of their farewell lingered in the air like smoke.

A few hours passed, the rhythm of hooves on dirt the only soundtrack to their quiet journey. Then, without warning, Bob trotted up alongside him and settled his horse to match John’s pace.

“Hey, Walker,” he said, his voice tentative.

John responded with a low grunt, more acknowledgment than greeting. It seemed to be enough.

“I know we got off on the wrong foot,” Bob continued. “That’s not all on you. I wasn’t being especially nice, either. I’m sorry for that.”

He paused, glancing at the path ahead, then back at John. “I’m just... nervous, you know? About all of this. I don’t even want to go on this trip. I’d rather stay home. But I know it’s not your fault. You’re just doing what Val told you. I shouldn’t take that out on you.”

John glanced sideways at him, caught off guard by the sincerity. He wasn’t used to people admitting they were wrong, much less apologizing to him. Emotional honesty wasn’t exactly in his wheelhouse, and he floundered internally for something to say in response. But he’d made a promise to Yelena, and he wasn’t about to break it only a few hours into the trip.

After a pause that stretched uncomfortably long, he finally spoke. “It’s fine, Bobby,” he said, the nickname slipping out before he could stop it. “I know I’m not what you expected. You probably thought someone like Luke would show up at your door, not... me.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “I’m an asshole. So you weren’t even wrong. But let’s just forget it, yeah?”

He offered Bob a small, crooked smile. It felt strange on his face, foreign, but somehow right, like laying the stones on the graves of his family that cursed day. That brief flicker of kindness from a stranger that owed him nothing, tugged at old memories, pulling him toward thoughts he tried not to entertain. He shook his head, sobering, and let the silence reclaim the space between them.

Whether Bob sensed the shift in mood or simply had nothing else to say, he remained quiet. But he didn’t ride away either. He stayed beside John, keeping him company the way Luke had during the second day of the journey. It was strange, unsettling even, but not unwelcome. And though he wouldn’t say it out loud, it was... nice, in a strange sort of way.

For a while, the journey passed in relative peace. Tensions had simmered, they had settled into a wary rhythm, and John found himself lulled into a fragile sense of security. But, as always, peace never lasts.

It was getting late, the sun just having dipped beneath the tree line. The world around them had been soaked in hues of deep indigo and grey, the kind of eerie stillness that made every shadow seem alive. John had begun to slow his horse, scanning the terrain for a place to make camp. All they needed was a clearing with enough shelter to keep the wind from howling through their tents. He didn’t like stopping too close to the road, especially in unfriendly territory, but exhaustion was catching up with them. The others were quiet, weighed down by the grind of travel.

That’s when he heard it.

Faint, subtle, but distinct: the sound of dry leaves crunching underfoot, branches breaking under pressure. Footsteps, careful, too deliberate to be wildlife, too quiet to be casual travelers. They were being followed.

His instincts flared. Every hair on his body stood on end. Something was wrong.

He tightened the reins and tilted his head. “Do you guys hear that?”

Silence followed, only broken by the soft clop of hooves on packed earth. For a heartbeat, no one replied, then Bob glanced his way and shrugged.

“Not really. What exactly are we listening for?”

John didn’t get the chance to answer.

That was when Rick, apparently having exhausted his store of self-restraint, found it an opportune moment to rile him up in front of their new guest. To boost morale, or something.

“Nothing you could hear, Bobby,” Rick jeered, dragging the name out with theatrical cruelty. His grin was sharp and malicious. “Little Johnny here has a vivid imagination. Thinks the wind’s out to get him. Don’t worry, it’s just a side effect of being batshit insane.”

John clenched his jaw, fingers twitching on the saddle horn. He noticed Bob’s jaw tighten too, his eyes narrowing. Luke murmured a soft but firm, “Rick, just stop.”

But Rick wasn’t done.

“Every town needs its resident lunatic, right?”

John’s blood ran hot, but before he could spit a reply, or Bob could leap to his defense, everything exploded.

The crack of a rifle split the air like a thunderclap.

Rick’s mocking expression didn’t even have time to shift. The bullet struck him between the eyes with surgical precision. One moment, he was mid-laugh. The next, his lifeless body slumped sideways in the saddle and collapsed to the ground with a sickening thud.

John’s heart pounded. His satisfaction was instant, and instantly drowned in the chaos that followed.

Another shot rang out. Then another. Screams pierced the quiet twilight as more men dropped from their horses like rag dolls. Panic erupted among the group, horses whinnying, hooves tearing up the earth. Shadows emerged from the trees, figures, fast and precise, encircling them.

It was an ambush.

But this was familiar. Too familiar.

The tension in his muscles, the breath that seemed to roar in his ears louder than the shouting, louder than the gunfire. It was the kind of familiarity that carved itself into the bones. There was no time to think. His body moved before his mind had caught up. Claws tore free from his fingers like knives breaking skin. Fangs dropped from his gums, glinting wet in the low dawn light. Then, like a predator freed from its cage, John launched himself into the chaos.

His breath rasped in rhythm with every motion. Blood exploded in heavy sprays as his hands met flesh. His claws buried into a man’s collarbone, ripping through skin and sinew with grotesque ease. The enemy hadn’t even had time to scream. His windpipe was already shredded, his body collapsing into the earth with a twitch.

It was as if the world slowed to meet him. He could feel the heat of the blood as it clung to his skin, could hear the soft crackle of ribs giving way beneath his grip, the wet sound of organs shifting. Time was stretching, warping, turning seconds into long, endless moments of violence. A heartbeat became a battlefield.

Rick’s body was already cooling, a neat hole placed perfectly between his eyes. A sniper’s shot; surgical, efficient. Too clean for John’s taste. He didn’t mourn him, didn’t want to. He’d hated the fucking bastard. But he noted it. Just like he noted the silence from two more of his men. Gone. Just like that.

Luke was still standing, a blur of movement as he fired at shapes between the trees. Bob, by contrast, was motionless in the middle of the chaos, frozen, vulnerable. He had to survive. That was the mission. John’s claws clenched tighter.

These weren’t bandits or deserters. This was coordinated. A trap. A goddamned ambush set with precision, the kind only politics or revenge could buy. His blood boiled hotter. Someone had to have set them up. He just didn’t know who.

He snapped back into motion and leapt into the nearest attacker, knocking them to the ground. Teeth found flesh before thought returned. He tore into the neck like a starving animal, pulling his head back with a growl as blood sprayed across his chest. The scream died in the man’s throat. He didn’t stop to savor it.

The next target was already upon him. A blade swung close, too close, slicing across his ribs. Pain flared white-hot, but he welcomed it. Pain was real. Pain made things simple.

He spun, claws slashing. One swipe, then another, his strikes too fast to track. He severed tendons, gouged eyes, drove his fist so deep into one attacker’s chest that he felt the heart pulsing against his knuckles. With a grunt, he pulled it free, the organ twitching in his blood-soaked hand. He flung it at the next enemy, catching them in the face. Their scream was cut short when his claws sank into their temples and he yanked. The skull gave with a wet, splitting sound, and the spine cracked free like an uncoiled whip.

Silence hit him like a stone to the chest.

He turned, panting, scanning for the next threat. That’s when he saw it, the last enemy standing. A kid, no older than twenty, barely able to hold the rifle trained on John’s chest. His hands trembled, the barrel shaking, rising slowly toward John’s face.

The fear was so thick in the air it was choking. He could smell it pouring off the boy in waves, sour and metallic. The scent of someone moments from making the worst decision of their life.

John didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He locked eyes with the shooter, saw the flicker of resolve behind the panic, and braced for the shot.

But the bullet never came.

A body slammed into him, tackling him hard and fast, shoulder to ribs, flesh to flesh. His balance snapped. They hit the ground in a tangle, the air torn from his lungs in a violent gasp. Then something warm, too warm, splashed across his face.

Blood.

It blinded him instantly, stinging his eyes as it seeped into them. He scrubbed at them with his forearm, scrambling to see. His ears rang from the impact, from the closeness of the shot, from the roar of adrenaline still flooding his system. His vision cleared just enough to see a shape crumpled beside him.

Rattling breath. Gurgling. A sound he would never forget. Not since Olivia.

“No...” he rasped, crawling toward the shape, toward the scent he now recognized. Luke.

The bullet had been meant for John, but Luke had intercepted it. The shot had torn through him like paper. John couldn’t even tell where it had entered, there was too much blood. Too much damage. Luke was choking on his own blood now, his mouth moving in a silent prayer or curse. Maybe both.

John’s body locked. His heart pounded so fast it hurt. His breathing sped until he felt lightheaded, like the whole world was falling away beneath him. Not again. Not again. His mind raced with images; Olivia’s last breath, his son’s limp body, the fire, the blood. The Pack. The ruins. The guilt. Lemar.

And then... black.

Just before he lost consciousness, he heard a single, final thud. The enemy shooter falling, and then someone retching violently, the smell of vomit hitting his sensitive nose.

He hasn't been out for long—he can feel it in his bones. His body doesn’t allow him the luxury of prolonged unconsciousness, healing at an unnatural pace, dragging him back to reality before he’s ready. The world is hazy, but not far gone. The first thing he registers is the acidic tang of vomit, still fresh and sour in the air. Then the silence. The ragged breathing that had been coming from his side is gone. Stillness has settled in its place. The body next to him is cooling, the warmth of life slipping away.

And then, a sharp slap cracks across his face.

His head jerks violently to the side, and a startled grunt escapes his lips. Instinctively, he lifts a trembling hand to his cheek, wiping away blood and grime, only to smear it deeper into his skin. A second later, someone grips his collar and hauls him upright into a sitting position with surprising strength.

“Walker, oh my God. I thought you were dead! I thought I knocked that guy out too late. Are you hurt? Why did you pass out? Was it blood loss? Were you poisoned? Do you have a concussion? Or d—”

John slaps a blood-covered palm over Bob’s mouth, silencing him with a groan. His head throbs with every word, every decibel.

“Bobby,” he rasps, voice gravelly and broken. “What the fuck? If you thought I was dying, why the hell would you slap me? Wouldn’t that just make it worse?”

Bob’s cheeks flare a violent red, nearly matching the blood smeared across his mouth from John’s hand. He looks properly mortified.

“Oh. Well. You see... I’ve read in books that slapping someone brings them back. I’ve always wanted to try it. Figured it couldn’t hurt. Sorry. I guess I didn’t think it through.”

That draws an unexpected laugh from John, short and sharp. It startles him more than the slap had. But the humor dies the moment his eyes land on Luke.

Luke, lying still beside him.

The blood drains from his face, the sound of laughter vanishing into a cold vacuum. He reaches out with shaking fingers and gently closes Luke’s vacant eyes. His throat feels tight. A bullet wound gapes in Luke’s neck, ragged and final. Not silver. Not poisoned. Just a bullet, clean, precise, and utterly fatal. John knows it had been meant for him, had been aimed at his head. His advanced healing wouldn’t have been able to save him from a headshot like that. If the bullet had hit his brain, he’d instantly have died. The healing wouldn’t even have set in. And Luke had seen it. Luke had thrown himself into the line of fire.

He didn’t know Luke well, didn’t even know his last name. But Luke had saved his life.

Why? Why the hell would someone do that for him?

There must be something deeply, irreparably wrong with him. Every time he lets someone close, they die. Olivia. His son. Lemar. And now, Luke. Just gone. Because of him. Maybe the bite hadn’t just cursed him with claws and fangs. Maybe it had cursed his very soul.

And now... now he couldn’t even die without betraying Luke’s sacrifice. Without having to feel like a proper fucking piece of shit. To kill himself soon after this would be like spitting on the gift Luke gave him. His life. His chance.

His lungs start to hitch, breath coming too fast, too shallow. A familiar spiral claws at the edge of his thoughts. He’s about to fall again.

That’s when the retching starts.

Bob’s heaving pulls John from the brink. “God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it’s just...” Bob gags again, hands on his knees. “The smell, it’s too much. I’ve never seen anything like this. I can’t, please, I can’t stay here.”

John snaps into motion. There’s no time to sit and mourn. They’re still in danger. They need to move, need to think, to plan. Even though his chest burns from the slash that’s already knitting itself together, even though his head feels stuffed with smoke and ash, he gets up. He pulls Bob up with him.

“Get up. We’re going. You’re right. We can’t stay.”

Bob blinks at him in confusion. “What do you mean... what else would we do? We go home. That’s the plan. That’s where we’re going.”

John flinches at the word “we.” Like they’re a team. Like they’re anything but two strangers trapped in the same nightmare. But it hits something in his chest anyway. Something painful.

“No,” he says, firm now. “Listen to me. You can’t go back. They were after you. Think about it. They didn’t bring silver, didn’t use wolfsbane. They haven’t poisoned a single bullet. If they were after me, they’d have come prepared. But they didn’t. They waited until you were with us to strike. This was about you. Someone must really not want you to arrive at Val’s.”

He pauses, letting that sink in. Bob’s eyes widen slowly, horror creeping in.

“They know about you. About where you live, probably. About our whole damn route. You go back now, you’re leading them straight to your family.”

John hates using that card, but he has no choice. Bob needs to understand what’s at stake.

“We can’t go back the way we came, either. They’ll be waiting to strike again. Our only shot is to cut through the big forest, taking a different route. We go back to Val’s territory, take the long way around, avoid enemy territory.” John doesn’t know for sure if this attack had been organized by enemy forces, but it’s what makes the most sense. There’d been tension developing between the two territories lately, a lot of disagreement. ”It’s not safe and it’ll take a lot longer, but it’s safer than marching straight into a second ambush. That would be straight up suicide.”

Bob is staring at the trees now, silent and pale. At first John thinks he hadn’t heard him at all. But then he nods.

“You’re right. I can’t risk it. I won’t.”

John sighs, tension flooding out of him for a moment.

“We go on foot. Too exposed otherwise. Think your horse knows the way home?”

Bob nods again.

“Good. We’ll tie the other horses to yours, one by one. Tell it to go home, fast. Attach a note, let your family know we’re okay. Tell them not to come looking. We’re on our own.”

Bob’s gaze is distant, but not vacant. There’s steel beneath the fear now.

“I’ll do it. Let’s get to Val. Whatever this is about... I’m not running.”

John watches him for a moment, nods, and then turns to begin. The grief can wait. The questions can wait. The mission, the blood, the forest, that’s all that matters now.

--

Bob had done exactly as John instructed. With deliberate care, he’d whispered something into the horse’s ear, his hands stroking the creature’s mane as though it were a trusted friend rather than a beast of burden. To John’s mild surprise, the horse had responded, ears flicking, head nodding, as if it understood every word. There was something uncanny about their bond, a quiet connection that defied logic. John had heard of such people before, those with an almost supernatural rapport with animals, able to communicate without words, to convey emotions and instructions in subtle, unseen ways. It was rare, but not unheard of.

Now, the two of them were trudging through the dense underbrush of unfamiliar territory, every step taking them further from the path they’d planned and deeper into uncertainty. Their route back toward home territory was slow, grueling. With no horses left to carry the burden, they were forced to haul the remaining supplies themselves; bedrolls, provisions, weapons, and anything they could salvage from the wreckage of their failed escort. The packs were heavy, shoulders ached, but neither of them complained. There was nothing to say that would make any of this easier.

And this was only the beginning.

The plan was to reach home territory and then take the longer, more perilous route through the big forest, a detour that would more than double their travel time. A week’s journey had already spiraled into something far more demanding. Two weeks, perhaps three. If luck turned against them, a full month. And the food? It wouldn’t last. Even without six other men to share it with, the math didn’t work in their favor. They’d have to forage, hunt, hope for mercy from the land itself.

John pushed those thoughts aside. Not yet. One obstacle at a time.

He glanced sideways at Bob, who kept pace beside him without complaint. The man had surprised him. Shaken, yes, rattled by the bloodshed, nauseated by the death, but not broken. After the horror they’d witnessed, John had expected hysterics or denial, even defiance. Instead, Bob had adapted quickly, as if the gravity of the situation had flipped a switch in him. He wasn’t panicking or asking questions. He wasn’t worrying about himself. All his concern had been centered on others, on the people he’d left behind, on the family he wanted to protect.

That unselfish resolve lingered in John’s thoughts.

It wasn’t often he met someone like that.

He kept his gaze on the trees ahead but couldn’t shake the flicker of curiosity growing inside him. There was something more to Bob, something that didn’t quite add up. Val had been far too evasive, too secretive about this mission for it to be something simple. Escorting a civilian? Too convenient. Too shallow a reason. And now that everything had gone to hell, those earlier suspicions were beginning to crystallize into something sharper, more insistent.

Maybe, John thought, the rules didn’t apply anymore. Maybe this mission had already unraveled beyond the point of protocol or secrecy. Maybe he could start asking questions without risking Val’s wrath. Because he needed answers. About Bob, about the attack, about why any of this had happened in the first place.

He adjusted the strap of his pack on his shoulder, grimacing as dried blood cracked against his skin. His armor was stained, his hands still sticky from the fight, the memory of Luke’s final act of bravery refusing to leave him. But now wasn’t the time for grief. Now was the time for survival. For clarity.

And, perhaps, for a little truth.

He walked on in silence, through the ever-thickening woods, with the strange, soft-footed man beside him. Bloodied, battered, and burdened by mystery, but moving forward all the same.

--

They pressed on through the night, pushing deeper into the pines until dawn painted the trunks a sickly gray-gold. Every branch that whipped across John’s face stung, every bramble snagged, but he forced himself to ignore the fatigue humming in his bones. He needed distance, a wide, crooked scar across the map, between them and the ambush site before they dared to stop. Thankfully the night had been bright, the moon their silent guide.

Bob trudged ahead, shoulders squared, as if he’d been born to these predawn marches. For an ordinary human he moved with surprising steadiness, matching John’s longer stride without complaint. That needled John’s pride more than he cared to admit; the werewolf was the one whose lungs healed in seconds, whose muscles knit themselves overnight, yet he was the one secretly counting heartbeats until they could rest. Usually, it took longer for him to get tired like this, but between the fight, the long march and the emotional fucking distress he endured, he was beat. Bob didn’t seem to feel the same way. Go figure.

By the time the first true shafts of sunlight speared the canopy, John felt the crusted blood on his armor tighten like a second, fetid skin. The copper stench had grown thick enough to choke. His fingers itched. If he didn’t scrub himself raw soon, he feared he’d start clawing the gore off like a mad dog.

They broke into a small glade, dew-soaked grass glittering between slick boulders. Beyond, a pond lay still as smoked glass. The surface mirrored jagged clouds and, mercifully, glimmered clear enough to drink and bathe. Relief swept through John so sharply he almost laughed.

“Bobby, hold up.” His voice cracked. “Water. I need this off me before I gag on the smell.”

Bob halted, scanning the clearing. “Looks clean enough. Are you sure you’re—”

John was already stripping, jerking buckles loose, tossing ruined leather into the weeds. Blood flaked off in black scabs. Bob emitted a strangled squeak.

“Y-You’re just—you’re going all in? It’ll be freezing! And you’re, uh, completely—” Words tangled, his face flushing crimson.

John raised a brow. “Relax. Frost won’t kill me. The stink might.” Then, with a splash, he plunged.

Cold bit every inch of skin, but he welcomed it. He ducked, forcing water through his hair, over the half-healed slash across his ribs. Red clouds spiraled outward, tinting the pond like wine. He surfaced, chest heaving, swiped a hand across his face and called, “Soap, top pocket of my pack. And spare clothes. Burn the old ones.”

Bob fetched the gray bar, keeping his gaze fixed somewhere emphatically not at John’s naked form. “You could’ve warned me,” he muttered, handing it over at arm’s length.

John scrubbed until his skin rasped, the water around him now a murky crimson halo. Each stroke felt like peeling away yesterday’s nightmare. The gunshots, Luke’s sacrifice, the way rage had dragged him backward to a man he swore he’d stopped being. He’d stopped fighting like a wild animal since joining Val. He’d fought like this when people were still using the moniker Agent of Death to refer to him, but he'd told Yelena and Bob that he had changed, that he wasn’t like that anymore. And then he just had to go and prove himself wrong, breaking his word at the same time. He wasn’t sure why that bothered him so much. When the soap finally left only pale foam, he ducked once more, then rose, water cascading from his shoulders.

On land, Bob sat on a fallen tree, back turned, whispering to himself, prayers, maybe, or frantic calculations. John didn’t pry. He squeezed out the water from the short strands of his hair, then shook like a dog, droplets spraying the ferns before he hauled on the fresh clothes Bob had brought him.

Padding over, he dropped onto the log beside Bob. Steam curled from his skin into the chill. They sat in silence, breath pluming, the distant chorus of birds announcing full morning.

John flexed his clean hands, studying the crescents of dirt beneath short nails. “Thank you,” he said at last, voice low. “For the slap. And for not running.”

Bob glanced sideways, a tired half-smile hitching his mouth. “Didn’t exactly have anywhere to run, did I? Besides—” He looked down, eyes shadowed. “You saved me back there. We’re even.”

John swallowed. Even. If only it were that simple. The grief for Luke still gnawed, but he pushed it aside; later he’d build a fire and let himself remember. For now they had miles to cover and enemies somewhere behind them.

He tapped Bob’s elbow. “We follow the stream south till it forks west. After that, the big forest, two, maybe three weeks if we move quick. You ready?”

Bob inhaled, squared his shoulders, and nodded. “Let’s get it done.”

They rose together, two silhouettes against the brightening pond, one washed raw, the other trembling a bit, and stepped back beneath the trees, toward the long, dangerous road that waited.

--

They pressed onward, mile after weary mile, until the jagged shapes of familiar trees and the comforting scent of their own soil told them they’d crossed back into home territory. It hadn't taken long, at least not by John’s standards, but the return had felt endless. They’d barely slipped over the enemy line when the ambush hit, yet trekking back on foot, burdened with salvaged supplies and a mind still buzzing with shock and grief, had made the path back feel far longer than it was.

By the time the horizon began to darken again, they'd found a patch of high ground and made camp. The clearing was tucked between sloping tree trunks, sheltered enough for a fire without drawing too much attention. Dusk bled slowly into night as John anchored the tent’s stakes into the dirt and unrolled their bedrolls with practiced hands.

They had only brought one tent. At the time it made sense—lighter packs meant faster movement, especially when you couldn’t be sure what you’d be up against. Still, now John was silently regretting not bringing a second. He could have carried it. Probably. But hindsight was cruel like that, always whispering about what could’ve been done differently.

In the center of camp, a low-burning fire crackled as John passed out their rations, dry smoked fish and an unlabeled tin of stew with a smell that was more salt than spice. Bob accepted the food with tired eyes that still managed to glint with something like gratitude. He didn’t even hesitate before digging in, wolfing down mouthfuls of the cold stew like he hadn’t eaten in days.

John lingered for a moment, stew in hand, but the knot in his stomach wasn’t from hunger. He wasn’t ready. Not to eat in front of someone. Not yet. Even if he felt more at ease around Bob after barely a day than he had around Val’s men after a full week. But he didn’t want to give Bob even more reason to be awkward around him, especially because they were supposed to sleep in the same tent after this.

Without a word, he turned to walk away, planning to eat alone, where the hiss of his fangs lowering wouldn’t turn the moment sour. But before he made it ten steps, Bob’s voice called out behind him, surprised, confused.

“Where are you going? You’re not gonna eat?”

John paused, jaw clenched. He hadn’t expected Bob to notice, let alone comment. Had hoped he wouldn’t. For a heartbeat he considered ignoring the question, just vanishing into the trees. But they were stuck with each other now. If they had any hope of surviving this mess, they'd have to learn to trust one another, even the ugliest parts.

He turned back slowly, the words forming like stones in his throat.

“I’m going to eat,” he said flatly, hoping that would be the end of it.

But Bob tilted his head, genuinely confused. “Then why are you leaving? Is it—wait, is it because of your hearing? The chewing? I can try to be quieter, if that’s it. I know other people who are very sensitive with that kind of thing, too.”

John blinked at him, stunned by the thoughtfulness. Most people recoiled. Most people didn’t ask twice. Something sharp and uncomfortable pricked at the back of his chest. Guilt, maybe.

“It’s not that,” he muttered. “It’s not you. Just… drop it, okay? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He turned and kept walking before Bob could say anything else, shame trailing after him like smoke. He didn’t owe the man an explanation. They’d only just met, barely spent a day in each other’s company. But the truth, simple and ugly, was that John was terrified of what Bob might see if he let himself be seen like that—fangs bared, eyes too bright, instincts too sharp. Acting like the animal he always insisted he wasn’t.

Still, he kept his word. He devoured the stew quickly, ignoring the tang of metal that coated every bite, and returned before long. Bob was still crouched by the fire, can in hand, his face softening when he saw John approach. The bastard even looked happy to see him.

John smirked despite himself. “Miss me already? I didn’t think a few minutes without my charming company would do you in.”

Bob ducked his head, hiding a smile. “I just don’t like being alone. I’ve had enough of that.”

His voice dipped on the last word, trailing off into memory. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t share it, and John didn’t press. They sat in surprisingly comfortable silence for the rest of the evening, the fire snapping quietly between them, shadows dancing across their tired faces.

Later, when it came time to sleep, John hesitated outside the tent. He’d gotten better, a lot less midnight terrors where he woke up clawing at his chest or choking on old screams, but he still didn’t trust the dark. Not fully. And certainly not tonight, not with the ghosts of blood and bullets still lingering just beneath his skin.

But as it turned out, he wouldn’t be the one to disturb the silence this time.

Because sometime after midnight, when the fire had burned low and the woods had grown too quiet, Bob would be the one crying out in his sleep.

He must’ve been more tired than he realized. Despite all his internal debate about not sleeping, to avoid disturbing Bob, to avoid nightmares, to avoid himself, he had drifted off in a matter of minutes. His body gave out, surrendering to exhaustion without so much as a warning. He hadn’t even noticed Bob crawling into the tent after him, hadn’t stirred once throughout the night. Until now.

Something clawed him out of unconsciousness, dragging him up through the dark waters of sleep. At first, it was just sound, faint, broken, distressed. Then breathing, too fast and too shallow to be normal. Bob. John shot upright like a loaded spring, his muscles locking into place. Bob’s sleep wasn’t peaceful; it was jagged and chaotic, his body twitching, small noises escaping his lips. Whimpers, choked gasps, little mewling cries that stabbed into John’s chest sharper than any blade ever could.

John reached out, intending to shake him awake. But before he could, Bob’s eyes snapped open. For a heartbeat, John froze. But Bob wasn’t truly awake, his eyes were empty, glazed over, staring through John as if he wasn’t there. Then, without warning, Bob’s hand shot out, clamping around John’s wrist with terrifying strength. The grip was so tight John’s fingers instantly went numb. It hurt. It hurt like a bitch. He tried to pull away, but it only made Bob’s grip tighten.

Then came the tug.

John pitched forward, bracing for impact, but instead of falling into Bob’s chest, the air changed. Cold wind slapped his face, and suddenly he was sprawled on the forest floor, pine needles poking him in the cheek. Daylight. Noise. The scent of blood in the air, real and sharp. He blinked, disoriented, eyes struggling to adjust to the brightness. He could hear it behind him then, a cacophony of shouting, snarling, steel on flesh and bones. A scuffle, a fight. He turned his head and felt his heart lurch violently.

He saw himself. Younger. Reckless. And human. So very human that it hurt. His younger self was fighting a werewolf with a silver sword, desperation written across his face. John knew exactly where he was—when he was. This was that day. The day it all ended. The beginning of the end.

And then he saw it: another wolf, approaching the younger him from behind, fast and silent. His heart nearly stopped. Lemar. The werewolf that killed Lemar, all of this only happening because he’d decided to saved John’s worthless life. His breath hitched. No, no, no, he couldn’t let this happen. Not again. He scrambled to his feet, sprinting toward the wolf. If he could stop it, just this once, maybe the past could be rewritten.

He leapt, claws extending, fangs bared, bracing for the impact he knew was coming. But then the scene shattered before his eyes, daylight disappeared, darkness returned. His body slammed onto something soft, air punched from his lungs momentarily. Darkness had swallowed the trees, Lemar was gone, and so was the werewolf. He blinked again. He was back in the tent. Bob was on top of him, straddling him, pinning his legs and wrists down like a predator cornering prey, his eyes holding a weird golden glow. He could feel his wrists throbbing, his legs kicking out on instinct. His ears were ringing, his breath escaping him in sharp bursts. His head felt like it was full of cotton, his senser were overwhelmed. He had no idea what the fuck just happened, and his brain didn’t seem to be working properly. Then he could hear Bob talking, trying to get his attention. He must’ve been trying for a while already, based on how his voice sounded.

“Walker! Walker, oh my God, are you okay?” Bob’s voice cracked, nearly drowned by the sound of his own ragged breathing. “Can you hear me? Can you see? Are you breathing? Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I should've known this was a bad idea. I'll sleep outside next time. I thought I had it under control, but what happened yesterday must've messed me up more than I thought. I'm so sorry, John."

John tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken, wounded noise. He had never heard himself let out such a noise before, didn’t understand where it was coming from. Then he felt something land on his face. Trickling down to his neck and onto the bedroll below him, soaking into the material. Tears, warm and wet. And not his.

He realized, to his horror, that Bob was crying, while simultaneously tightening the hold he had on John’s wrists. He could feel the bones beginning to creak, protesting under the unrelenting force. If he tightened his grip further, John was sure his bones were going to snap. He had to do something.

“Bobby…” His voice was raw, barely a whisper. “You’re crushing my wrists. You can let go now, okay? I need you to let go. Please.”

The instant the words left him, Bob flinched and released him, tumbling off and out of the tent. John stared after him, blinking at the ceiling of fabric above his head. His wrists throbbed. He looked down—already darkening bruises spread across his pale skin like shadows. No normal human could’ve done that. Not to him.

A chill ran through his spine. Fear. Raw and primal.

Bob wasn’t human. He couldn’t be.

The realization tasted bitter, metallic. His eyes, that night-glow gold—they had shimmered like the stars, innocent and blinding. His strength, unthinking and wild. The dream (or was it a vision?) John had no clue what it was, but he knew Bob had something to do with it. Had to.

Still stunned, he dragged himself out of the tent, after Bob.

He found Bob on his knees a few feet away, sobbing into the dirt. His frame shook with every breath, his fingers digging into the cold ground.

“Bobby?” John’s voice cracked again. “You okay there?” What a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t, or he wouldn’t be crying his eyes out. He also wanted to reach out, touch his shoulder, but he stopped himself. He tried to do the same thing a few moments ago, and that hadn’t turned out too well. So maybe no touching this time.

Bob looked up, eyes red and glistening, face streaked with tears and snot. “I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to. I hurt you. I make things worse. So much worse. That’s all I ever do. I break things. I destroy everything I touch. But I didn’t want to, you need to believe me, John, please.”

John’s heart clenched painfully. He didn’t know how to comfort people. Didn’t know the right words. So he sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, but not touching, and said the only thing that mattered.

“I believe you.”

They stayed like that in silence until the sun broke over the tree line, a soft golden glow painting the world in temporary calm. Bob had stopped crying a while ago, and his breathing had leveled out. Still, they stayed right there. It had felt wrong to move, to disturb the fragile peace that had formed. But then, when it was time, when it felt right, John murmured, “We should pack. We have a lot of ground to cover today. And... we should probably talk.”

Bob didn’t move. He reached out, his touch feather-light now, and turned John’s arm. The bruise was angry and purple, the outline of fingers unmistakable. It still hadn’t faded, and probably wouldn’t for a while. John had come to understand that this wasn’t a normal injury, it was something else. Because Bob himself was something else. John spoke. “Barely hurts. It’s fine. It’ll be gone in no time, and I know you didn’t mean to do it.” It wouldn’t do any good to tell Bob how much it still hurt, and how the strength that Bob seemed to possess scared him shitless.

“Still, I’m sorry. I hurt you, and I hate hurting people”

That made John smile a little. “Well, it’s good then that I’m not people. You can’t hurt me, at least not too bad. I heal, I survive, I always do. And I can handle pain.”

Those didn’t seem to have been the right words, because Bob’s face fell. He looked at John with a sad expression. “Just because you can handle pain doesn’t mean you should have to. You know that, right?” With those words he gave John’s arm a soft squeeze and then let him go, still looking at him, waiting for an answer.

John’s throat tightened. The words hit something in him. A place he didn’t like dealing with, and after the night they’d had, he really couldn’t do it. It was too emotional, too raw. So instead of answering, he stood, unable to say anything else. “Let’s just pack up,” he said. “We’ll talk more later, yeah?”

They packed up in silence, the morning air thick with things unsaid. Breakfast was quick and quiet, more an obligation than anything else. Neither of them had much of an appetite—too on edge, too rattled from the night before. The aftermath of nightmares and bruises left a sour taste that no food could chase away.

They started walking north, following the slow meander of the stream. The forest hadn’t grown dense yet, the trees still spaced far enough apart to see the sun glinting off the water. It gave a false sense of safety, but John knew better. Danger didn’t always come from the shadows. It could find you in the open, too. Still, he kept his ears sharp, every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves making his shoulders tighten.

Truthfully, it was easier to focus on the ambient sounds than on the conversation he knew they needed to have. He kept postponing it, hiding behind the excuse of being alert. Listening. Protecting. Anything but talking.

But Bob, apparently, had more spine than John was giving him credit for.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he said, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for hours. “I can’t take the suspense anymore. You’re torturing me with all this silence.”

John didn’t look at him yet. “Torturing you, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bob said, dryly. “I’m guessing you want to know what I am. Right?”

John finally slowed his steps so they could walk side by side, rather than in the uneven line they’d fallen into. He didn’t glance over, but his voice came out quieter, less guarded than usual.

“I think that’d be a good place to start.”

Bob cleared his throat. “I kind of assumed you already knew. But your reaction last night... yeah. Clearly not.”

“No one told me anything.” John’s tone was flat, but it carried weight.

Bob grimaced. “Right. Okay. So, I’m a mage. Or... I guess you could say I’m part mage. Whatever that really means these days. I tried training, but it didn't really work and I’ve never had much control over it. My powers... they’re tied to my emotions. Mood swings, trauma, panic, that sort of thing. It’s like trying to hold a knife by the blade.”

He gave John a glance, quick and uncertain. “Yesterday, all that violence, it just... set something off. And once it starts, it’s like I’m still there, but I’m not. It’s me, but not me. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

There was guilt in his voice. The kind that came from trying to apologize for something you couldn’t help, but still felt responsible for. His shoulders were hunched, gaze flicking toward the path ahead.

John let it hang in the air for a few moments before speaking. “Can you tell me what happened in the tent? Whatever that was, it wasn’t normal. I need to know what I saw. What you did.”

Bob’s face darkened. He didn’t look up. “I... don’t have a good explanation. Sometimes, when someone touches me, or I touch them, it triggers something. I don’t even have to mean to do it. It’s like they get pulled into something. A dream, but not really a dream. A memory. Usually a bad one. And I end up there with them. It hasn’t happened in years. I thought I had it under control, or I swear I wouldn't have gone in the tent with you.”

John stopped walking.

“You were there?” His voice was low, but sharp. “In my head?”

“I was,” Bob said, quietly. “But I didn’t see much. I swear. It was too fast. One second I was asleep, and the next I was in the middle of some fight. A memory, I guess. But it barely lasted more than a few seconds before I was back in the tent and you were...” He stopped himself. Swallowed. “You were clawing at your own chest. I thought you were going to tear yourself open. I didn’t know what else to do. I panicked.”

John looked at him, really looked at him, trying to read the truth in his face. Bob’s eyes were wide and honest, tinged with the same guilt they’d carried all morning.

“You saw the fight?” John asked, slower this time. “Which one?”

“I couldn’t tell. Just... a wolf. And you. But younger. And something sharp in your hand. And then it ended.”

John ran a hand through his hair and exhaled through his nose. There was too much heat in his chest; anger, confusion, a lingering trace of panic. That memory... he’d buried it deep. And now Bob, this stranger, this weird, soft-spoken mage, had brushed against it like it was nothing.

“And that just... happens? Randomly?” John asked, voice thin.

Bob winced. “Only when things are really bad. And only when there’s touch involved. That’s why I don’t... y’know. That’s why I try not to get too close.”

John gave a humorless laugh. “You don’t say.”

Bob stayed quiet.

John resumed walking, his feet crunching over dried leaves. He didn’t say anything else for a while, trying to push the image of young, stupid, human John from his head. Trying not to think about Lemar, or the flash of silver, or the scream that hadn’t even finished before the silence fell.

Bob eventually followed, his steps hesitant.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, like it mattered.

John didn’t answer right away. His throat felt too tight. Finally, he said, “I believe you.”

Then, because the silence was starting to press down too hard again, he added, “Let’s just try not to touch anymore.”

Bob gave a stiff, awkward nod. “Right. Yeah. No touching. Got it.”

The forest seemed to breathe around them. The stream gurgled softly beside their path, as if mocking the tension between them. But at least the truth was out now. And they had miles left to go. Still, John felt like there was more to this than what Bob had revealed, but he didn't dare push.

--

They didn’t talk about anything important for the rest of the day.

Their conversation drifted to safer topics: stray animals crossing their path, birdsong from the trees above, the strange colors of unfamiliar plants that lined the trail. It was mostly Bob who pointed these things out, his curiosity bubbling over despite the exhaustion. John didn’t say much. The woods were nothing new to him. The low-hanging branches, the moss-covered roots, the rustling of something small darting through underbrush. It was all familiar, part of the background noise of his life.

But Bob looked at it all like it was magic.

John figured that made sense. Growing up on a farm probably didn’t give him much reason to wander into the deeper wilds. No hunting to be done, no need to push into unknown terrain. What Bob saw as fascinating, John simply registered as ordinary. Still, he found himself listening to the way Bob talked about it. His enthusiasm was clumsy, but genuine. It filled the air just enough to make the silence between them less heavy.

The day passed that way, slow and unremarkable, until once again, they found themselves surrounded by the creeping colors of dawn.

John felt his shoulders tense up.

They both knew what that meant. Camp. The fire. The tent. The night.

But there wasn’t any avoiding it, not without risking injury or worse. So when they came across a decent clearing, they stopped. The trees were tall enough to offer some cover, the ground soft enough to sit on. John started building the fire while Bob sorted through their supplies in a quiet hum of activity.

And then, of course, Bob decided they hadn’t quite hit their quota for daily emotional vulnerability.

“Hey,” he said, casual but a little too deliberate. “Why do we stop at dawn? I mean, you can see perfectly at night, right? So technically, we could keep moving. Cover more ground. Maybe get this trip over with a little quicker.”

John didn’t look up from the fire. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not tonight.

“You just want me to do all the work, huh?” he said, trying to keep it light, playful. “Don’t like setting up the tent? Building the fire? Want me to carry you while I’m at it?”

Bob let out a short laugh, but it didn’t sound like amusement. More like he was trying to smooth something over he didn’t yet understand.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he said. “I just—look, I want this trip over with as much as you do. So I’m trying to understand why we’re stopping when we don’t have to.”

John felt the corner of his jaw tighten. He shoved a stick deeper into the fire, watching it crackle and spark. “What, you suddenly got night vision too? Planning on stumbling through the dark until you twist an ankle or crack your skull on a tree trunk?”

“I wouldn’t stumble,” Bob said, defensively. “I could hold onto you. Or a rope. Or something. And I kinda do have night vision, actually. Not as good as yours, sure, but enough. I’d manage.”

John didn’t respond right away. He kept tending to the fire, letting the crackling wood fill the space between them. But Bob didn’t seem to get the hint, or maybe he was just too stubborn to back down now.

“Come on,” he added, voice gentler now. “You’ve been leading us through worse terrain. So why not keep going a bit longer? Just until it’s really late. It could help. We’d gain time.”

John’s hand paused mid-motion.

“No,” he said, voice firmer this time. “We’re stopping. That’s it.”

There was silence again, this one sharper, heavier.

Bob’s voice came back quieter, but with less of the friendly edge it usually carried. “Seriously? That’s it? No explanation? We’re just stopping because you say so?”

John finally looked at him, eyes dark and unreadable. “Yes.”

The mood between them snapped like overstretched wire. Bob stepped back a little, his mouth set in a thin line. He didn’t raise his voice, but the words came out tight and clipped.

“Fine. I just thought maybe, just maybe, you’d treat me like I could handle the truth. But I guess I was wrong.”

John didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Because the truth? The real truth?

He didn’t stop walking at dawn because Bob couldn’t see. He stopped because he wouldn't be able to see. Not if he didn't use his night vision. Because using his night vision would make his eyes glow, and he couldn't have that. Not if he wanted this trip with Bob to continue without the man completely despising him. And he was certain Bob would, once he saw his eyes glowing blue. So this was safer.

Bob was quiet, but John could feel the tension radiating off of him like heat from a sunburn. The argument hadn’t ended well. Not really. Bob had retreated into himself after John's cold dismissal, visibly upset, but choosing to stay silent, for now. John had taken his food and started walking away, hoping the distance might cool things off.

But that had been a mistake.

“Seriously? Again?” Bob’s voice cracked the silence like thunder. “Do you ever do anything that makes sense? How come you get to ask me all these damn questions, but every time I try to ask something, you shut me out?”

John stopped. Closed his eyes. Inhaled deeply. He was exhausted. All this talking, this emotional minefield, was wearing on him in ways a battle never could.

He turned, slow and deliberate. “What questions, Bobby? I answered your question. You just didn’t like the answer. That’s not the same thing.”

Bob scoffed. “Oh sure. You answered it. Just like you ‘answered’ me yesterday, right? Walking off into the woods with your food like some fucking broody cryptid. Want to tell me why you’re doing it again? Or am I supposed to guess?”

John’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. And then, just like that, his restraint snapped.

“I don’t owe you shit, Bob,” he snarled, each word sharp as broken glass. “Can you, for once, mind your own goddamn business? We’re not friends. This isn't a bonding trip. I’m here because Val decided your sorry ass needed an escort. Because apparently, you’re too fucking incompetent to make it across the woods by yourself!”

Bob flinched, but John was already on a roll, voice rising with fury.

“And while we’re at it, maybe you should focus on your own little meltdown powers, huh? Mister ‘I can’t control my magic when I’m upset’? You’ve got enough of your own shit to deal with!”

The moment the last word left his lips, the forest changed.

The heat surged behind him. He turned toward the fire, now towering, roaring like it had a voice of its own. Flames licked the night sky with unnatural fury, shadows stretching in warped, violent angles. John took a step forward, alarm spiking in his chest.

Then it vanished.

One blink, and the flames collapsed. One heartbeat, and they were swallowed whole by darkness.

He stood in stunned silence, the air suddenly too still, too quiet. The insects had stopped chirping. The trees weren’t rustling. Not even the wind dared to move.

“Bob?” he called softly, eyes sweeping the darkness. “Bob, what’s going on?”

And then he saw it; a faint silhouette, just at the edge of the dying light. The outline of a figure, indistinct and shifting. Eyes glowed in the blackness like distant stars—gold, piercing, inhuman. Just a pinprick.

“Bob? What’s happening?” he tried again, slower, more hesitant now.

The figure didn’t move, but something else did. The voice.

It came from everywhere at once, as if the trees themselves were speaking. Deep, layered, and almost amused.

“A question, after what you just said?” it asked, tone echoing with something ancient. “Funny. I thought you hated those. Or is hypocrisy part of the werewolf charm?”

John’s stomach turned ice-cold. He took a step back.

The figure smiled. Not kindly.

“It’s funny, John. Really funny. Because you know what? I don’t even need to ask questions.”

There was a sudden pressure in the air. Like the moment before lightning strikes.

“I could just take the answers.”

The shape surged forward, faster than thought, than light, and before John could react, something impossibly cold touched his forehead.

It wasn't skin. It was presence.

And then, just like before, his body remained in the woods, but his mind was ripped away, thrown headfirst into the abyss of memory, the shadows dragging him down, down, down.

It was different this time.

He didn’t slip into a memory, wasn’t dragged back into some haunting echo of the past. This was worse. So much worse. There was no flickering vision, no image to fight against, just sensation. Raw, visceral sensation that spread through him like poison in his blood.

It felt like his soul was being peeled back, layer by fragile layer.

There was no warning. No surge, no pull, only the suffocating stillness of a moment that should have been harmless but was now everything but. It was like his shame, his bitterness, his festering guilt and every inch of loathing he carried in the broken corners of himself had been bottled, crammed into some impossibly small container. A container forged from denial and silence. And now it was shattering. Exploding.

It didn’t feel like falling, it felt like being unmade.

The detonation wasn't physical, but it hit him with the weight of a thousand breaking bones. His chest constricted, breath failing him as if the air had turned to fire. His knees buckled, not from pain, but from recognition. Because this was him. All of it. Every unspoken regret, every violent impulse he’d ever buried, every whispered doubt that had clawed at his sanity in the quiet hours of the night, laid bare.

No escape. No armor to hide behind. Just the truth, unfiltered and screaming.

Time distorted. It stretched out like sinew under pressure, pulling taut, threatening to snap. Seconds became eternities. And then they became nothing at all. The world was distant. Detached. Like he had been peeled out of reality and was floating, alone, in a liminal place stitched together from thought and ache and ancient wounds that hadn’t ever fully closed.

He could feel it, some ghost of a hand. It wasn't gentle. It was cold, so cold it burned, rummaging through the disordered chaos of his mind with the indifference of a surgeon and the cruelty of a god. It didn’t just look. It judged. It questioned. It pierced. Fingers of frost and force, threading through memories, peeling back meaning, sifting through guilt and grief and rage and all the rot he kept locked away.

It knew him.

Knew the things he hadn’t spoken out loud, not even once. Knew the real reason he couldn’t look in a mirror some days. Knew the names he remembered but couldn’t say anymore without choking. It knew the dream he still had, the one where everything ended not in a blaze of glory, but in quiet, pathetic surrender.

And then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

The invasion ceased.

The silence that followed was so loud it rang in his ears. Like a cathedral after a detonation, all echoes and absence. His thoughts, usually a cacophony of half-formed defenses and honed survival instincts, fell quiet. Not calm. Just... empty. Still. Flattened. Like a battlefield after the last body drops.

He stood there, unblinking. Not whole, not broken, just hollow.

And in that silence, he realized something with a sickening certainty.

He had been seen. Truly seen. Then he fell, face first, into the damp forest floor.

--

He woke up to the sun hitting him square in the face, harsh and unrelenting, as if the world itself was punishing him for surviving the night. His eyes fluttered open with a slow, painful resistance, the light burning into them like fire. At first, there was only confusion. The scent of pine sap, the sharp prick of needles digging into his cheek, the damp rot of earth, he didn’t recognize any of it. His body was sore all over, joints stiff, skin scraped. For a moment, he could’ve sworn he had fallen from the sky.

But then it all came crashing back. The night before. The fire. The voice that wasn’t Bob’s. The invasion of his mind. That hand. He sucked in a breath like a man who had been drowning, then lurched to his feet with the grace of a newborn deer. His legs gave out immediately, and he collapsed back onto his knees, palms digging into the soil.

That’s when he saw him.

Bob.

Sprawled out on the ground just a few feet ahead of him. Limbs at unnatural angles, face pale, lips slightly parted. John’s heart stopped. No—no, no, not again. Not like this. For one agonizing heartbeat, he was sure Bob was dead. Another life snuffed out because of him. Another name on his mental list of failures. But then—then he saw it. The tiniest rise and fall of his chest. Breathing. Weak, but there.

The air rushed from John’s lungs in a broken sigh. He scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging it through sweat, dirt and salt-stained tear tracks. His skin felt foreign, like it didn’t belong to him. Like maybe he was still stuck in that nightmare, and any moment now he’d wake up to find himself on fire or split open.

He looked at Bob but didn’t move closer. Couldn’t. His hand twitched like it wanted to reach out, to check his pulse or shake him awake, but he didn’t trust himself. Not after what had happened. Not after what he’d seen.

That... thing last night. It wasn’t Bob. It had worn his face, borrowed his body, but it wasn’t him. Not the kind-hearted man who waved at squirrels and gasped at every strange mushroom. Not the Bob who smiled too easily, laughed too softly, who somehow made John feel like less of a monster just by existing.

The thing from last night had been a void, a black hole in the shape of a man, and it had pulled John into its center like he was nothing but stardust.

He didn’t know what it was. Didn’t know if it lived inside Bob or had simply hitched a ride. Bob had told him he was a mage, untrained, dangerous, but he hadn’t said anything about... possession. Or duality. Or whatever the hell that had been. But then again, John hadn’t exactly been honest either. Could he really blame Bob for keeping secrets, when John was nothing but a walking closet of skeletons?

This—this must’ve been what Yelena meant. Her warning suddenly made perfect sense. 'Be kind to him.' She hadn’t just meant emotionally. She had meant it as a survival tactic. Because when Bob broke, he didn’t just cry or scream. He unleashed something terrifying. Something ancient. Something that didn’t care who it hurt.

And John had ignored her.

Of course he had.

Because he couldn’t help himself. Because at the end of the day, he was still a blunt object pretending to be a person. And now they were both broken for it.

He glanced around, seeing the remnants of the camp scattered around them. His own dinner, dirty and forgotten, lay a few feet away. It looked half-crushed, probably when he’d fallen. Bob’s food was untouched too. They hadn’t eaten. They hadn’t slept, not really. They’d just collapsed. Shut down. Let the night swallow them whole.

And now the morning felt like mockery, the sunlight cruel in its warmth. As if it had no idea what had transpired in the dark. Or maybe it did, and it simply didn’t care.

John stayed kneeling, the weight of guilt settling on his shoulders like a second spine. This was a mess. What came next?

He gathered every ounce of bravery he had left, focused it into one arm, and thrust it out, his fingers closing around Bob’s shoulder. He started shaking him, not knowing what else to do. “Bob? Please don’t be dead. Yelena will kill me. Val, too. Just—do me a favor and wake up now. Please.” He wasn’t above begging anymore. Not after the things he'd seen, the things he’d done, the things he couldn’t unfeel.

His breath hitched when Bob stirred under his touch. Slowly, with the grogginess of someone clawing their way back from another world, Bob’s eyes cracked open, squinting against the harsh sunlight beaming down on them. He groaned, bringing a shaky hand up to rub his forehead. His voice, when it came, was raw and dry, like gravel scraping through sandpaper. “Damn. What the hell happened to me? I feel like I got clocked by a falling tree. Or maybe trampled by a horde of horses. My head’s killing me.”

He slowly sat up, limbs uncoordinated, blinking around in confusion. “Why am I on the ground? Outside? What... what happened?”

John could only stare at him, mouth half open, throat dry. “You... don’t remember?”

Bob blinked again, then squinted off into the distance as though trying to piece together a fading dream. “Remember what, exactly? I was sitting by the fire... you left—or were leaving—and then you got angry. You yelled something. After that, nothing. I don’t... know how I got here.” He scratched at his head, still visibly lost. His movements were disarmingly honest, like a child waking up from a nightmare.

John didn’t know how to begin to explain what had happened, what he’d seen, what he felt. So he didn’t. Instead, he did what he did best, ignored the mess, got up, brushed the dirt off his clothes, and extended a hand. Hesitant, unsure, but there.

Bob looked at the offered hand like it was a foreign object, like he didn’t know what to make of it. Still, he reached out, and John pulled him to his feet.

“Let’s eat,” John muttered. “Looks like dinner didn’t happen last night. I’m starving. I’ll explain... later.”

He bent down, gathered up the discarded food containers from the night before, and tossed Bob’s portion into his hands. Then he plopped down onto a fallen log with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his chest.

Bob stayed standing for a moment, fidgeting, holding his food like he didn’t know if he was allowed to have it.

“You gonna stand there all day?” John asked, gesturing with his chin. “Sit down and eat. We need to leave soon.”

Bob glanced at him, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his features. “I... I kinda thought you didn’t want me around when you eat. Is it really okay for me to stay?”

John bristled, shame flickering across his face. He’d done that, made the guy feel like a burden. Like his presence was a nuisance. What the hell was wrong with him?

“...It’s fine,” he muttered after a moment. “Just don’t look at me, alright? I’ll turn around. Now sit and eat. That’s an order.”

Bob smiled at him then. Not a wide grin, but something smaller, softer. And maybe it was a little cracked at the edges, but it was genuine. He sat down to eat, careful to not come too close.

The morning light filtered through the trees in dappled patches, warming their shoulders as they sat in silence.

--

It was John this time who broke the silence.

They had packed up and were walking further north, just as they had done the day before and just as they would the day after. But something was different now. A heaviness had settled between them like a fog, oppressive, inescapable. Not even the strange shared nightmare-memory incident had left such a thick residue in the air.

John’s wrists still ached faintly, the bruises an echo of the tension coiling in his gut. He glanced down at them, faint purple bands like ghostly shackles. His mind felt the same—bruised, stretched too far, frayed at the edges.

“So,” he said, the word falling flat against the hush of the forest. “I guess we should... uh, you know. Yeah.”

He waited. Maybe Bob would make this easier. He didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” John finally muttered. “I think I should start with that. I didn’t mean what I said. You just... caught me in a bad mood. Doesn’t excuse it. So I’m sorry.”

Bob’s voice, when it came, was calm, almost too calm. “It’s fine. Worse things have been said to me. And you weren’t wrong, either. Can’t exactly get angry at you for telling the truth.”

“No, Bobby. It’s not the truth.” John stopped walking. The words came harder now, caught in his throat. “Look, I know I’ve only known you for—what, four days?—but I can already tell you’re a good person. You try. Don’t listen to anything I say when I’m angry.”

“I’m sorry for making you angry, then.”

John sighed and lifted an arm, halting Bob. They stood there, facing each other. The woods seemed to quiet around them.

“Okay, listen. I’m an asshole, alright? You figured that out on day one. I get angry. That’s just part of my... charming personality. But that’s not on you. You just happened to ask about something I’m a little defensive about. And I lashed out. I’ll do better.”

Bob shook his head, eyes soft. “I wasn’t right about that, Walker. You’re not an asshole.” Then, with the faintest smirk, “At least not all the time.”

John felt one side of his mouth twitch. He didn’t argue. He refused to give Bob the satisfaction of that.

Instead, he started walking again, pushing forward even as the conversation turned heavier. “As for what happened... I was hoping you’d be able to explain it to me.”

Bob’s brow furrowed, the tension creeping back into his frame.

“When I was done yelling, the fire, well, it surged. Grew like it was alive. Then it snuffed out, like it never existed. I looked at you, tried to ask what was going on, but you weren’t really... you anymore.”

He didn’t mention the way the figure had felt—inhuman, otherworldly. A living void.

“There was something else in your place. It spoke with this echo, like a hundred voices all twisted together. And then it reached into my head. It rifled through me. Looking for the answers to the questions you asked before. I think it found them, because suddenly it was gone. And so was I. Can’t remember anything after that.”

The silence that followed was thunderous. John didn’t need enhanced hearing to know Bob’s thoughts were racing. The cogs were turning, grinding, trying to find something, an answer.

“I should’ve probably told you about that,” Bob said quietly, his voice thick with guilt. He didn’t look at John. “But I didn’t want to. You weren’t exactly very forthcoming either, so I figured I wouldn’t say anything unless you asked. I mean... you didn’t even answer when I did ask, so yeah.”

He scratched the back of his neck, fidgeting nervously. “But, um. You kind of already named it, I think. It’s a void. I call it the Void. I don’t know if that’s its official name or whatever, but that’s what it feels like. It lives inside of me. It... feeds off me.” His voice dropped even lower. “I have a lot of negative emotions. It likes that about me.”

John said nothing, though the words hit him harder than he expected.

“I don’t think it used to be this strong,” Bob continued, “but I made it grow. It was weaker, quieter... years ago. It hasn’t come out in forever. I don’t know what was so different about yesterday.” His lips pulled into something between a grimace and a smile. “I guess you just make me feel things I haven’t felt in a while.”

John’s ears burned at that, because of the way it sounded, even if he knew Bob hadn’t meant it the way his brain insisted on hearing it. It wasn’t a compliment. Not even close. He made Bob feel bad. Made him feel stressed, angry, pushed to his limit. He was like an open wound John had poured salt into.

“Anyway,” Bob added, “I don’t know if the memory thing and the Void are the same thing, or if that’s just me. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where I end and it begins. The longer it's been with me... the more I think it is me, at least partly.”

John slowed his steps. That made something twist in his chest, something cold and cruel and familiar. He’d felt that before. Being consumed by something you couldn’t escape. Being changed by it, without your permission.

He hesitated, unsure if he was allowed to ask what was clawing at his mind. But the need to understand won. “Can I ask you something?” His voice came out softer than he expected. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Bob glanced at him, then nodded, humming gently. “Sure. But on one condition.”

John looked at him warily.

“No more getting angry when I ask questions too,” Bob said, nudging his shoulder. “Fair’s fair.”

John sighed. He hated the idea of giving up the upper hand, even if he didn’t really have one. But it was fair. “Deal,” he muttered.

Bob gave a nod that was almost playful. “Go ahead.”

“How long has it been with you?” John asked.

Bob looked up, visibly doing the math. “Thirteen years. I was seventeen when I... when I got it. I’m thirty now.”

Thirteen years.

John opened his mouth, then hesitated. “What do you mean, you got it?” The question was out before he could stop it, before he could think if that was okay to ask.

Bob flinched, almost imperceptibly. The shift in his expression was instant, wide-eyed, caught off guard, like a kid who’d been caught somewhere they shouldn’t be.

“I... I can’t say,” Bob admitted. His voice was brittle, fragile around the edges. “I’m not allowed to, I think. Someone put it there. That’s all I can tell you right now. Maybe someday I’ll be able to say more. But not now. I’m sorry.”

He looked genuinely sorry, like even withholding that one thing was a betrayal. As if he owed John something when he clearly didn’t.

And that was what made John feel like utter shit.

Bob had held that in, had carried this monstrous thing inside him for thirteen years, and still, he was the one being kind. Still apologizing. Meanwhile, John had lost his temper over one question, had lashed out like a cornered animal when he’d been asked something mild, by comparison.

He clenched his jaw. The guilt tasted bitter in his mouth.

So he started speaking, quickly, before he could change his mind, before his instinct to shut down kicked in. “I'm ashamed,” he said suddenly. "That’s why I leave to eat alone". The words came out lower than he intended, almost swallowed by the quiet rustling of the forest around them. His eyes stayed glued to the forest floor, tracing the shadows between pine needles like they might offer him a way out of the conversation. “I’m... embarrassed about people seeing me eat.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Bob, baffled, replied, “Huh? Ashamed? Why?”

John clenched his fists at his sides, trying to swallow the frustration and discomfort rising in his throat. Then he grit his teeth and said, quietly, “Because it doesn’t look pretty, alright? It’s not... I don’t want you to have to see that. You’d look at me differently after. You wouldn’t have an appetite anymore. So it’s just... better this way.”

He felt exposed the moment the words left his mouth. Weak. Stupid. He could face down armed soldiers and furious wolves without flinching, but a single moment of emotional vulnerability felt like standing naked in the cold.

But when he finally dared to look up, Bob wasn’t laughing. He looked genuinely confused.

“Why the hell would I look at you differently?” he asked, head tilted, eyebrows knit together. “Dude. I’ve seen you rip a man’s heart out and fling it at another guy’s face. Then you ripped his head off like it was nothing— spine still attached and everything. How bad could your eating habits possibly be to top that?”

John blinked. Bob wasn’t done.

“And losing my appetite?” he snorted. “No way. Yelena’s dad used to do disgusting shit at the dinner table. We’re talking full-blown horror show, like clipping his toenails while chewing pork stew. I’ve got an iron stomach at this point. There’s nothing you could do that would change my appetite.”

The ease in Bob’s voice, the blunt humor, broke through John’s mental defenses like a wrecking ball. When he put it like that, it did sound ridiculous. Here he was, ashamed of a basic human need, when Bob had watched him quite literally bathe in blood and still stuck around.

John let out a quiet, awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I... I haven’t thought about it like that. It does seem kind of stupid when you say it like that. But also, what do you mean I couldn't do anything to change your appetite?”

Bob shrugged like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Well, you’re handsome.”

John blinked once. Then twice.

“... What?”

“You heard me,” Bob said casually, like he was commenting on the weather. “You’re handsome. Everything you do is kind of... coordinated? Graceful? Even the violent stuff. It’s like watching a dance. A very bloody, horrifying dance, but still.” He made a little flourish with his hand, smiling like this was all perfectly normal. “I can’t imagine you doing anything that’d actually gross me out. Besides, y’know, the head- and heart-ripping.”

John’s brain short-circuited.

Then, like a man who’d suddenly forgotten how legs worked, he stumbled, tripping over an exposed tree root and lurching forward. He almost hit the ground, almost, but Bob caught him in a flash, hands steady and firm around his arms.

Their no-touching rule had apparently gone out the window entirely.

“Whoa there,” Bob said, steadying him. “I thought werewolves never stumbled. What happened, graceful predator of the woods?”

John sputtered, face turning a violent shade of red. “You—You can’t just say stuff like that to another man!”

Bob looked genuinely baffled. “Say what? That you’re handsome? Why not? You are handsome.”

“Can you please stop saying that?” John groaned, dragging his hands down his face. He could feel the heat radiating off his skin, practically glowing. “It’s getting weird.”

Bob stared at him for a beat. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh my God, you’re actually embarrassed! Seriously? That’s all it takes to get you practically steaming?”

John growled under his breath, turning away, trying to get his heartbeat under control.

Bob wasn’t finished.

“What if I said you were hot, then?” he said, grinning mischievously. “Would that make it better? Or would you like that even less?”

John choked on air.

Bob’s smile didn’t falter. It wasn’t mocking, wasn’t mean, it was bright, playful. Teasing, but in a way that was weirdly... warm. John didn’t know what to do with that. He was used to compliments being barbed, used as bait or traps or jokes at his expense. But Bob just meant it. He said it like it was obvious, like John hadn’t spent the past years trying to disappear into himself.

And John couldn’t handle that. Not after everything else.

So he increased his pace and stormed ahead, boots crunching against the forest floor, ears burning so hot they might as well have caught fire.

Behind him, Bob’s laughter echoed between the trees, carefree and bright.

The days that followed were easier. Not easy, not by a long shot, but easier. There was a new lightness between them, a quiet shift in the air that hadn't been there before. The tension that had clung to their every movement, every word, had loosened just a little. The most pressing questions had been asked, and answered, at least partially, and for now, that seemed to be enough.

There was still plenty left unsaid, a thick fog of half-truths and unspoken fears hanging between them, but they’d found a way to navigate around it without bumping into anything sharp. It wasn’t perfect, but it was survivable. And for John, that was progress.

They shared meals now. Not in the traditional sense, John still refused to let Bob see him eat directly, always turning his back, hunching over like a wary animal guarding its kill. But Bob was allowed to sit closer each time, creeping in inch by inch. Sometimes he’d sneak glances when he thought John wouldn’t notice, only to whip his head away and pretend to focus on his food when John looked over. It was subtle, but it was happening. They were learning each other’s rhythms.

Sleeping arrangements had also changed. John had insisted they both share the tent, despite Bob’s initial hesitation. And when Bob resisted, John had crossed his arms, stared him down, and declared that if Bob wasn’t sleeping in the tent, then neither was he, and they both knew that would be a stupid idea. Begrudgingly, they’d reached a compromise: sleep in the tent, but stay as far away from each other as physically possible.

It had worked. No more nightmares. No more strange, magic-fueled mental breakdowns. Just sleep, real sleep, for the first time in a while.

And, thankfully, Bob had dropped the topic of why they always stopped at dawn instead of pushing through the night. John hadn’t wanted to lie, and he sure as hell wasn’t ready to tell the truth. So he was grateful Bob had let it go.

It was almost... nice.

But “nice” was a dangerous thing in John’s world. A tempting illusion.

Because even if things between them had settled, the world around them hadn’t. There was still the assassination attempt to consider. Still the mission hanging over their heads like a blade. And the biggest shadow of all loomed ever closer: the forest.

The closer they got to it, the more the tension inside John grew. A creeping unease that made him restless, snappish, and increasingly withdrawn. He'd been through that forest before, more than once, actually, but never like this. Never with something to lose. Never with someone to protect.

Back then, he’d either gone in as part of a hunting unit, surrounded by other killers just as eager as him that could protect themselves with ease, or he'd gone in alone during his darkest days: bloodthirsty, grief-stricken, half-mad and fully suicidal. He hadn’t feared the trees then. Hadn’t cared whether he made it back out again. In some twisted way, he’d hoped he wouldn’t.

But now? Now he had to come back. Now someone was counting on him. And the forest didn’t care about redemption arcs or second chances.

Bob had never stepped foot in that place, and it showed, in the way he seemed oblivious to the growing threat, in how he still had enough energy to joke or hum as they walked. He wouldn’t be much help once they were in. John would have to handle everything himself, guide them through like a shadow slipping through enemy lines.

That was fine. He could do it.

Probably. Maybe.

But the fear was still there, not roaring and overwhelming, but quiet and constant, like a stone in his boot. Camping would be riskier. Fires could draw attention. They’d have to go full stealth; invisible, untraceable. Which sounded great in theory, but John still hadn’t figured out exactly how to pull that off with an unstable half-mage tagging along. He’d need more time. A little more time, and he could’ve planned it out perfectly.

But time was the one thing they didn’t have. A full week had passed, and the edge of the forest loomed just over the next ridge. The stream was going west, they were going east.

Bob noticed the change, of course. John was never chatty, but now his already short responses had whittled down into grunts and dismissive shrugs. It was impossible to ignore.

Eventually, Bob spoke up. “Okay, Walker. What’s going on? You’ve been practically vibrating for the last two days. The forest can’t be that bad, right? It’s just a forest. We’ve walked through tons of them already. Hell, we’re in one right now.”

John sighed, long and heavy, the kind of sigh that carried the weight of a hundred unspoken thoughts. He didn’t know how to explain it. Didn’t know if he even fully understood it himself.

Yes, they’d walked through forests before, but not that forest. Not the one up ahead, twisted with memories and monsters alike. He had taken out most of the pack that used to hunt there, the one he blamed for everything bad in his life, the worst of them. But the rest? The ones that were still out there, hiding, festering? There were many other wolves left, that didn't belong to the pack, that he hadn't killed. They must hate him. He’d slaughtered their kin. Eaten them. Worn their blood like war paint and smiled through the carnage. No matter how justified he’d thought he’d been, he’d become a legend in that forest, and not the good kind. If they recognized him, they wouldn’t hesitate. And Bob wouldn’t stand a chance.

Maybe... maybe it’d be safer if Bob went alone.

But at the same time, that wasn’t an option either, not really. Not one John could live with.

Sure, the thought had crossed his mind. More than once. Just shove Bob in the opposite direction and pray he didn’t trip over a root and die. Maybe he’d get lucky, find another path. Maybe he wouldn’t. But that wasn’t the kind of gamble John could make.

Bob didn’t know the terrain. Didn’t know which trees were safe to sleep under and which ones were better left alone. He didn’t know the subtle signs that something was watching, the way the air shifted, or how the forest held its breath before something went wrong. He didn’t know how to walk like a shadow, when to run, or where to hide.

He'd get lost before the second sunrise. And if he ran into something, or someone, truly dangerous?

Well, that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Bob did have powers. That much was clear by now. He’d brought John to his knees more than once without even trying. But that was exactly the issue: he had no control. His powers surged like a storm in the dark, unpredictable, wild, often terrifying. There was no guarantee they’d help him. If anything, they might just make things worse.

So no, sending him off on his own wasn't an option. John was going with him. End of story.

He sighed again, slower this time, letting the weight of the decision settle over his shoulders like a familiar coat. Heavy, but already his. He didn’t get to make easy choices. That had never been his reality. He’d walk into that forest with Bob at his side, protect him from whatever waited inside, whether it was wolves, monsters, ghosts from John’s own past, or Bob’s unpredictable magic.

Whatever. That was all a problem for tomorrow.

--

The problem was that tomorrow came faster than John had hoped. Much too fast.

The rising sun crept up over the treetops like a slow, merciless clock, signaling the start of a day he’d been dreading. It was time. Time to get up, eat, pack... and go. No more pushing it off. No more pretending they still had time.

This morning, John moved slower than usual. He took twice as long to roll up his bedroll, lingered at the campfire longer than he needed to. His hands, normally quick and practiced, fumbled over tasks he could do in his sleep. Every motion dragged like his body was trying to stall, to hold off the inevitable.

But delaying didn’t change anything. The forest was still there. Still waiting. All he was doing was stretching out the dread.

Eventually, he gave in to the inevitable and finished packing up their things. As they approached the edge of the treeline, he stopped and turned to Bob, his face more serious than usual.

“Okay, listen up, Bobby. This is important. I need you to really pay attention and remember what I say.”

Bob blinked at him but nodded once, slowly.

“This forest... it’s not like any of the others we’ve gone through. It’s bad. Worse than you can imagine. It’s crawling with werewolves, more than anywhere else, and none of them are friendly. Especially not with me.”

He paused, letting that sink in. “I’ve got bad history with a lot of them. Blood spilled. Grudges held. If we’re lucky, we won’t run into anyone. It’s a big forest, so we might get through unnoticed. But we can’t count on luck.”

Bob’s expression had shifted to something more serious now, which was good. Because John wasn’t done.

“They’ll be hunting,” he continued. “There’ll be traps, especially in places where you'd never expect. Which means you need to be careful. Every step matters. Never, and I mean never, walk in front of me. I go first. Always. You follow exactly in my steps. We stop when I say, and we don’t move until I say. Got it?”

Bob opened his mouth, hesitated, then gave him a slightly tired look. “Walker, yes. I got it. You’ve given me this speech like four times now. I’ve agreed every single time. Nothing’s changed. Can we go in now, or do you want to give it a fifth go for luck?”

John huffed in frustration, but deep down he knew Bob wasn’t brushing him off. It was just how he was, casual, maybe a little too confident, but not careless. Still, John couldn’t shake the unease curling in his gut. Bob was curious. Distractible. He didn't mean to put himself in danger, but that didn’t make him any less vulnerable to it.

All John could do was warn him, and watch him. Closely.

“Just... stay close,” John muttered under his breath as they turned toward the forest.

Crossing the invisible threshold into the treeline felt like stepping into another world.

The sunlight vanished almost instantly, swallowed whole by the dense canopy above. Shadows clung to the trees like old secrets, and even the wind sounded different, sharper, colder. The air turned still and heavy, like the forest was holding its breath, waiting. Leaves had begun to fall in the world outside, but not here. Here, the trees stood thick and unyielding, their branches heavy with green like nothing had changed in years.

Maybe it was all in his head. Maybe he was imagining things.

Bob didn’t seem to notice anything different. He looked around with a hint of curiosity, not fear. But of course he wouldn’t feel it the same way, not like John did. Bob hadn’t been here before. Bob hadn’t left pieces of himself buried in this forest.

They began walking.

To John’s surprise, everything was calm. Suspiciously calm.

Given how tense he’d been about entering the forest, he had half-expected an ambush the moment they crossed the first line of trees. His nerves had been so taut they practically vibrated, but nothing came. No snarls in the underbrush. No glinting eyes in the shadows. No movement, no threats. Just... silence.

Time passed. Hours slipped by like water through his fingers. Slowly, cautiously, he began to loosen his grip on the fear coiled in his chest. His steps grew more steady, and after a while he even allowed himself to entertain Bob’s occasional questions.

To his credit, Bob didn’t ask anything reckless or stupid. Just questions about the forest. About the plants. The animals. About how to read tracks left behind by deer or wolves. John answered, shortly, as always, but it seemed to be enough. Bob didn’t press too hard. He listened, nodded, and occasionally smiled in that way he did when something genuinely fascinated him.

And so they walked and talked, and sometimes fell into quiet again. A good kind of quiet. Comfortable.

Every now and then, they paused, standing still in the hush of the trees to listen for anything out of place. But all John could hear was the wind slipping through the branches, and the soft noises of forest life carrying on uninterrupted. Birds. Small animals. The creak of trees shifting in the wind. No signs of pursuit, no danger... at least not yet.

They’d need to hunt soon. Supplies were dwindling, he could feel his pack getting lighter with every meal they ate. The stash of cans wouldn’t last forever. But that wasn’t an issue just yet. Game was plentiful in the area, and John had always been a skilled hunter. Back then, he’d done it for survival. Now, he was even better.

That was how the day passed for them. Unremarkable in the best way. Peaceful, even. So much so that when dusk began creeping in and the dense canopy made the forest appear darker than it really was, John decided to set up camp a little earlier than usual. He wasn’t keen on walking once the light disappeared, not here, not in this place. The forest absorbed light like it was feeding on it, and nightfall always seemed to come sooner beneath its thick ceiling of leaves.

They chose a spot carefully, set up the tent in practiced silence, and built a fire, small and brief. Just enough for a warm meal and a bit of light to comfort the edges of their minds. But they let it burn for only a short while, dousing the flames before retreating into the tent. The smoke might travel. They couldn’t take unnecessary risks, not here.

Inside the tent, the absence of the fire was palpable. The warmth it had provided faded quickly, and the cold crept in. They lay closer than usual, not touching, but nearer than they’d been since that first night. Since everything had happened. Close enough to feel the presence of the other through the quiet, to share body heat, to not feel entirely alone.

And strangely enough, John didn’t mind.

In fact, it was more than that—he felt... safer. Calmer. As if Bob’s presence somehow dulled the edge of his paranoia, like a balm laid gently across the exposed nerves that usually kept him on high alert.

Which made no sense. Bob couldn’t protect him. Not really. Not with his powers as unstable as they were. If something came at them in the night, feral, hungry, vengeful, it would be on John to defend them. Just John. And yet. Somehow, against all logic, Bob being there helped.

It relaxed something in John he didn’t even know had been wound tight. He didn’t want to analyze it too deeply, didn’t want to dig into the why. Because if he did, he might uncover something he wasn’t ready to face. Something tender. Something terrifying.

So instead, he lay there in the dim, silent tent, listening to Bob’s breathing as it evened out beside him.

--

The next day passed in the same uneventful rhythm. It was suspicious, how calm everything remained. No signs of movement, no disturbances, nothing strange. Just the deep green of the forest and the wildlife that filled its belly. They ate, walked, talked. Made camp. Slept.

And maybe, just maybe, they used the cold as an excuse to inch closer when they lay down for the night, the fire barely a flicker before they snuffed it out completely. Who cared? It was comfortable. Familiar. Safe.

But of course, it couldn't last.

It would’ve been a miracle if it had, and miracles didn’t tend to happen to people like them. People like him.

The next morning, something was off.

John felt it immediately, like an itch beneath his skin he couldn’t reach. A pressure in the air, subtle but suffocating. Every hair on his arms stood on end. His instincts were clawing at his insides like a caged animal desperate to be let loose. Something was watching them.

He didn’t hear anything. That was the worst part. The silence felt wrong, wrong in a way that made his teeth ache. Predators didn’t always make sound. Especially the smart ones.

He scanned the treeline as they packed up their things, tension thrumming in his bones. When Bob tried to speak, probably to comment on a mushroom or a bird, John cut him off with a sharp, low hiss.

“Shut up. Listen.”

Bob froze at his tone, eyes wide. John gave a curt nod and resumed scanning the forest. Nothing. Not even a rustle.

They began walking, John in front, Bob trailing close behind. Every step was slow, deliberate. But the pressure never lifted. If anything, it thickened, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

And just when he was about to chalk it up to paranoia—

Whip-thunk.

A burning hot pain exploded in John’s upper arm. He snarled, more out of instinct than pain, and looked down to see a small throwing knife buried to the hilt in his bicep. The edge of the blade glinted red already, blood soaking through his shirt.

“Duck!” he barked.

Bob hit the ground just as a second knife sliced through the air, aimed for his throat. John caught it with his good hand, twisting his body to shield Bob completely. His muscles screamed in protest, but he didn’t care.

Movement. Fast and low to the ground. A figure was approaching Bob from behind, knife drawn, footsteps soundless.

John didn’t think. He never had to.

He hurled the captured knife with deadly precision, and it spun through the air before embedding itself in the attacker’s neck with a sickening thunk. The force of the throw slammed them backwards, pinning them against a tree. Their body twitched violently, arms flailing for a moment before going limp. Blood gushed in jets, painting the bark in wet, arterial arcs as they gurgled, choking on their own blood.

John didn’t watch them die. He didn’t need to. He was already turning, sensing the second.

The second attacker wasn’t subtle. They emerged from the shadows with a snarl, sprinting at a speed that was almost unnatural. A blur of teeth and muscle. Female. Feral. Werewolf.

Bob wasn’t fast enough. Her nails slashed across his cheek with a hiss, splitting the skin open from jaw to temple. He cried out.

John saw red.

He launched himself at her, a feral growl ripping from his throat. His shoulder crashed into her gut, knocking the air out of her as they tumbled to the ground. She clawed at him, biting, shrieking, feral and hungry, but she wasn’t strong enough.

He pinned her. His knee crushed her ribs, his claws digging into her shoulders. She snarled beneath him, eyes wild, lips pulled back over bloodstained teeth.

No time for mercy.

He opened his jaws wide, fangs flashing in the light, and bit—clean, brutal, final.

Her throat tore open like wet paper. Blood sprayed across his face in hot, pulsing waves, thick and metallic. Her body spasmed once beneath him, then stilled. The warmth of her life faded beneath his hands.

He didn’t move for a moment. Just crouched there, dripping blood, chest heaving, the forest echoing with silence once more.

Then he looked up, at Bob.

Bob was still upright, clutching his face, blood leaking through his fingers. His eyes were wide. Scared. But alive.

Relief hit John like a hammer. He stood, wiped his face with a bloodied sleeve, and took a shaky step toward Bob. And that’s when it happened. That creeping cold. It started in his legs, crawling up his spine like shadowed fingers, reaching into his skull. He staggered, confused. He shouldn’t be... this wasn’t a bad fight. It had been short. Contained. He’d had worse.

So why now?

His muscles locked, his breath stuttering in his throat. He lifted a hand toward Bob, reaching, wanting to make sure he was alright, wanting to say something, but the blackness clawed up behind his eyes, fast and merciless.

“B—Bob—” he managed, barely a whisper.

And then his vision collapsed.

Darkness swallowed him whole just a hairsbreadth from Bob’s cheek.

He hit the ground, limp and unmoving. Blood still dripping from his teeth.

--

As always, he wasn’t out for long. But apparently, it had been long enough for Bob to spiral into a full-blown panic. John felt the shift in the air, the familiar tension of something about to happen. Just in time, he caught Bob’s hand before it could slap him across the face.

His eyes snapped open. “Were you really about to hit me? Again? Can you not see I’m injured?” he asked, incredulous. “You could’ve at least waited a few more seconds. At this point, I think you're just looking for excuses to hit me.”

He sat up, now face to face with Bob, who, to his dismay, didn’t even have the decency to scoot back.

“You asshole!” Bob practically shouted, eyes wild. “Why do you do this every time we get into a fight? You're going to be responsible if I end up having a heart attack!”

His gaze was frantic as he scanned John from head to toe, checking for injuries beyond the knife still lodged in his arm.

Without ceremony, John grabbed the blade and yanked it out in one swift, practiced motion. A stream of warm blood immediately followed, trailing down his forearm in a metallic-smelling ribbon.

Bob gagged, right in John’s face, then spun around dramatically, covering his eyes like a kid. “Dude. What the hell is wrong with you? You couldn’t have given me a warning? Maybe waited until I was, I don’t know, a bit further away?”

John flung the knife aside, letting it land wherever it wanted. “Not my fault you were practically sitting on my lap. Now stop hiding, I want to see your wound.”

Bob turned around slowly, still pouting, which made him look younger than his 30 years. John leaned in to inspect the cut on his cheek, except, to his surprise, there wasn’t one. The blood was there, sure, smeared and drying, but the skin beneath it was flawless. No gash. No scratch. Nothing.

Before he could even comment, Bob was already mid-rant.

“Well, sorry for being worried! You literally died on me. Again. That’s the second time in what, ten days?”

There was genuine frustration in his voice, like he couldn’t decide whether to be mad or cry.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” John muttered. “I didn’t die. I just blacked out. Happens sometimes.”

Bob stared at him, completely appalled. “Happens sometimes? No! No, it doesn’t. Not to normal people. How does it happen to you so much?”

John narrowed his eyes. “Yeah? Well, how come your wound just disappeared? I think that’s the more pressing question here.”

Bob blinked, raised a hand to his cheek as if only now remembering the injury. He hummed. “Oh. That. Yeah. That happens sometimes. I don’t know why.”

John gawked. “What do you mean, that happens sometimes?”

“Hey, that’s what I asked you first!”

John groaned, frustrated beyond words. “You’re literally impossible.”

He got to his feet, brushing himself off, then gave Bob a light shove on the shoulder. Bob grunted.

“No, you’re impossible!” he shot back. But the heat had drained from his voice, replaced with something softer. A reluctant truce hung between them, unspoken but solid.

Bob let out a breath, finally letting the tension go. “Fine. I guess my magic heals me sometimes. Sometimes it doesn't. I can't seem to properly control it. Your turn."

Bob looked at John, expectant, eyes quiet but insistent, and John knew he had to answer. It was only fair, after all. Bob had answered his question honestly, and now it was his turn. Still, he hesitated. He didn’t know how to explain today’s blackout, not in a way that made sense. So he started with what was easier to say.

“I... I’m really bad at handling emotions,” he said, voice low. “You might’ve noticed. And don’t say anything, just listen, okay?”

He glanced at Bob, who gave a small nod.

“So... sometimes, when I feel overwhelmed, it’s like my body just doesn’t know what to do. Sometimes I start hyperventilating, and yeah, obviously, I pass out. Sometimes it just happens with no warning, like my brain needs a hard reset or something. It started a few years ago. I don’t know what it is, exactly.”

He paused, fingers curling around the hem of his shirt like an anchor.

“It happened the other day, too. When... when Luke died. And the rest of them. I guess that was just too much.”

Bob studied him for a moment, like he was dissecting the words, weighing their shape. Then his brows pulled together and John knew what was coming even before Bob opened his mouth.

“Then why did you faint today?” he asked, carefully. “I mean... yeah, you killed those two back there, but you’ve killed before. In worse ways. I’ve seen it. So what made this time different? What made this enough to push you over the edge?”

The question landed like a punch to the chest.

John looked away, jaw tightening. The frustration bubbled up immediately, not at Bob, but at himself. Because if he knew, he would’ve just said it. There was no need for Bob to dig. He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to peel the layers back and face whatever was waiting underneath.

Because deep down, in the part of himself he didn’t like looking at too closely, he did have a suspicion. And it wasn’t one he liked. No matter how much he tried to brush it off, to chalk it up to fatigue or blood loss or the natural high of a fight, the thought lingered like a splinter under the skin.

It had happened because those bastards had hurt Bob. And something inside him hadn’t been able to handle that.

The near-miss leaves John even more on edge. At least now he knows his dread wasn’t simple paranoia; the forest really is alive with dangers he can’t always hear or smell until they’re breathing down his neck. The first two days must’ve been blind luck, either they were still too close to the border for predators to take interest, or whatever prowls these woods decided to wait, to test them, before striking.

Bob finally seems to grasp the stakes as well. He’s still captivated by every fern and birdcall, but John can read the tension in his shoulders. The mage’s steps fall exactly where John’s boots land, his questions softer, his laughter subdued. John hates that it took blood and death to put that awareness in Bob’s eyes. Once, being a protector had defined him; after he lost everyone, that instinct hollowed out. Now it is flooding back, thick and heavy, and it allies with the suspicion that yesterday’s blackout happened because Bob was hurt. The mix leaves him jumpy, scanning every shadow, every rustle of leaves.

“Walker,” Bob calls softly from behind, “you don’t have to treat me like some damsel. I know you’re the better fighter, but I’m not helpless. I heal, remember?” He adds a quiet “sometimes,” almost swallowed by the breeze. Even so, John’s nerves refuse to settle.

So when it happens, he’ll never admit fault. He’s already glanced back a dozen times in the last hour, but on the next glance he spots a small black shape streaking out of the branches, arrowing straight toward Bob’s head. Instinct overrides reason. John lunges, shoulder slamming into Bob’s chest and driving him to the ground with a force that would have crushed a normal man’s ribs. Bob yelps, eyes blown wide in shock.

An instant later the “projectile” lets out a squeaky chirp—it’s a juvenile blackbird, awkward wings beating as it rights itself and flutters off into the canopy. John’s brain finally pieces it together, heart still pounding. He realizes he’s sprawled on top of Bob, body caging the smaller man, hands braced on damp earth.

If circumstances were different, he might take pride in reflexes that fast. Instead heat floods his face. Mortifying doesn’t begin to cover it.

Bob blinks up at him, brown hair full of moss and pine needles. “John... you, uh, tackled me because of a bird?”

Bob didn’t call him by his first name often. And every time he did, it stirred something in John, a feeling he didn’t like to name, didn’t want to examine too closely. Usually, he shoved it down with practiced ease. But now, with Bob pinned beneath him, John's arms braced on either side of his head, their bodies barely a breath apart, the feeling was louder. Harder to ignore.

He knew he should move. Say something. Make a joke, brush it off, untangle himself from the moment and go back to pretending this wasn’t happening. That this never happened. Do the damage control. But the command never made it to his limbs. His body refused to cooperate, frozen in place.

So he stayed there, breath shallow, his pale blue eyes locked onto Bob’s darker ones. Eyes that weren’t scared or uncertain, just... quietly curious. Watching. Waiting. John wasn’t sure for what.

That was the real problem. He didn’t know what came next. The last time he'd been this close to someone, he’d had his hand buried in their chest, ripping out their heart. That had been easier than this. At least he’d known what to do in that situation.

But now, this? This was unfamiliar ground. And instead of thinking, he let instinct take over. Slowly, inch by inch, he leaned forward. Closing the space between them. He could feel Bob’s breath on his face. Warm. Steady. Inviting. And that snapped him out of it.

His stomach twisted. What the hell was he doing? This was stupid. Reckless. Selfish. He couldn't be doing this, especially not here, of all places.

He started to pull back, slowly, because even with all the logic screaming in his head, some traitorous part of him still wanted it. Still wanted to be close. But he forced himself to retreat, bit by bit. He opened his eyes, hadn’t realized they’d closed at all, and caught the exact moment Bob’s expression shifted. Something settled there, like a decision being made. His eyes sparked with something new, unreadable. Before John could figure out what it meant, Bob’s body tensed beneath him. And then, with a sudden movement and strength that shouldn’t have been allowed to affect him as much as it did, but absolutely, completely did, even if he'd take that thought to his grave, Bob flipped them.

In a blink, their positions were reversed.

John landed flat on his back, stunned, with Bob now straddling him, hovering above. He barely had time to register the change before a startled gasp escaped his lips. His mouth hung open, but no words came out. Bob looked down at him, amusement dancing in his eyes, his voice colored with an unmistakable smile.

“If you’re not going to do it,” he said softly, “I guess I have to.”

John wanted to ask what the hell he meant. Even though he knew. He wanted to stall, scramble for something, anything, to ground himself. But he didn’t get the chance.

Because a second later, Bob’s lips were pressing down on his own. Firm. Sure. Real. Bob didn’t do more than press his lips to John's, just a single, gentle touch, before pulling back, his gaze soft but searching.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice low, eyes scanning John’s face for any sign of hesitation.

God, if this wasn’t just okay.

John had wanted this, had craved it in silence, in secret, afraid to move first, afraid of ruining something he didn’t fully understand. And now it was here, dropped into his lap like a miracle he hadn’t dared to believe in. He couldn’t speak, his voice had vanished into thin air, but he nodded, probably too fast, too eagerly, because Bob’s eyes lit up and he laughed. It was that laugh again. Bright, unguarded, beautiful.

Then Bob leaned back in, no longer tentative. His lips met John’s with more force, with intention, and the contact sent a shiver down his spine. This wasn’t a careful test. This was want, open and real and alive. Bob’s mouth moved over his with hungry precision, and when his tongue slid out to brush against John’s lower lip, seeking entrance, John opened to him without hesitation. He was kissed like someone who had been waited for. Bob explored his mouth with confident ease, like he already knew all the best places, like he wanted to know everything. There was something practiced in the way he moved, too smooth, too sure, and John felt something bitter twist in his chest. Jealousy. A stupid, sharp flicker of it. He’d kissed this man once, once, and already he was jealous?

But before he could spiral, Bob anchored him again. A soft bite to his lip pulled a gasp from his mouth, and in that same instant, Bob moved with startling strength. His hands caught John’s wrists and pinned them above his head against the damp forest floor. A second later, Bob slid his knee between John’s legs, pressing firmly, exactly where he shouldn’t.

John’s back arched.

A choked, embarrassingly high-pitched moan escaped him before he could stop it, and his hips bucked involuntarily toward the pressure. It was like his body remembered what this felt like, being wanted, being touched, and it betrayed him immediately, greedily. It had been so long. Too long. His mind went blank under the sudden jolt of pleasure, an electric pulse that shot through his veins like fire. Bob pulled back just enough to look at him, panting slightly, his eyes glazed but still searching.

“Too much?” he asked, breathless but sincere.

John wanted to say no, God, no. He wanted to say it wasn’t enough, that he needed more, that he hadn’t felt anything this good in years. But his sanity kicked in, barely, and reminded him how this would go if he didn’t stop it now. How he’d embarrass himself if they kept going. How he wouldn’t be able to look Bob in the eye later if he—

He gave his wrists a tug. A silent signal. A lifeline.

Bob let go immediately, pulling back with no protest. He sat up, still straddling him, and John hated the way he could feel how obvious his arousal was, how there was no way Bob hadn’t noticed. Shame crawled up his throat, hot and bitter. He slammed his newly freed hands over his face, wishing he could disappear.

“Hey, no,” Bob said softly, “don’t do that. Don’t hide.”

He reached down and gently took John’s wrists again, this time to hold, not restrain, and pried his hands away from his face.

“Don’t be embarrassed for reacting exactly the way I wanted you to react.”

John stared at him, wide-eyed and still dazed, his heart thudding violently in his chest. Bob smiled, not smug, not mocking, just warm. Then he stood, tugging John gently up with him, still holding his hands like they were something precious.

“I would love nothing more than to keep going,” he said, “but I don’t think the forest floor is exactly the right place for that. And it looks like you might need a minute to get your head on straight.”

He smirked, playful and impossibly charming. “So. Let’s just keep walking, yeah? Like we were before we got attacked by that serial killer in disguise. Also known as a baby bird.”

John huffed, a strangled sound caught between a laugh and a groan. The forest, the tension, the blood, none of it mattered for a moment. All he could see was Bob’s stupid, beautiful smile. And despite the tight knot of overwhelming emotions in his chest, despite the fact that he was still very much hard and uncomfortable, he managed to smile back.

Bob let go of his hands, and John hated how instantly he missed the warmth. It was ridiculous. Childish, even. But then reality snapped back into place, he was supposed to walk first, Bob trailing behind him. They weren’t lovers on a stroll through the woods, hand-in-hand like a couple on their honeymoon. That wasn’t what this was.

So he started moving again, shoulders tense, hyper-aware of the way his body felt. Of the fact that his gait was off. He could feel it, the faint stumble in his step, the uncomfortable tightness in his pants that refused to settle. Bob probably saw it too, but, thankfully, chose not to say anything. If they were attacked now, John wasn’t sure he’d be of much use. His brain was a battlefield, buzzing too loud, clogged with thoughts that had nothing to do with survival. He was distracted. Unfocused. A liability.

How the hell did he get himself into this mess? No, that wasn’t the right question. He knew how. He knew exactly how. What he didn’t understand, what really troubled him, was why he’d let it happen. Why he’d reacted like that. Why he still felt heat pooling in his chest and confusion clawing up his throat.

He must be more touch-starved than he realized. That was the only explanation that made sense. He hadn’t been touched in a long time, not really. Not in a way that was gentle, wanting, filled with something resembling care. Maybe that was it. Maybe that was all this was. Because he couldn’t remember ever reacting that strongly to something so short, so light. A kiss. A few teasing touches. It hadn’t been much. It shouldn’t have been enough to leave him like this.

And on top of all that... it had been a man. He’d never thought about that before. Had never needed to.

He’d been with Olivia. He’d loved Olivia. She’d been everything, his partner, his anchor, his person. A woman. That had been his truth. Because of her, because of what they had, he’d never questioned anything about himself. Hadn’t felt the need to. He was straight. Obviously. End of story.

But this... this threw him off balance.

Not that he had anything against men loving men, or women loving women. He’d never been one of those people. What people did behind closed doors was their business. He never cared. Not in the way that others did. But he had never considered that he’d be the one on the receiving end of a kiss like that. From someone like Bob.

And yet... he had been. And he hadn’t stopped it. Hadn’t wanted to. That’s what scared him the most.

He shook his head, tried to breathe through it.

Okay. Okay. He found him attractive. So what? That’s normal. Objectively speaking, the man’s good-looking. Anyone can see that. It didn’t mean anything. He’d thought men were attractive before. That was fine. Noticing someone looked good didn’t make him anything other than observant. He wasn’t blind. Bob was handsome. Period.

The way he reacted to his touch? That was just... circumstance. It had been years since someone touched him like that. And he’d been caught off guard. That was all it was. Not desire. Not... attraction. Because if he were into men, he would’ve known. He’d feel it. He’d know it. That sort of thing didn’t just creep up on you one day in the woods after thirty-some years of life.

Right?

Yes. Exactly. That made sense. Besides, he was, or had been, a hunter. Hunters didn’t... weren’t like that. Gay men were artists, poets, authors. They wrote novels or painted feelings or played the fucking piano in sunlit rooms, not gut monsters with their bare hands and track enemies through the woods with blood on their boots. He was strong. He was a fighter. He couldn’t draw to save his life. Olivia had always teased him about it, laughing at his clumsy stick figures and terrible perspective.

And he’d loved her for it.

That, that right there, was proof enough. What happened with Bob had been a moment. Heat and tension. Nothing more. Not identity-shifting. Not life-altering. It had just been... circumstance. Yes. That was it. Case closed.

And yet... his hand still burned where Bob had held it.

That night, he also shifted a little closer to Bob than he had the nights before, not by much, just a few inches. But enough to notice. Enough for it to mean something, even if he refused to acknowledge what. They were already lying close together most nights, but this... this was different. Even closer. More deliberate.

He told himself it was the cold. That tonight, the air had a sharper bite than usual. The fire had burned smaller and died quicker than normal. That was all it was. Cold. Practicality. And anyway, there was nothing strange about lying close to another man. He’d done it countless times before. With Lemar, with other hunters on long missions. Shared tents, shared warmth, shared exhaustion. That had never been weird. This wasn’t either. Still, the thought lingered.

Trying to distract himself, he took a deep breath through his nose, and immediately regretted it. They both smelled a little... ripe. Musty. Not surprising, considering they hadn’t bathed properly in days. The air had been cold, sure, but that wasn’t an excuse. Cold or not, they’d spent the entire day walking through dense brush, ducking under branches, sweating under layers of clothes. The sky had been gray and heavy all day, clouds stretching like wool across the sky, filtering what little sunlight tried to make its way through the thick forest canopy. It had left everything feeling dim and damp. The perfect breeding ground for grime.

They needed to wash. Soon.

With any luck, they’d find a patch of forest that opened up just enough to let some sun through, maybe stumble across a wide enough stream where they could clean up. Wash off the days worth of dirt  clinging to their skin. It didn’t have to be fancy. Just water and time.

Until then, they’d have to endure. A little sweat. A little dirt. Blood, still dried and crusted on his left arm from the last fight.

They stumbled upon such a place two days after the kiss.

They hadn’t talked about it since, but then again, what was there to say? John certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. And if he’d been a little more awkward than usual lately, it had absolutely nothing to do with that kiss. Nothing at all.

Bob, at least, was acting completely normal. As if nothing had changed. As if he hadn’t kissed John breathless on the forest floor and then walked away like it was just another Tuesday. Maybe it was normal for him. Maybe Bob did things like this often—kissed people, touched them, teased them, moved on. He certainly kissed like he had practice.

John didn’t consider himself a prude. Or inexperienced. But what had happened two days ago had made him feel like a teenager again, like the sixteen-year-old who had kissed Olivia behind the church after walking her home. His face still warmed every time their hands brushed accidentally, and lately, that seemed to happen a lot more often.

Bob was... touchy. Way more than before. Back then, any physical contact had been incidental. Now, he was constantly tapping John's shoulder to ask something, or placing a casual hand on the small of his back when passing by. It wasn’t inappropriate, not really, but it lit a fuse under John every damn time. It was fine. He was a grown man. He could handle a little casual touching. He wasn’t flustered by it. And he definitely wasn’t looking forward to seeing Bob shirtless. Or pant-less. Not at all.

The place they found was perfect. A small clearing where the trees opened up just enough to let the sunlight pour in. The stream that cut through it sparkled with the kind of clarity that only existed in untouched nature. It looked cold, but clean. Inviting. They really needed this.

The smell that had been merely unpleasant two days ago had now fully settled in. As soon as they reached the stream’s edge and the warmth of the sun hit their skin for the first time since entering the forest, John didn’t waste any time. He checked the perimeter quickly, then pulled off his shirt without ceremony. His pants followed, then the rest. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t fumble. Just methodical movements, like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t completely aware of Bob’s presence behind him.

He’d already brought the soap, had even remembered to place a clean change of clothes on the sun-warmed stones nearby. No excuses to go back. No distractions to hide behind. The water was cold. Shockingly so, but also oddly refreshing. He waded in and started scrubbing himself down, mechanical and efficient. Don’t think. Just wash. Get it done. Then he heard it, the water splashing behind him.

Bob was stepping into the stream, too, soap in hand. John didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. But God, he wanted to. He wanted to look, just for a second. See what Bob looked like with the sunlight hitting his wet skin, see how he moved through the water. It wasn’t about desire. It wasn’t.

Except maybe it was.

But that didn’t line up with the conclusion he’d come to after the kiss. That it had just been a moment. A reaction. A fluke. Not something real. Not something to dwell on.

He scrubbed harder. Maybe too hard. Maybe he was already clean. But it gave him something to do, gave him a reason to keep facing forward. Eventually, when his skin started to sting from how hard he was cleaning it, he relented. But he didn’t leave the water. Instead, he moved a few steps to the right, placed the soap on a nearby boulder, and leaned his back against it. The rock was warm, the sun having soaked into it for hours, and the contrast with the cold water was almost pleasant. It soothed the ache in his muscles. Gave him another excuse to stay in the water longer. To not have to pass Bob on his way out. He stayed like that, quiet and still, trying not to wonder what Bob looked like behind him, trying not to think about how good that kiss had felt, or how badly he wanted another.

But he wasn’t a good man. Not anymore. Maybe he'd never been.

He was selfish, weak in every way except physically. So he glanced up. Just for a second, he told himself. Just a quick look, to get the curiosity out of his system so he could go back to pretending nothing had happened. So he could act normal again. Focused. Detached. But it was a mistake. Because the moment he looked, just that split-second glance, their eyes locked, and something between them shifted. Heavy. Tense. Tangible. They stayed like that, frozen. Gaze locked. Neither of them moving, yet something very much happening between them. The tension thickened with every heartbeat.

Then, just like before, it was Bob who made the first move, literally.

He stepped forward, the water parting around him as he closed the distance between them. Slowly, deliberately. When he reached John, he placed his own bar of soap beside John's, where it sat forgotten and drying in the sun. And then he stood there, directly in front of him. John’s breath caught.

He hadn’t let himself look at Bob earlier. Not really. But now, so close and with no excuse to look away, he allowed himself to see him for the first time. And it wrecked him. Bob wasn’t scrawny. Of course he wasn’t. John had known that. But he hadn’t expected this. His chest was sculpted, defined in a way that felt both surprising and utterly unfair. His abs gleamed in the sunlight, droplets of water catching on every ridge like they’d been placed there by divine intention. John’s mouth went dry.

And he wasn’t the only one looking.

When he finally forced himself to tear his gaze away from Bob’s torso and meet his eyes again, he found that Bob was already looking at him, at his chest, specifically. His blue eyes were wide, almost reverent, tracking the lines of John’s body with a kind of hunger that made his skin burn. The blonde hair scattered across his broad chest, the darker trail leading down his stomach and disappearing beneath the water—Bob’s gaze followed all of it, like he was trying to memorize every inch. Like it might be the only time he’d get the chance.

Then their eyes met again. Bob’s cheeks were flushed, his skin warm with either the sun or something else entirely. He smiled. Soft. Uncertain. Almost adoring.

No. That couldn’t be right. He had to be imagining that part. Reading too much into it. Projecting, because he was nervous, on edge. But then John’s hand moved before his mind could stop it. He reached out, fingers brushing Bob’s cheek, then sliding upward and into his hair. It was wet. Clean. Soft. He tugged gently at the strands, then pulled him forward. It was invitation enough.

In an instant, Bob surged forward and slid a hand behind John’s head, stopping him from slamming it against the rock just in time. Then he kissed him. Hard. The force knocked their teeth together with a painful click, but neither of them cared. Not even a little. There was too much in that kiss. It was desperate, needy and so hot. So goddamn hot John could feel himself getting hard. Again. Just from kissing. He had half a mind to feel embarassed about it, before he could feel something nudging his hip.

Then, in another display of that ridiculous strength, something John was quickly realizing he might have a thing for, Bob bent down, grabbed his thighs with firm hands, and lifted him like it was nothing. John barely had time to react before he was being placed onto a different boulder, slick with sun-warmed moss just to their left. His feet no longer touched the streambed, dangling just above the water now. It left him a little breathless, less from the movement and more from the sheer ease of it.

Bob stayed standing, positioned between John’s legs, now at the higher ground. It meant John got a much fuller view of him; his torso, his stomach, the water gliding down his skin in lazy rivulets towards his dick, curving up proudly towards his stomach. It should’ve scared him, how much of Bob he could see. How exposed this moment was. But it didn’t, not really. Or maybe it did, but it excited him just as much as it unnerved him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this hot under the skin, like his nerves had been dipped in fire.

So he did what instinct demanded.

He surged forward, one hand wrapping around the back of Bob’s neck, the other gripping his side, and pulled their mouths together in another fierce, hungry kiss. At the same time, he hooked his legs around Bob’s waist, tightening them instinctively, dragging him even closer, like he couldn’t stand a single inch of space between them. Their bodies pressed together, bare skin against bare skin, water beading and sliding off them both as heat swirled violently beneath the surface. The world fell away, trees, birds, the cold streamwater, the danger lurking behind every shadow of the forest, it all faded into something distant, something unimportant. What mattered most at the moment was them, their dicks finally touching, the tension snapping. They let out a breathy moan at the same time, the small touch enough to light their nerves on fire.

"If you want this to stop here, I'm gonna need you to say something now. Because once I hear you make that sound again, I won't be able to stop myself from taking you apart." Bob pulled his head back at the words, looking at him with earnest eyes, waiting for John to answer. Instead of answering with words, John decided to take the next step, even if he wasn't sure what he was doing. He pushed his hips forward once again, making sure to drag his cock against Bob's in an unmistakable depiction of want. That seemed to be enough, because Bob moaned again and then grabbed both of their cocks in one hand, his thumb on John's slit. Bob’s other hand fumbled blindly along the boulder, fingers dragging clumsily over its surface in a desperate search for something. It took John a second to realize he was reaching for the soap, but failing miserably at locating it while still pressed so close.

John let him struggle for a moment, watching with a kind of amused affection curling in his chest. Then, with a quiet sigh, he reached out and grabbed it himself. “This what you were looking for?” he asked, smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he held the bar up.

But the grin barely had a second to breathe before Bob snatched the soap from his hand and yanked him right back into a kiss, hot, needy, and full of the kind of wordless urgency that made John’s head spin and his spine tingle. Bob wordlessly took the bar from his hand and wasted no time in dipping it below the water before bringing it back up again and lathering up his hands. Then, he passed the bar back to John, who returned it to its former place on the boulder.

The first drag of Bob's soapy fist along both of their lenghts pulled the breath straight from Johns lungs and into the open space between their faces. Their foreheads touch, and their eyes are focused on their shared pleasure. John hadn't realised exactly how big Bob's hands were before this, but now he couldn't get enough of it, fucking into Bob's fist with an intensity he didn't know he still posessed, his dick finding friction from both Bob's fist and cock, the feeling heavenly. Bob places a firm hand on his hip, confident, grounding, and John secretly hopes it’ll leave a bruise. Not because he likes how it hurts, although he doesn't mind it, but because he wants the proof, something tangible left behind on his skin. Something that’ll tell him later this was real, that it actually happened and wasn’t just some vivid fantasy he dreamed up and got lost in.

Bob's voice comes out rough, breathy, and God if that doesn't make John almost come on the spot. "Be good and hold still. I'll take care of it."

And take care of it he does. His fist speeds up, dragging and squeezing their dicks together at the perfect pace, mouth sucking bruises on his neck, while his other hand still holds on tight to his hip. John has his hands in Bob's hair, tugging and pulling as his pleasure intensifies.

"B-Bob, Bobby, I don't...I don't think I'm gonna l-last much longer." He hears his own voice, the way he's breathless, and he can barely believe that the feeling of another mans hand, another mans dick against his own has him feeling like this. Adrenaline shoots through his veins faster than it has during any of the fights of the past days, his senses overwhelmed. He hasn’t done anything like this in a long time, had honestly believed he never would again. Truthfully, he’s never done anything quite like this at all. Not with a man. And certainly not out here, in the wild, naked and exposed, where anything could happen at any given moment. It’s reckless. It’s vulnerable. And yet, somehow, he can't get himself to care. Not when he's feeling the way Bob's dick is dragging against his own, not with the way the strokes are getting more and more irregular by the second. He lets go of Bob's hair and instead scratches down his back, pulling him even closer. He can feel his own orgasm approaching, knows the warm feeling pooling low in his stomach, and can barely get himself to whisper a short 'fuck' before he's spilling all over himself and over Bob's still moving fist.

The fist which continues stroking up and down all the while John's vision is getting blurry and his hearing seems to fade out into nothingness. He briefly considers the possibility that this is all a dream, that any second now, he’ll wake up, mortified, maybe even rutting against Bob in his sleep like some desperate idiot. The thought makes his stomach twist. The only thing he's sure of is that he hasn’t died. Because nothing that feels this good, this alive, could possibly be waiting for him on the other side. Not for someone like him.

He starts slowly coming back to himself, wants to tell Bob that it's becoming too much, that if he doesn't stop jerking him off soon he doesn't know what's gonna happen, when Bob's own orgasm seems to hit him. He groans, his breath warm on the skin of John's neck, his tongue dragging over his pulse point before sinking his teeth into his shoulder. Their release mixes together between them, creating a mess they will have to clean up before leaving. His fist squeezes them both one last time before he lets go and brings it up to his mouth, now having let go of John's shoulder, just to lick at the mess of cum cooling on his hand. John doesn't think he's ever seen someone do something quite so gross, and he also does his best to ignore his dick twitching between his legs, trying its best to get hard a second time after witnessing the nasty show Bob put on.

"Hm. Could taste better," Bob muses, licking his fingers with a thoughtful frown. "Guess we haven’t exactly been eating gourmet lately. You wanna try?"

He holds his hand out toward John, who just blinks at it for a second, stunned, watching it get closer and closer to his face. He snaps out of it just in time and swats it away, hard.

"You're disgusting," John says, recoiling. "Why the hell would you wanna lick that?"

He can feel his ears burning, face heating up, while his brain struggles to understand why Bob thought it was a good idea to taste test their cum in the first place.

Bob just shrugs like it's the most normal thing in the world. "No real reason."

Then he tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, thoughtful. And of course, because Bob has no shame, he asks, "Hey, do werewolves always come this much, or is that just you? Not judging, just curious. I like it."

John chokes on his own breath. "How the hell would I know?! Stop asking stupid shit and get back in the water!"

He shoves Bob's shoulder with a scowl, but Bob just stumbles back laughing, kicking up water at him on the way. And even though John’s still blushing and mildly horrified, he’s grinning too, because of course he is.

Afterward, they had to wash up again, but this time John didn’t bother turning his back. He faced Bob head-on, shoulders squared, pretending like it didn’t matter. Because, really, what was the point in being shy now? There was nothing Bob hadn’t already seen, nothing John hadn’t felt. And if his gaze lingered a bit longer than necessary, if he didn’t mind the view as much as he should’ve... well, sue him.

Once they were clean again, they got dressed in silence and resumed their journey. The trees felt closer now, the air heavier, not from danger, but from the weight of what had happened. John would be lying if he said he wasn’t tired. Actually, exhausted would be a better word. His body wasn’t used to feeling this kind of intensity anymore, hell, he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt it like that. And it wasn’t just the physical toll, although that was definitely there, like a dull hum beneath his skin. It was his thoughts. Racing. Looping. Restless. Never letting him breathe.

Because, of course, he’d just tossed the neat little conclusion he’d come to after the whole baby-bird incident straight out the window. A kiss and some frantic grinding in a moment of adrenaline-fueled confusion, that, he could’ve explained away. Filed it under stress, heat of the moment, survival bonding, whatever excuse made it easier to sleep at night. But this? This wasn’t that. This was... something else. Something deliberate. Something he had wanted.

And that was the part he couldn’t wrap his head around.

Because John had never felt attraction like this before, not in this direction. He’d always preferred being the one in control, the one holding someone else steady, keeping them safe. That role had fit him. It had defined him. But now? Bob’s strength, his easy confidence, the way he’d taken charge without hesitation, it did something to John he hadn’t expected. Something that lit him up from the inside and left him both overwhelmed and starving for more.

Had he always been like this and just not known? Had he never had the chance to explore it, to figure himself out? Maybe. Or maybe the bite had changed more than just his body. Maybe being turned into a werewolf had rewired things deep down, things he’d never had the time or the permission to notice. After the bite, there’d been no space for reflection. He was consumed by grief, by rage. Then came the work with Val, which brought shame, fear, secrecy. And through all of that, sex, desire, wasn’t even on the table. He hadn’t felt safe enough, hadn’t trusted anyone enough. Hadn’t wanted to.

Until Bob.

That was the problem. That’s what made this so damn difficult. Bob had walked into his life with that crooked smile and that quiet strength and... everything had shifted. John couldn’t tell if Bob had woken something in him or simply held a mirror up to something that had always been there. And at the end of the day, did it even matter? Whether it was new or old, whether it was curiosity or something deeper, it was real. Palpable. Present.

And maybe that was all there was to it.

He exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself. In the grand scheme of things, this shouldn’t be a crisis. He’d been through worse. Hell, he’d survived horrors most people couldn’t even imagine. He could handle a little confusion about attraction. It wasn’t like he was ashamed, at least not really. He didn’t give a damn about what other people thought. But it was the vulnerability that rattled him. The not-knowing. The loss of control. That’s what made him squirm.

If it got too bad, if the questions kept gnawing at him, maybe he could just ask Bob. The guy clearly knew his way around this stuff. He hadn’t hesitated. He’d known exactly what to do, how to move, how to touch, how to drive John absolutely insane with a single hand placement. But no. He wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. If he was lucky, the whole thing would fade into the background. Just a fluke, just some intense forest heat. He could ignore it, like he did with most things that scared him. Bury it deep, wait for it to rot and disappear. That seemed easier. He’d done it before. He was good at ignoring things that made him feel too much. Especially the things that made him feel vulnerable. Especially the things that made him feel human.

They spent most of the afternoon in a pleasant haze, ambling beneath the vaulted canopy as if the forest had granted them a temporary truce. Sun-shafts drifted through the branches in lazy columns, and for once John’s mind didn’t immediately twist every snapped twig into a threat. He made himself pay attention, he reminded himself that complacency could get a man killed out here, but the truth was he kept drifting back to the memory of Bob’s hands on his skin, to the way water had beaded on his collarbones, to the softness that had crept into Bob’s eyes when John let down his guard. The thoughts were like burrs in wool: the harder he tried to pull them free, the deeper they tangled.

Still, the day stayed mercifully quiet, no hidden trip lines, no metallic scent of strangers, no warning prickle down his spine. By the time the sky bruised toward dusk he realized he’d spoken more in a single afternoon than in the previous week combined. Bob had always filled silences easily, but now John answered in full sentences instead of nods, even offered the occasional joke. And Bob, well, Bob beamed at every scrap of conversation as if John were the most fascinating thing in the world.

They made camp near a moss-covered ridge where the trees thinned just enough for a sliver of moonlight. While Bob stacked a tiny ring of stones for their fire, John forced himself not to slip into old habits. Tonight, he decided, he was not turning his back to eat. He planted himself opposite Bob, cross-legged, stew tin balanced on one knee. The decision sent a faint tremor up his spine, but when Bob looked up and grinned, all teeth and delighted surprise, the nerves were suddenly worth it.

At first Bob did the normal, polite thing; stir his food, blow on the steam, take a bite. John exhaled, relieved. Then the staring began.

Not subtle, either. Bob watched with unabashed interest every time John raised the spoon, as if cataloguing the angle of his wrist or the flash of fangs whenever he bit down. It took less than a minute for John to clear his throat and arch a brow.

“You could at least pretend to mind your own business,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice was dulled by amusement.

Bob’s eyes lit. “Why would I waste the view? You finally let me sit here and see, and Yelena always says never ignore a rare opportunity.”

John snorted. “You make it sound monumental. It’s just me eating slop.”

“Oh, but it is monumental,” Bob countered, scooting a little closer across the leaf-litter. “It means you’re finally learning to accept yourself. At least a bit. And I, for one, cannot get over how cute your fangs are.”

John sputtered, actually choked, spraying half-chewed meat onto the dirt. His eyes watered. “Excuse me? Did you just call my most lethal weapon cute? I could tear your throat out before you finished blinking!”

Bob’s laughter rang out, bright as chimes. “Totally aware, big scary wolf man. You ripped a woman's throat out like it was an apple a few days ago; I’m not likely to forget. Still cute.”

He punctuated the word with a wink. A wink. His ears began to burn, a slow flush creeping up his neck, and only then did he realize how often Bob managed to make him blush. It was unsettling, familiar in a way that made his stomach twist. This had happened before. A long time ago, when he was just starting to fall for Olivia. Back then, every smile, every accidental touch had sent his heart racing, lit up something inside him that he hadn't even known could burn so brightly.

And now here he was, feeling it again.

The resemblance was too close, too dangerous. It clawed at the edges of his chest like a warning. If this kept going, if things got deeper, more tangled, if he found more echoes of that old, all-consuming feeling... he’d have to put a stop to it. He couldn’t afford to let it happen again. He couldn’t afford to love someone like that again. Because when he loved, people got hurt. People died. And Bob didn’t deserve that. No one did. So whatever this was, whatever it was becoming, it would have to end, if John couldn't get his goddamn feelings in order. Despite his swirling thoughts, he didn't have the heart to shut down on Bob just yet, so he kept up the banter.

"Okay, okay, I get it. You're into beastiality." He knew for sure that this was going to make Bob choke on his food, and he was correct, because Bob choked on his last bite of food so violently that he nearly dropped his own can. His eyes went wide, mouth agape in exaggerated disbelief. “I what?” he sputtered, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “Did you seriously just—? Did you just call yourself a beast?”

John shrugged, keeping his face as blank as he could, though he was struggling to hold back the corner of his mouth from twitching upward. “I mean, I am part wolf now. Seems like a fair accusation. And you seem to like one of my most animalistic traits.”

Bob stared at him for a long second, stunned into silence, before throwing his head back and laughing, a full, loud, belly laugh that echoed through the trees. He clutched his side like it physically hurt. “Jesus, you’ve got issues, man.”

“Never claimed otherwise,” John muttered, taking another bite of his food and pretending he wasn’t watching Bob laugh like it was the first real joy he’d had in weeks.

When Bob finally calmed down, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and tilting his head. “Okay, so what I’m hearing is... you’re scared. You can't believe that someone would be attracted to you.”

John stiffened.

Bob didn’t say it cruelly, didn’t say it smugly. He said it softly, like someone offering a truth instead of a challenge. “You’re scared that this is starting to feel like... something.”

John didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. He focused on the ground between his boots, his stomach tightening. The fire crackled quietly between them, the only sound for a few moments.

Finally, he gave a noncommittal grunt. “You’re imagining things.”

Bob leaned back with a sigh, dropping his empty can. “I really wish I was.” There was no teasing in his tone anymore, and for some reason, that made it worse.

John stared into the flames and didn’t speak again. He wanted to. Wanted to say something reassuring or sarcastic or anything to get that look off Bob’s face. But the words wouldn’t come. Because Bob was right. And that terrified him. Maybe he should’ve agreed. Maybe he should’ve told Bob the truth, admitted everything: how scared he was, how reckless this had all become. It would’ve been the right thing to do, the noble thing. But John came to realise that he had never been a particularly noble man, not really. At the end of the day, he was a selfish bastard.

And right now, his selfishness was winning.

Because he couldn’t let go. Not yet. He couldn’t bring himself to pull away from the warmth, the comfort, the illusion that maybe, just maybe, he could have something good. Just a little longer. He knew it was dangerous, knew they were playing with fire, walking blindly toward something that could only end in pain. But the thought of letting Bob go, of giving this up before it even had the chance to become something real, twisted something sharp and aching in his chest.

He’d do it if he had to. If it got too far. If Bob got too close, because said closeness would only bring danger, death. But not now. Not yet. He just needed a little more time. One more day. One more smile. One more night, just like this.

The moment they extinguished the fire, something shifted, subtle at first, like a gust of wind sneaking under your shirt, then sharp and sudden like a blade. The warmth from their earlier comfort disappeared, sucked from the air as if the forest itself had drawn a breath and held it. John felt it before he could see or hear anything. An ache at the base of his neck, his skin crawling with goosebumps. His gut twisted, instincts flaring, every fiber of him suddenly alert. He hadn’t felt this paranoid all day. For once, he’d let his guard down. Let himself relax. But now? Now it felt like the earth had tilted under his feet, like something unseen was slithering through the trees, just out of reach.

The moonlight cut down through the leaves, silver and indifferent, but it showed nothing.

Still, he knew.

Bob, crouched a few feet away, noticed the change in him. John could feel the way his energy shifted, sharp and uncertain, like a taut string pulled too tight. He didn’t know when exactly Bob had grown this good at reading him, at sensing the subtle ways John fractured under pressure. But he had. That fact alone terrified him almost as much as the thing creeping toward them in the dark. Almost.

“Do you hear something? What is it?” Bob’s whisper was low, but to John’s ears, it rang through the woods like a flare.

John raised a hand, silent, warning. His voice came out a second later, rough and serious, the weight of command unmistakable. “Bobby, get behind me. Don’t move. Stay alert. I can smell danger.”

Bob didn’t argue. He just obeyed, something in John’s tone enough to silence even his questions. And that, too, scared John. That Bob trusted him this much. That it mattered. But he shouldn’t have worried. The danger wasn’t coming for Bob. It was coming for him. The first arrow sliced through the air with a sound that barely gave him time to register it, let alone dodge. Then another. And another. Too many. A rain of them came flying from the shadows, sharp and silent and merciless. There was no way to evade them all.

Without thinking, John threw himself over Bob, shielding him with his body. He felt one arrow strike his shoulder, another bite into the side of his thigh. A flash of pain. White-hot, searing. But not silver. Not wolfsbane. Just wood and iron. It hurt like hell. But it wouldn't kill him. That relief barely had time to settle before it was shattered. Movement caught his eye. Figures stepped from the trees, shadows at first, then clearer under the silver wash of the moon. One, two, three... six in total, maybe more, hidden further back. Surrounding them. Close enough to be deadly. Too far for John to lunge and take them all out without leaving Bob exposed.

His instincts screamed. Every cell in his body burned with tension, torn between fight and flight. He couldn’t fight. Not like this. Not with Bob at his back, not with arrows in his limbs, not surrounded and outnumbered.

Then he smelled it. Strong, bitter. Werewolves. The scent of pack, but twisted, tainted with rage and bloodlust. They were here for him. Fear crawled up his spine, ice-cold and relentless. This wasn’t just bad. This was worse than anything he’d imagined. A voice split the quiet.

“Well, look at that,” one of the figures said, tone dripping with mockery. “The Agent of Death, protecting someone other than himself. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

John’s head snapped toward the speaker. He didn’t recognize the voice, but the words lodged deep, the familiarity of them unsettling. They knew him. Knew what he’d done. Who he was. Who he’d been.

“This is how it’s going to go,” the figure continued, stepping a little closer. “You let go of him, Johnny boy, or he gets hurt. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

His name. How the hell did they know his name?

John didn’t answer. He just tightened his grip on Bob, heart thudding hard against his ribs. He could feel the fury directed at him, hot and focused. But Bob? No, Bob wasn’t the target. Not yet. Then, he did as they asked and let go of him. He'd do what they wanted, would follow their demands, at least until he had a clearer idea of what was happening.

“Just like that,” the man purred, voice curling around the trees like smoke. “Now step away—further. Then you kneel. Hands behind your back. Face in the dirt where it belongs.”

John obeyed slowly, each movement igniting a fresh pulse of pain through his shoulder and thigh as the arrows still embedded in him protested. He ground his teeth against a groan, the humiliation biting almost as sharply as the injuries. The forest floor was cold, damp. It clung to his skin, the scent of earth and rot filling his nostrils as he lowered himself, inch by inch, until his knees pressed into the dirt and his head bowed low.

But he had to ask. He had to know.

“Who are you?” he rasped, voice thinner than intended. “What do you want?”

There was a pause, a beat, and then the figure laughed. Cold, cruel. Like he was laughing not at the question, but at the fact John had the nerve to ask.

“I’m not surprised you don’t remember us,” the man said, voice shifting from amusement to venom in a blink. “But it doesn’t matter. We remember you. That’s all that counts.”

He took a step forward, the sound of boots crunching leaves slicing through the silence.

“We’ve got a bone to pick with you, Agent of Death,” he hissed, practically spitting the title. “I’m sure you’re aware you’re not exactly... popular in these parts. Don’t think we’re unreasonable for wanting a little retribution. Hell, I’m surprised anyone can stand the sight of you. But this one—” He pointed toward Bob with a slow, deliberate motion. “—seems to be quite fond of you.”

John’s stomach dropped like a stone, heart stumbling into a sprint. Bob. He risked a glance, just a flick of his eyes, and caught the tremble in Bob’s hands, the way his mouth was slightly parted in panic, even if he tried to hide it.

He had to shift the attention back. Get their eyes off Bob. Redirect the rage.

“How did you find me?” John demanded, forcing more strength into his voice. “How did you know I was back in the forest?”

The man’s smirk returned, slower this time, more malicious. He lowered his arm, gaze locking on John’s again. “Does it matter? You showed up here like a gift. I honestly thought you'd have the good sense never to step foot back in this forest. But here you are. Either bold... or plain stupid. Either way, it’s our lucky day.”

Then he grinned wide, baring sharp fangs that caught the moonlight and gleamed like polished bone. His eyes glinted red, just for a second, but it was enough.

A signal.

Two figures moved behind John before he could react, one grabbing each of his arms with vice-like grips. Pain shot through his injured shoulder, but he bit down hard on the noise trying to escape his throat. He couldn’t afford weakness. Not now. He couldn’t see the others' eyes. Part of him didn’t want to. He didn’t want to see himself reflected there, what he used to be, what they believed he still was.

This wasn’t good.

He’d been in tight situations before. He’d survived worse. Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate to fight back, to rip and tear and die trying if that’s what it took. But this time... this time the rules were different. Because Bob was here. Bob, who wasn’t prepared for this. Bob, who could get killed simply for standing too close. John had never had someone to protect, not really, not since...

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

“Look, Johnny,” the man said, almost gently. Like he was speaking to a child. “We’re not monsters. Not like you. We don’t want to hurt Reynolds. We won’t, if you behave. This is about you. You already know that. So if you follow our orders like a good boy, no one else has to suffer. Not like our friends suffered. Not like you made them suffer.”

The words twisted in his gut, digging in deeper than the arrows. His blood felt cold, thoughts slowed under the weight of fear. But even through it, he registered the oddity in what the man had just said. His name. And Bob’s. So casually spoken.

How?

How the hell did they know both their names?

How long had they been watching?

What had they seen?

“You’re wondering what we want?” The leader’s tone oozed mock-sympathy, as though John were a child too slow to grasp a lesson. “Fair question, I suppose. And because I’m feeling generous, I’ll spell it out.”

He crouched, boots creaking, until his lips were inches from John’s ear.

“We just want you to hurt. That’s it. Nice and simple. When we’re satisfied, we’ll walk away and leave you breathing. Shocking, I know. You, the butcher of half this forest, getting to keep that precious life of yours. Maybe.”

The man tilted his head, eyes glittering. “See, slaughter isn’t really our style. We prefer delicacy. A souvenir here, a souvenir there.”

He straightened, barking a command. A second wolf stepped from the shadows and knelt beside John’s head, heavy pliers glinting in his hand.

“I think we’ll start with these pretty little fangs. I heard you don't like them anyway.” The leader tapped on his own fangs with a claw. “Then perhaps your eyes. You hate those, too.  Maybe a few fingers, just enough noise to make sure your friend understands what you truly are.”

The plier-wolf shifted, angling the jaws toward John’s mouth.

“If you bite,” the leader warned, sing-song, “we carve out Bobby's first. Choose wisely.”

Cold sweat sluiced down John’s face, stinging his eyes. His pulse roared, but the next words chilled him even further.

“Now,” the leader continued, “does your human know the real you? Does he know what crouches behind those polite blue irises? I think he deserves the truth before you lose them. So here’s the bargain: you show him your wolf eyes, right now, or we pluck his instead.”

The forest spun. He’d sworn Bob would never have to see that side of him, the savage glint that made strangers flinch and children cry. But maybe... maybe letting Bob witness it first would spare him later. Monsters being mutilated were easier to watch than men you cared about.

John squeezed his eyes shut for a heartbeat. A jagged laugh clawed out, half hysteria, half despair, just as a tear slid off his cheek and vanished into the dirt.

“It’s alright, Bobby,” he managed, voice cracking. “They want me, not you. Don’t come closer. And if you can, try not to hate me more than you probably already do. You knew I was an asshole. Knew it since day one.”

Another strangled laugh. His sanity felt like thread fraying fiber by fiber. For years he’d fantasized about dying; now, with death breathing on his neck, terror flooded him. How pathetic. Yet somewhere beneath the terror was a sharp ache, because life, lately, hadn’t been unbearable. With Bob beside him the days had tasted almost... sweet.

He realized with a sick jolt that every thought circling his mind was about Bob, not Olivia, not revenge, not even the long-dreamed oblivion. Just Bob’s laugh, Bob’s steady presence, the warmth of Bob’s hand on his chest in the river. Maybe he’d lied to himself. Maybe he was already in too deep. He should have ended things the moment feelings started to bloom, because feelings got people killed. Feelings got innocents tortured while you knelt helpless in the mud. He simply hadn't thought that two weeks would be enough to get this attached.

The leader snapped his fingers. Metal clicked open. “Time’s up, wolf. Eyes or eyes—yours, or his.”

John drew a ragged breath, felt his pupils shiver. The blue glow he despised began to seep into his irises as he lifted his head, slow, resigned, and turned his gaze toward Bob. The glow flared, feral and mournful in the moonlit dark. Bob gasped, eyes glassy , before he shook his head and looked away.

John felt something inside him cave in, his heart, his breath, his resolve. He’d known it would be like this. Had braced for it, told himself not to hope. But the sting of it still hit harder than he was prepared for. The rejection wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t loud. It was soft and silent and devastating. And somehow, that made it worse.

The leader seemed to relish the moment, watching it unfold like a private performance meant for him alone. He chuckled low and cruel, the sound slithering through the still night like a venomous thing.

“None of us—not me, not anyone—have the eyes you do,” he said, his voice smooth with mockery. “You’re special that way.”

He took a step forward, grinning wide enough to flash his own fangs. “Funny, isn’t it? You used to hunt werewolves who looked just like this: eyes glowing with death. The bad ones. The monsters who couldn’t be saved. The ones who tore innocents apart just because they could. You were the judge, jury, and executioner.”

The man’s voice dropped into a hiss, biting. “And now you wear the same cursed eyes. You crossed that line, John. Blew right past redemption. You didn’t just kill. You devoured your own kind. Who even does that? You’re not a man. You’re a rabid animal.”

He sneered, turning toward Bob, letting his gaze linger before returning to John.

“And yet somehow... he still likes you. Amazing, really. Maybe you fuck well, maybe that’s it. You’ve got the body for it. Too bad about the eyes. They ruin your face. And that’s a shame. A real shame.”

He lifted a hand, signaling to the wolf still crouched beside John. The pliers neared his face, and John didn’t resist. He didn’t fight. He opened his mouth willingly, forcing his jaw apart, not because he was ready, but because he had to be. One wrong move, one twitch, and Bob might pay the price instead.

So he surrendered. Again.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry out. Kept his eyes wide open, glowing with that hated, cursed blue as the night vision flooded his pupils. Bob had already seen, there was nothing left to hide. But if these were truly his final seconds of sight, if his vision was going to be ripped from him like penance, then he’d use them. He’d stare at Bob until the last heartbeat. Carve him into memory. And what he saw broke him.

Bob was shaking, hands clenched in the dirt, face streaked with tears. His shoulders rose and fell like he couldn’t breathe, like the world was collapsing on him in real time. His mouth moved, silent, pleading? Praying? John couldn’t tell. But it gutted him. That kind of pain had no sound. It just was.

The metal touched his fang, gripped it hard.

And then—

The world vanished in a sudden, blinding explosion of light.

A blinding, white-hot light exploded into the clearing like lightning frozen in time. It didn’t flicker or flash. It pulsed, alive, angry, divine. Everything was bathed in it: the trees cast shadows like skeletal arms, the wolves recoiled, snarling, their eyes reflecting terror instead of fury. And then came the sound. A low, thrumming hum that made the ground vibrate beneath him, made his bones rattle inside his skin. It wasn’t just light, it was power.

The wolf holding the pliers screamed, dropping the tool with a hiss as it began to glow and melt in his hand and his skin blistered and cracked from the light’s contact. He stumbled back, clutching his face, shrieking something John couldn’t understand. The leader turned, barking orders, but his voice was drowned in the roar of the brightness. It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t just light. It was something else. Something primal and raw and massive. It poured into the clearing like a tidal wave, and none of them were ready.

John squinted into the brilliance, straining to see what had caused it, and then he saw him.

Bob.

Bob, glowing like a second sun. His entire body shimmered with radiant energy, eyes burning gold, hair stirring in an unseen wind. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between sacred and terrifying, and at the same time completely blank.

He was floating an inch off the ground. Not standing. Floating.

And every wolf froze.

John couldn’t speak. His mouth hung open, his body forgot how to move. All he could do was stare, because the man who had kissed him like he mattered, who had giggled at his fangs and held his hand like it was something delicate, was now a creature of pure energy. A being of light that silenced the forest and made even murderers tremble.

And that terrifying power wasn’t aimed at John. It was aimed at them.

The leader took a step back.

“…What the fuck are you?” he whispered.

But Bob didn’t answer. Not with words.

The ground cracked beneath his feet as the light surged again, and John realized, with awe, with horror, with something dangerously close to reverence, that whatever Bob was doing, the others wouldn't stand a chance.

The whole thing didn’t last long. Or rather, the others didn’t.

They couldn’t. Not when faced with the raw, blistering force that poured off of Bob like a wildfire unchained. John couldn’t move, couldn’t even feel the pain of the arrows still buried in his body. It was gone, everything was gone. His nerves were bathed in warmth, a glowing, golden cocoon that wrapped around him like a blanket laced with lightning.

But he could see.He watched from where he lay, stunned on the forest floor, as the others tried to flee, tried and failed. Their escape was a joke. Their speed, their desperation, none of it mattered now. Their bodies began to convulse, twisted in agony, their faces warped into silent screams. No sound escaped their lips, only the static crackling of Bob’s power filled the air, like fire tearing through the world itself. Then came the real horror: their flesh began to melt, blackened and bubbling, as if boiled from the inside out. Muscle slid from bone. Eyes burst. They collapsed into ash, into nothingness, scattered like dust in the wind.

It was over in the blink of an eye. Just ash. Just silence. Just Bob.

The world had disappeared around them, every threat, every sound, erased. There was only John and Bob now, existing in the glowing ruin of the forest patch they had claimed as their camp.

John’s jaw hung open, lips parted in shock. His eyes stung, tearing up under the blinding light that still radiated from Bob like a sun born of rage. He squinted and saw that Bob had descended from wherever he had been floating, his feet touching the earth again, his golden eyes still blazed. He stepped forward, kneeling down in front of John with a grace that didn’t match the devastation around them. Then, gently, so, so gently, it almost broke John’s heart, Bob lifted a hand and cradled his cheek.

“This will never happen again,” Bob said, his voice low but steady, like something godly had taken residence in him. “This forest is no threat to me. And I will not let it be a threat to you. I’ll burn it to the ground if I must, every tree, every beast, every soul within it, if that’s what it takes to keep you safe. They dared to touch what is mine. They don’t understand the power I hold.”

The voice was unmistakably Bob’s, but it had taken on a terrifying edge: commanding, wrathful, consumed by something far larger than himself. It wasn’t like the Void; that had felt like someone else wearing Bob's flesh. This was Bob. But not the Bob John knew. Not the Bob who smiled when he cooked canned beans over a tiny fire. This was a Bob eclipsed by his own power, drowning in it.

John could only stare. His gaze locked with those molten golden eyes as Bob leaned forward and wrapped him in an embrace.

“I will protect you,” he whispered fiercely, pressing John’s head into the crook of his neck. “You’ll never feel fear like this again. I’ll never let you be hurt again.”

At first, the warmth was comforting. But then the hold tightened. And tightened. John's ribs began to groan under the pressure. That warmth turned suffocating. His lungs seized. It felt like being wrapped in steel, Bob’s arms no longer felt like comfort, but a vise.

It was happening again.

He was back in the tent. Wrists turning purple. Bones on the verge of breaking. Bob’s golden eyes wild and glowing. Only this time it wasn’t just his wrists, it was his whole body. Crushed against the trembling core of a god who wanted nothing more than to protect him, even if it meant breaking him in the process. He couldn’t breathe. The edges of his vision blurred. With great effort, with what little air he could still draw in, he forced the words out.

“B-Bob-by… l-let… go.”

Bob didn’t respond. Didn’t seem to hear.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, his voice calm, like a lullaby. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Panic clawed at John’s chest. He remembered how he’d reached Bob that night, the one in the tent. He hated himself for what he had to do now, but it was the only way.

“You’re… y-you’re h-hurting m-me,” he gasped. “C-Can’t… breathe.”

Bob pulled back slightly, enough for their eyes to meet.

“What?” His voice cracked. “I’m hurting you?”

Golden light still danced in his eyes. His expression was shattered, lost, a boy wrapped in too much power. Tears welled up, brimming, but he didn’t loosen his grip. If anything, it tightened in panic. There was a horrible crack, and one of John’s ribs finally gave. It was now or never.

“L-Let go,” John rasped, a final plea. “You’re g-gonna k-kill me…”

The words did what nothing else could. They shattered whatever trance Bob had been caught in. The light vanished in an instant, like a switch had been flipped. His power stopped humming. His arms slackened. And John fell.

He hit the forest floor with a thud, collapsing in a boneless heap at Bob’s feet, gasping for air, limbs trembling. His body trying to heal.

And Bob just stood there: motionless, hollow-eyed, the golden glow gone, blackness starting to creep up his legs.

No. No, no, no. This was worse. So much worse. The light was gone, the warmth had faded, and in its place came a terrifying stillness. That all-too-familiar blackness, the Void, was creeping in, curling its fingers around Bob’s soul like a parasite ready to devour him whole. Whatever power high Bob had ridden moments ago had vanished. And in its wake was silence. Emptiness. A descent into something colder than death. John knew this shift now. Had seen glimpses of it before. But never like this.

It terrified him how quickly Bob’s emotions could swing from blazing with power to hollow despair. John himself had a temper, yes, but this? This was something deeper. This was something that could break a man. And he couldn’t let it. He couldn’t let the Void take Bob away from him. Not now. Through the fog of pain in his cracked rib and bloodied limbs, he reached out, his fingers first grasping for Bob’s legs. The skin there was cold, scorched from the inside with that dark power, and it seared against his palm like frozen fire. He hissed in pain, recoiled, then reached again, this time grabbing hold of Bob’s shirt, yanking him down. Bob didn’t resist. Instead, he folded forward, collapsed onto John like a marionette with its strings cut. His weight slammed into John’s chest, driving agony through his ribcage, but John didn’t let go. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Instead, he wrapped his arms around him, held him, just like Bob had held him earlier, but gentler. Tender.

Then, slowly, reverently, John cupped Bob’s face and brought their foreheads together. He kissed him. First on the lips, then his cheeks—salty and warm with tears. Then up to his forehead, and finally, his eyelids. Feather-light, careful, deliberate.

You’re here, he wanted to say. You came back. You’re still here.

Bob was crying now, silent, heavy tears, and John could feel them against his skin. And strangely, that gave him hope. If Bob was crying, it meant he still felt something. It meant the Void hadn’t taken him completely.

So he kept going. Kept pressing kisses to his skin, kept running his fingers through his hair, whispering over and over: It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe. You saved me.

What felt like hours passed, though it could have only been minutes, but time didn’t matter. All that mattered was keeping Bob here, tethered to the present, away from whatever abyss threatened to swallow him whole. Then finally, finally, a voice, fragile and broken, rose up into the dark, spoken against John’s ear: “I’m sorry.”

John froze.

“I keep trying to make things better,” Bob whispered, “but all I do is make them worse. I hurt you. Again. I always do. I can’t live with myself like this. I’m a monster.”

The words struck John harder than the arrows ever could. They pierced straight through flesh and bone and buried themselves in his heart. He swallowed the lump rising in his throat, fought the tears burning behind his eyes. Then he pulled Bob closer, pressing their foreheads together again, voice low and trembling: “No, Bobby. You saved me. You saved us. Without you, I’d be dead. They would’ve tortured me, and I couldn’t have done a damn thing to stop it. But you did. You made it stop. You made it better. You make me better.”

Bob’s head lifted, just barely, his eyes red and raw but searching.

“You… you mean that?”

John let out a shaky breath. “With my whole damn heart.” He offered a sad smile. “Besides, you should be calling me the monster, not yourself. You saw my eyes. I can’t believe you still saved me.”

A bitter laugh escaped his lips, dry and hollow.

“You’re crazy, you know that? You should be running from me. Not crying over me.”

Bob smiled softly, but there was no humor in it, just conviction.

“I am crazy. My head’s never been right. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s this: I’m not running from you. Not ever.”

He hesitated, then added, quieter: “I... I knew about your eyes already. I’m sorry.”

John’s head jerked up, too fast. He collided with Bob’s forehead in a loud crack, and both men groaned in pain.

Bob sat up, hand pressed to his temple, and John felt awful. “Shit, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to headbutt you.” He blinked, wincing, hand pressed to his own throbbing forehead. Then his narrowed gaze locked onto Bob.

“What the fuck do you mean you knew already?”

The ache in his head was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the sudden pounding in his chest. He’d known? Since when had he known? Did he already know when they first kissed? How did he know? Why didn’t he say anything?

But before John could decide which question to voice first, Bob raised a hand, calm, steady, like he’d already anticipated the storm brewing inside him.

“I didn’t lie to you,” Bob said gently. “I don’t remember anything from when the Void took over that night... when it broke into your memories and emotions. But it let some things slip through afterwards. Just enough to... show me parts of you. It wanted me to know what you hate most about yourself. Wanted me to understand what makes you you.” He paused, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know why. I never understood its motives. I probably never will.” A beat. “But I know about the eyes. I’ve known for a while now. And I don’t care.”

The words echoed in John’s skull, bouncing around like they were too big to fit in a single space. He didn't care. He blinked, stunned, a strange sound leaving his throat, a wet, broken laugh, like something halfway between a sob and a gasp for air. “You...” he tried, but the words tangled in his chest. He pressed his palm against his heart as if to slow it down. “You don’t care.” He said it again, voice cracking. “You really don’t care.”

Tears were falling before he could stop them, streaking down his cheeks unchecked, and still, impossibly, he was laughing. Hysterical. Unmoored. He didn’t know if it was relief or disbelief or something else entirely, something he didn’t have a name for.

Bob’s face shifted instantly, concern flashing across it. “John? Are you okay? Is it your ribs? Or your head? Is it because I squeezed you too hard earlier? You're starting to scare me—”

That snapped him out of it.

John surged upright and threw himself forward, arms wrapping tightly around Bob with a force that sent them both tumbling. Bob landed on his back, John clinging to him like he might slip through his fingers otherwise.

“I just— I can’t believe you,” John whispered, breath shaky, mouth pressed against Bob’s collarbone. “I don’t think there’s anyone else in the world who thinks like you do. You’re... you’re so strange.” The words came out uneven, muffled by emotion, but the softness in his voice made it clear: it wasn’t an insult. It was awe. “How?” he asked, desperate now, burying his face in Bob’s chest. “Why? I don’t understand you, Bobby. I really don’t.”

Bob smelled like sunshine and something warm, something real. John held tighter, like grounding himself in that scent might keep him from flying apart.

A hand, tentative, unsure, rested on his back. Held him there.

“I’ll... tell you about me,” Bob said quietly, “if you want. But not right now. First, we need to get off the ground. I want to check your wounds.” He tilted his head, brushing his lips lightly against John’s temple. “Then we can figure out our next move. And after all that... if you still want to know, we’ll talk. I promise.”

The aftermath was even worse than either of them had feared. Because apart from themselves, there was nothing left. No bodies. No belongings. Not even the faint smell of smoke.

Just ash.

Ash and silence, thick and smothering, like a shroud wrapped around the scorched patch of forest that had once been their campsite. Everything had been swallowed up by the blaze Bob unleashed: uncontrolled, unstoppable, divine in its fury. What hadn’t turned to cinders had simply ceased to exist.

John’s wounds and cracked rib, miraculously, were no longer a concern. The arrows had missed anything vital, and his werewolf healing would take care of the rest soon enough. But their gear was another story. No tent, no bedrolls, no matches, no food, no knives, no rope. No supplies of any kind.

Gone. All of it.

It was just the clothes on their backs now, and the weight of what had just happened hanging heavy between them. The rest of the journey was going to be rough. But at least, in the midst of it all, there was one silver lining: they could travel faster now. There was no more need to stop and set up camp when dusk fell. They had nothing to pitch, nothing to unpack, nothing to protect from the weather. No real reason to linger anymore. They would only have to stop when they felt tired.

And John would finally use his night vision properly, which meant traveling after dark wasn’t just possible, it was preferable. The darkness wouldn’t slow them down. It was going to suck, yes. The next few days would be brutal, uncomfortable, cold, and probably exhausting. But it wouldn’t last forever. A few days, John had said. Maybe less. They just had to push through.

Bob, ever the optimist, had convinced himself that things weren’t that bad. John could hunt. His claws were sharp, he’d seen them up close enough times by now. He could use them like knives if he had to, and he seemed to have fewer reservations about transforming in front of Bob these days. That counted for something, didn’t it?

Sure, Bob wasn’t exactly an expert on werewolves, but traveling beside one for the past two weeks had given him a decent crash course. Even if... he was pretty certain that John wasn’t exactly what one would call a textbook case. Still, he had claws. He had instincts. They would manage.

They walked in silence for a while after the light of the moon began peeking through the branches again, because they didn't know what else to do other than keep going. The night was cold, the air still. Bob waited patiently for John to speak. He could tell a storm of thoughts was brewing in the other man’s head. He was just waiting for the first one to break through.

When it did, it wasn’t what Bob expected.

“If you knew about my... eyes already,” John began slowly, hesitantly, “then why’d you react like that?”

Bob frowned, confused. “React like what?”

John hesitated again. His voice was soft, uncertain. “You, like... shook your head. Looked away. I thought... I thought you hated me for it.”

Bob stopped walking, blinking at him. That’s what he thought? His heart ached. He looked over at John: stoic, quiet, bruised in more ways than one, and felt something twist inside him. “John,” he said gently, carefully, “they were torturing you. You had to do something you weren’t ready for. Had to show me something you’ve been hiding, something that makes you hate yourself. Of course I wasn’t smiling. It hurt to watch you be forced into that. I wasn’t turning away because I couldn’t stand the sight of you.” He stepped closer. “I was turning away because I couldn’t stand seeing you in pain. That’s all.”

John was quiet for a while. His head dropped slightly, his shoulders sagging with a weight Bob couldn’t carry for him. Bob exhaled, a quiet breath tinged with sadness. Of course John had thought of it like that. Of course he’d thought the worst. The Void had only shown Bob pieces of John’s past, fragments. But it was enough. Enough to understand how deeply rooted his self-loathing went. And it was familiar. Painfully familiar.

Because once upon a time, Bob had thought the same things about himself. He knew what it was like to stare in the mirror and hate the reflection. Knew what it felt like to believe the world would be better off without him. There had been times, too many, where he was seconds away from ending everything.

But then... Yelena. Ava. Alexei. His family. His real one. They’d held him up when he couldn’t stand. Taught him how to accept himself again, piece by piece. It was still a work in progress, but without them? He’d be six feet under. John didn’t have that. He had no family. No foundation. No one, it seemed, except her.

Val.

Bob’s jaw tightened. That woman wasn’t good for anyone. Not for John, not for him. The memories of her were like oil slicks on his thoughts, impossible to scrub clean. He didn’t want to think about her, but he could feel it coming. John would ask. Soon. So when John finally asked, the question hanging heavy between them, 'what happened to you? why are you like this?', Bob told him.

He didn’t start with a grand reveal. Just the truth. “My parents weren’t great.” A laughless chuckle followed. That was putting it lightly, but he didn’t feel like cracking open every wound. Not yet. The details didn’t matter, not for this part of the story. The real story started after them anyway.

He’d been thirteen. Dragging his mother home from the town tavern, the way he’d done too many times before, when a woman stepped into his path; Val.

She’d looked at him like she already knew something. Her eyes hadn’t just passed over him, they tracked him. Pierced through him. There was magic in her, and she must’ve felt something stirring in him too. His had been weak then. Unpredictable. Buried deep beneath fear and trauma, erratic like everything else in his life. It made sense now, of course. Magic with roots like his wasn’t going to flourish. It shriveled under neglect. The next day, she knocked on their door. Told his parents he had “potential.” That she could teach him, mold him into something powerful. She’d even pay them for the trouble. And that had sealed his fate. They’d taken the deal without hesitation. His magic scared them, and they’d never wanted him anyway. Val’s offer was the perfect out, two birds, one stone. Get rid of the boy they never understood, and make money doing it. So they got rid of him. Just like that.

He went with her. Because what else was there? The streets? A worse hell? He was thirteen, and in no way prepared to be on his own. He hadn’t expected kindness, but surprisingly, those first years weren’t so bad.

Val was distant, yes, but not cruel. Not at first. Mel had been easy to get along with. He had a bed. Food. A place. A purpose. They tested his magic, trained him, tried to strengthen it. He didn’t understand her motives, wasn't too concerned with them. Maybe she just wanted weapons at her disposal, fewer enemies in the field. He didn’t ask. He was just... grateful. For a time.

But the cracks showed, eventually.

He didn’t improve fast enough. Couldn’t reach whatever heights she saw in him. She told him she felt it, that power in his blood, magic boiling just beneath the surface, untapped. Said it was beyond anything she’d ever encountered. But he couldn’t find it. Couldn’t feel it. Because how could he? He was still learning how to breathe. Still crawling out from under the weight of everything his parents had crushed inside him. Still wondering why he could feel so invincible one day and so worthless the next. Why joy, when it came, always came hand-in-hand with dread. Maybe the damage had already been done, or maybe he’d always been broken. Didn’t matter. All that mattered to Val was that he wasn’t delivering. And that’s when it began.

The treatments.

She told him they would help. That they’d draw out his magic, burn away whatever was blocking it. That he would be stronger than anyone, untouchable. And he believed her. What choice did he have? She was all he had left. The only person who’d shown him a future, even if that future came with syringes and symbols and rituals he didn’t understand. Treatment after treatment. Years of nothing. Then he turned seventeen. And she was done waiting. He still doesn’t know how she got her hands on it. What dark corner of the world she had to bleed to find it. What price she paid. But he knows what it was:

The Void. Ancient. Power-hungry. Unknowable. And she set it free. Offered him up like a sacrificial lamb, the perfect host with the "unrealized potential." She carved a space inside him for it, and it accepted. And that... was the beginning of the end.

The worst thing that could have happened, happened. It worked. Val’s twisted experiment, the thing he never wanted, never asked for, worked. It unlocked his potential, just like she said it would. But not in a way any sane person would ever wish for. Not in a way that he could survive without breaking. His magic came unbound, violent and vast. But it wasn’t just the power that surged, it was everything. The highs and lows he’d struggled with for years, the emotional chaos he could barely contain on the best of days, became fused to his magic. They fed off each other. Amplified. Every mood swing became a storm. Every moment of weakness, a detonation.

And he couldn’t control it. Not really. Not when it counted.

When the magic flared, it took him with it. Rational thought slipped through his fingers like smoke. He’d lose time. Wake up panting, soaked in sweat, trembling with exhaustion and shame, not knowing what he’d done. Or worse, remembering. Asking himself what he had been thinking, why he had done what he did when he felt invincible, on the top of the world. And then, as if that wasn’t enough to carry, came the Void. The thing Val had summoned. The thing she let in. It lived inside him now, breathing in his fear like oxygen. It thrived on his suffering, fed on the worst parts of him, made them louder, sharper, harder to fight. It twisted his thoughts, poisoned his heart. And he couldn't push it out.

But Val could control it. At least, in part.

She'd made a deal with the Void when she released it, an unbreakable vow. He didn’t know the details, only what she told him. But he felt it in his bones: it was true. The Void would grant her a wish, any wish, once every six years. And if it refused, or if Bob interfered in any way, he’d die. Just like that. The host would perish, and the Void would be banished back to whatever sealed-off, godforsaken realm it came from. It wouldn’t risk that. So it complied. And so did he.

Because what choice did he have?

That was the cycle. He’d been seventeen when she let it in. Eighteen when she first invoked her wish. Twenty-four when she used her second. Six years ago. And now, it was time again. He didn’t need to hear her say it. He knew why she wanted him back. Knew why she’d come calling again. It was the pattern, the curse. She would demand something. She always did. And if he didn’t give it willingly, the Void would act.

She’d always expected him to be hers. Her weapon. Her puppet. Something molded in her image. But he wasn’t made for that, not for the blood, the lies, the manipulation. He’d tried. God, he’d tried to be what she wanted. Spent years swallowing down the dread, doing the things she asked, even when they ripped him apart inside. He wasn't made for hurting people, killing people. He could, when the situation asked for it, but it went against his nature, everything that made him. Year after year he followed her every word, wnated to be good for her, and he suffered for it, took it.

Until one day, he couldn’t anymore.

He broke. Told her no. Refused her commands. Walked away.

That had been six years ago. Right after the last wish from the Void. His breaking point.

And even though he couldn’t stop the Void from obeying her, couldn’t stop the thing inside him from fulfilling the next request, he could refuse her. He could shut off his own magic when it started boiling over. Hold back the power that she wanted so badly. Because he had finally realized something terrifying and freeing: He was stronger than her.

Not smarter, not more cunning. But stronger, more powerful. It had taken time to believe that. And it had taken everything to walk away. But it had been the best decision of his life. He found people who didn’t want to use him. A family. A reason to keep going. A place to heal. He wasn’t whole. He wasn’t “fixed.” But it was better. That counted for something. They loved him, even when he was dangerous. Stayed, even when he warned them away. But he knew, deep down, that the time was borrowed. That one day, Val would call on him again. That the third wish would come. And no matter how far he ran, the Void would answer.

So he held onto the hope, foolish, maybe, that this time, he’d be strong enough to take it. That he could do what needed to be done, and not fall apart in the process. But the truth? The truth was uglier. He was scared. Terrified of slipping back into the monster she’d made. Of losing himself. Of hurting people again. Of making all the work, the healing, the growth, the hope, mean nothing. Because he’d been a monster once, with his need to please, but he didn’t think he could survive becoming one again.

There was silence after his words and Bob got lost in his own head. Scared John would judge but knowing he wouldn't. Then John broke the silence.

“Bobby, I don’t believe you were ever a monster,” John said quietly. “But if you’re that frightened of letting your power loose, you shouldn’t have done it for me. I’m not worth that risk. I don’t want you regretting something you did to save me.”

Bob shook his head, gaze steady. “That isn’t it. I’m not afraid of killing attackers, John. I’m terrified of losing control and hurting people who don’t deserve it. People I care about. You. And, yes, I hurt you tonight, which I regret. But I do recognise that if I’d frozen, everything would’ve been worse. So I’m glad I acted. I can feel the difference now. I’m stronger than before, and the Void listens to me more than it used to.”

John nodded, accepting that answer even if it sat uneasily in his chest. “All right. But why keep Val secret? You told me you ‘weren’t allowed’ to explain who put that... thing inside of you.”

Bob exhaled a humorless laugh. “First, would you really have believed me back then? You barely knew me. Second... I am still scared of what she’ll do if she finds out I talked. The vow she made with the Void can kill me. But after tonight, everything’s different. Hiding it feels pointless.”

They walked in silence for a stretch, boots crunching over twigs and fallen leaves, moonlight slipping through the branches.

“Thank you for telling me,” John said at last. “I know dredging that up wasn’t easy. I'm sorry I made you talk about it.”

“You didn’t make me,” Bob answered. “You deserved something real from me after everything we’ve shared. But I need to ask, what do you think Val wants this time?”

John frowned, jaw tight. “I honestly don’t know. She gave me nothing except your name and an order to escort you back. She has been butting heads with the neighboring territories—maybe she needs a living weapon again.”

Bob’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah... that sounds like her.”

John’s expression sharpened. “Two of the three attacks we’ve faced felt targeted. They knew our names. How did they know yours? And why didn’t I scent them sooner?”

“Oh, there was a witch with them,” Bob said, remembering the oily prickle of foreign magic at the edge of the clearing. “She hid in the shadows and masked everyone’s scent. She’s ash now.” Bob tried to feel bad about that, but didn't really manage. She was just as guilty as the rest of them . They had tried to maim John.

John swore under his breath. “You could’ve mentioned that earlier. Do you not find this weird?”

“I was a bit busy being scared shitless and then keeping you alive,” Bob retorted, then softened. “But you’re right, it’s strange. Nobody should’ve known about the original route we took, nor that we’d be deep in this forest. We changed course and they still somehow found us. If Val’s enemies are tracking us that precisely, there has to be a leak inside her own ranks.”

“A mole.” John’s voice dropped to a growl. “Which means they could ambush us again whenever they please.”

Bob nodded, dread tightening his throat. “Then stealth won’t help, we’re already exposed. Speed’s our best shot. We press on through the night and get out of these woods fast.”

They did just that. They kept going, walking until their feet throbbed, until their eyes fluttered shut while still standing. John hunted, and they drank water straight from the stream. Two days passed like that, but it felt like weeks. The ambush had drained them more than they’d realized, and the lack of sleep afterward only made things worse. In truth, they hadn’t really slept at all since then.

But the effort had paid off. They were getting closer to the forest’s edge. They wouldn’t exactly be safe once they got out, but it would still be better than this. Better than the choking trees, the traps, and the lurking eyes in the dark. Out there, they might find real beds, real food. A bath, maybe. They were bone-tired, and their moods reflected it. Bob managed, barely, but he could see John struggling, trying his best to hold back that explosive temper of his. And Bob appreciated the effort.

As if things weren’t bad enough, the weather decided to turn on them too. Or so John said. He claimed he could smell it in the air, the thunderclouds rolling in, the rain falling somewhere in the distance. “A few hours,” he said. That’s all they had. The trees would shield them a little, but not enough. They were going to get wet. The wind was already picking up, cold and sharp. They were going to be caked in mud, their clothes soaked and filthy. Bob was already dreading it. They didn't have clothing to change into.

John was too, that much was clear from the tight set of his shoulders, the way he clenched and unclenched his fists. Maybe that was their mistake: pushing too hard, covering as much ground as fast as possible. And now, with the storm rolling in, they were pushing even harder. Bob could already tell that John would blame himself for what came next, but he wasn’t going to let that happen.

John had warned him, there would be traps the closer they got to the forest's edge. Traps meant for werewolves. To keep them in. To stop them from crossing into places they weren’t welcome. Traps left by hunters. Like John had once been, though the traps were surely not the same ones anymore. There were ways to recognize where the traps were, markers and signs only hunters would know. John still remembered them and had shared what he could in that stern, no-nonsense tone of his, the one that said: listen, this is important.

He needn't have used that tone at all, not with Bob. Because Bob always listened. He hung onto John’s every word, even the ones that made no sense. Even the stupid ones. It was part of his charm.

Still, they’d both been distracted, both in a rush. Maybe some of those old hunter signs had changed in the years since John had walked away from that life. Maybe the trap would’ve gone unnoticed no matter what. The details didn’t matter now. Not really.

What mattered was this: John got hurt. Again. Bad, this time. This wasn't just about pain, this was about danger.

Bob was panicking, trying to help but not knowing how. And the worst part, the part that made his stomach twist and his lungs seize, was that John was panicking too.

Because the arrow that had grazed the inside of his left thigh, and the one still embedded in his right bicep, were both laced with wolfsbane.

Here’s the problem.

Bob was pretty sure John had been about to tell him something, something important. Maybe it was how to get the damn wolfsbane out of his system, or what to do next. He’d started to say something, his mouth had opened, words already forming, but before he could get them out, he collapsed. Dropped like a stone, right in front of Bob, who barely had time to catch him. And now... nothing. No matter how many times Bob shook him, slapped at his cheeks, called his name, John wasn’t waking up. He was burning up, skin searing hot, sweat pouring off him like water. His pulse thudded too fast and too faint beneath his skin. Bob could feel it, John’s body was fighting something it didn’t know how to beat. And Bob didn’t know enough about werewolves to help him. He cursed himself, for never bothering to read a single book about werewolves. Not one. He’d read a ton of books in his life, but not a single one that would help him now. But now wasn’t the time for regrets. He’d read a whole goddamn library once this was over, if they got through this.

But first, he needed to know what John had been about to say. So he did the only thing he could think of. The one thing that made his skin crawl, the one thing that had nearly destroyed him before.

He called for the Void.

He gathered himself, steeled his breath, and opened his mind to it. It answered instantly. Always too fast, too eager. But it came, just like he knew it would. It seemed to like John, in that strange, hungry way it liked Bob. Perhaps it saw something in him, fear, pain, potential. Maybe it recognized the same darkness, the same brokenness. Or maybe it just wanted more things to consume. Bob had mostly stopped calling on it since gaining more control over himself. But now, for the first time in a long while, he called it on purpose. And it came.

His hand began to blacken, the cold creeping slowly up his fingers, to his wrist, then to his elbow. The skin shifted, inky, unnatural. Then it stilled. He hesitated, just for a moment. Then he did something he never imagined himself doing, not to John, not willingly. He reached his hand into John's mind. Let the Void search. John twitched beneath him. Groaned. A tear slipped from beneath one closed eyelid, trailing down his cheek before falling, warm and wet, onto Bob’s thigh, where John's head was resting. Bob shut his eyes, praying the Void would work fast. And it did. Images poured into his mind like a flood. Fire. Heat. Shelter. A cabin. Water. Rest. Clean the wounds. Keep him warm.

A hunter’s cabin, not far from here.

Bob sucked in a shaky breath. Thank God they were close to the forest’s edge. Out here, the presence of cabins, sparse as they were, meant they had a chance. A slim one, but better than nothing. He knew what John had once told him: that these were waystations for hunters laying traps, staying for days at a time to avoid trekking back and forth. Dangerous places, risky. But John had stayed in them before, he remembered where they were. John hadn’t wanted to go near them. Not even now, when they could’ve used the supplies. The risk of familiar faces, old enemies, ghosts from his past, was too high. But that was a luxury they couldn’t afford anymore. They needed shelter. Now.

He considered tapping into his powers, using them to move faster, but he didn’t dare. Not now. Not like this. If he gave in, let himself go, he might slip again, fall into that dangerous delusion of being able to fix everything. Heal John with magic alone. And he might end up killing him instead. He couldn’t afford that. Because John wouldn’t be able to bring him back this time, not while unconscious. So he did it the old-fashioned way. With grit. With shaking hands and a racing heart.

He slipped his arms under John’s limp body and lifted him bridal-style, careful not to jostle the arrow still embedded in his bicep. John’s left arm pressed against Bob’s chest, his head falling to Bob’s shoulder, breath ghosting faintly against his collarbone. He was so still, too still.

Bob started walking.

The woods loomed dark and endless around them, the wind howling between the trees like distant wolves. Every step was slower than he wanted it to be, every breath tight with panic. He held John closer, felt the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Felt how light he seemed in his arms. How fragile, even if he knew the man was a hulking mass of muscle. If John had been awake, he’d never allow this, for Bob to carry him like a damsel in distress. His already fragile pride would’ve taken a hit too deep to recover from. The thought made Bob smile, just barely, despite the terror curling in his stomach.

The march felt endless, even though, in truth, it couldn’t have been more than twenty, maybe thirty minutes. Every step, every heartbeat, seemed one too many with John limp in his arms. When the cabin finally appeared, small, weather-beaten timber tucked between the trees, Bob’s knees nearly buckled with relief. He forced himself to slow, scanning for any sign of hunters. If the place was occupied he’d have to clear it, quick and brutal, because he had no time to explain why he was hauling a dying werewolf across the threshold. A werewolf with blue glowing eyes, no less. Could never explain to them how, despite the colour saying something else, John was good, deserving of being saved. To his relief, silence answered him: no fire, no weapons, no scent of gun-oil. Empty. Perfect.

Up the porch steps, why a hunting hut needed a porch he had no idea, but right now it was a gift. He laid John gently on the boards, snapped the mountain-ash line that barred werewolves from entering, then curled some of his power into his palm and ripped the doorknob clean off. The door swung wide with a groan. Bob scooped John up again, staggered inside, and spotted an iron bathtub against the far wall. He lowered him there, boots and clothes and all, then rushed back to reset the ash line and wedge a chair against the knob-less door. It would hold. It had to.

Fire next. There were still matches, a blessing, and stacked logs beside the hearth. Sparks caught, flames flared, and warmth chased the graveyard chill from the room.

Now came the part that twisted Bob’s stomach: following the Void’s instructions to the letter. He stripped John to socks and underwear, gagging when the arrow came free of the bicep with a wet pop. The wound in the thigh could wait; the arm was deeper, pulsing black poison, wolfsbane.

He grabbed a small log, the tip burning hot, and brought it to the torn flesh. Skin hissed when he held the flame close, blistered, and the cabin filled with the stench of burning meat. John groaned even in unconsciousness, eyelids fluttering, twitching. Black veins writhed beneath the surface, retreating as scorched blood wept out of the wounds and down his arm. Bob’s eyes watered from the smoke and the stench, from the horror of it, but his hands never wavered. Better the sear of fire now than certain death in an hour.

If this were any other moment, he might have noticed how John’s sweat-slicked torso looked sculpted by some cruel god, might have enjoyed his state of undress. But there was no room for admiration, only the single, unbending thought: keep him alive. He held the log a little closer, until the poison’s tendrils shrank to nothing, then tossed the wood aside.

Bob swallowed hard, nausea clawing at his throat, yet he felt the Void humming approval in the back of his mind. For once, its guidance had spared a life instead of ending one. He whispered a shaky promise into the dark cabin: “Just hold on, John. I’m not letting you go, not tonight.” Outside, thunder rolled closer, but inside the only sounds were crackling fire, Bob’s ragged breaths, and the slow, stubborn heartbeat of the man he refused to lose. The wound on his inner thigh came next. It was only a graze, thankfully, so it would take less time, less pain.

He grabbed another small log, lit its end in the fire, and brought the flickering flame to John’s thigh. He’d seen John naked before, had been allowed to touch, to explore, but this felt different. Wrong. Too close to parts of him that deserved privacy, too intimate without consent. John didn’t even know what was happening. But there was no time for hesitation. Bob steeled himself, gritted his teeth, and pressed the heat close.

The wolfsbane here hadn’t spread as far, hadn’t sunk as deep as it had in his arm. It took less time to burn away. Still, the black liquid that oozed from the wound was horrific: thick, sticky, and unnatural. It ran down John’s otherwise perfect thigh like poison ink. Bob tried, again, not to notice how unfairly attractive the man was, even like this. Focus.

But then he saw it, the twitch of skin knitting together, slowly, but surely. John’s healing factor was kicking back in now that the poison had been scorched away. His body was finally trying to do its job. That meant Bob had done it right. Or at least, right enough.

Next came cleaning. Infection was still a risk. The wounds might heal eventually, but they weren’t normal, they were different, dirtier, slower to heal. Traces of wolfsbane lingered. He couldn’t afford to be careless now. Bob found a battered bucket and trudged outside into the wind, filled it from the old well, and returned, water sloshing over the edge. He placed it by the fire and set it to boil, scouring the cabin for clean rags. There were a few, old, stiff, but usable. They’d have to do. He planned to use the first batch to cleanse the wounds, the rest to wrap them tight.

He fed more wood into the fire, stoking it high. Warmth would help John recover. He’d keep it going all night if he had to.

Once the water began to boil, he moved quickly. He set the bucket beside the tub, dunked a rag in, and wrung it out until it steamed. Then, as gently as he could while still bein thorough, he cleaned John’s wounds, slow and steady, careful not to agitate the healing skin. He murmured soft apologies every time John twitched or groaned in pain, every time his breath hitched or sweat broke anew across his fevered skin. The sweat that beaded on John’s brow ran in rivulets down his chest, catching in the fine gold hairs there. Bob tried not to stare. Tried, but failed.

Now that the panic had dulled and the urgency lessened, he finally had a second to see John without feeling guilty about it. Not just his injuries, but all of him. And god, what a sight. Even unconscious, even bloodied and bruised, the man was devastatingly beautiful. It made Bob feel like a creep. But he also remembered: John had let him look. Had welcomed his touch. This wasn’t forbidden territory. Still, the timing was wrong. Even so, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting, couldn’t stop the ridiculous heat that rose in him as he imagined what it might feel like to touch John again. God, he felt like a horny teenager, which made him chuckle half amused, half mortified.

He’d had other lovers, plenty of attractive people in his life, both male and female, some completely unlike John, some eerily similar. But none of them had ever made him feel quite like this. John wasn’t just beautiful, he was undeniably gorgeous. And the fact that he couldn’t see that about himself... well, Bob would change that. If it was the last thing he did.

When the wounds were clean, Bob gently patted them dry, then wrapped fresh rags tightly around the bicep and thigh. He made sure the pressure was just right, firm but not harsh. Then, slowly and carefully, he lifted John’s limp body out of the tub.

He carried him to the bed nearest the fire, settled him onto the mattress, and tucked a pillow under his head. He shifted the blanket up to John’s chest, arranging his limbs so nothing would press against the burns. When he was sure everything was safe, stable... he let go.

And collapsed.

His body crumpled to the floor next to the bed, too drained to take off his blood stained clothing, too weary to even try and drink some water. His clothes stuck to his skin, but he didn’t care. Sleep claimed him within seconds, back pressed to the wooden badframe, one hand still resting on the edge of John’s blanket like a final tether.

He'd been dreaming about that day. He saw Olivia dying again, saw the light leave his son’s eyes. And then there was the fire. The fire under his skin, burning him from the inside out. The transformation had felt like being unmade, like being thrown into lava and melted into a goop of human flesh, only to be rebuilt into something else. Something monstrous. He wanted to tear at his skin, rip it off his bones, let the fire out.

He woke up with a half-choked scream and his claws buried in his own chest. Blood was pooling under his hands, running down his sides and soaking into the sheets.

Why was he on a bed? Their bedrolls had been destroyed in that fight with those werewolves, and then Bob had—

Bob. Where was Bob?

He turned his head to look for him but instantly let out a loud groan, his skull pounding, his vision spinning. When he managed to open his eyes again, a worried face appeared above him. He calmed instantly, his racing heart slowing.

“No slap this time?” His voice came out raspy and weak, but it was enough to light up Bob’s face with a blinding smile, and the next second he was on top of him.

Bob’s hair fell in his face, tickling his nose and slipping into his mouth. “I hate you,” Bob whispered against his neck. “You might’ve saved my life a few times already, but you’re also going to be the reason I die—because my heart can’t take something like this again.”

John tried to hug him back, but pain surged through his arm the second he moved. He groaned.

Bob immediately pulled back, placing firm hands on his shoulders. “You’re going to stay still. Don’t move until you’re healed. I’ll literally chain you to the bed if I have to.”

The image that sparked in John’s head would stay between him and Satan only. He coughed, trying to clear his throat, trying to get his voice back to normal. “Yeah, about that... why exactly am I in a bed? I was hit, and then...”

So Bob told him. Everything. Or, almost everything. John could tell he was leaving some stuff out, but he didn’t press. What Bob had done for him was incredible, and it couldn’t have been easy. He let out a low, bitter chuckle. “I have no idea why Val thought I needed to escort you. So far I’ve only been a burden. Hell, this is the second time you’ve saved my life in just a few days. You should probably travel without me from now on.”

“Hey, now,” Bob said, frowning. “You’ve saved my life too. Twice, actually. So I think that makes us even. Just... for the love of God, don’t get hurt again. I don’t think I can do this another time.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose, Bobby,” John mumbled. “I told you this forest was dangerous. I just... I thought I’d be the one saving you. Not the other way around.” He hesitated with his next words. “You’re clearly stronger than me, so I don’t understand why Val sent me to get you.” He meant it as a question, but the waver in his voice must’ve betrayed him, or maybe it was the tears suddenly gathering in his eyes. Not again. God, not again. He’d been doing so much crying lately, and he couldn’t stand it anymore. But he couldn’t stop it either. He had always taken pride in being strong, in not needing help, in not needing to be saved. Strength had given him purpose. Validation. A reason to keep going. Now? Now he had nothing. He’d needed saving. Twice.

By the man he was supposed to protect. And he’d failed, because he was too weak to do even one thing right. If he wasn’t strong, then what was he? What was he good for?

Bob looked at him with pity, and John couldn’t take it. Not from him. He turned his head away.

Bob refused to let him turn away. He caught John’s chin gently and guided his face back. “Don’t do that, John. I can guess exactly what’s running through your head right now.”

He disappeared for a moment, then returned with a dented tin bowl and a cup.

“The pantry’s surprisingly well-stocked,” he said, setting them on John’s lap. “No spices, though, so it’s bland and mushy, which is actually perfect for you right now. Drink the water. Eat the peas. Then you can sleep again. I’ll wake you later to change the bandages.”

John didn’t have the strength to argue. He swallowed the lukewarm water, forced down the peas, and handed the bowl back.

“Good,” Bob murmured, easing him onto the pillow. Exhaustion dragged John under almost instantly; he barely registered the wind picking up beyond the window or the distant rumble of thunder telling him that the storm wasn't upon them quite yet. Dusky light bled through the windows, and then it was gone.

--

When he surfaced again, the storm had arrived. Rain hammered the roof, and sweat glued every pore of his skin to the sheets. Bob was shaking his shoulder, voice urgent yet gentle.

“Time to re-bandage you. Maybe a quick wash while we’re at it, you’re roasting.”

Bob’s hair was damp, smelling of soap and woodsmoke. Clearly he’d already cleaned up.

John rasped, “Since when do you know so much about playing nurse to werewolves? I was joking about the beastiality thing, but I’m starting to wonder.”

The jab was harmless, but Bob’s expression turned oddly guilty. “Uh... about that. Don’t hate me, please. While you were out, I—well, I asked the Void for help. I let it search your head for what to do. I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you die, and I didn't know what else to do.”

John’s first instinct was outrage at the invasion of his mind, yet reason jumped in: What choice had Bob really had? A sharper worry crowded forward.

“You trusted it? I thought you said you couldn’t control it.”

“It’s... complicated. I think it likes you. Probably enjoys your particular brand of suffering.” Bob gave a shaky half-smile. “And I can guide it better now—sort of. Even if it didn’t look that way at the start of our little trip.”

John’s ears burned at the implication that both Bob and the Void were familiar with all his demons. He pushed upright a little too fast. Pain tore through his thigh and his vision wavered. Bob was beside him instantly, steadying him and half-lifting him toward the iron bathtub.

Humiliation prickled under John’s skin, but he bit it back. Bob fetched a bar of soap and a bucket of warmed water. “Unwrap the bandages first, and don’t stress the wounds,” he instructed. “I’ll be at the table, call if you need anything.”

Bob turned his back and sat across the one-room cabin. John stripped out of his few remaining clothes, peeled away the stained cloth, and cleaned himself as best he could, trying not to dwell on the fact that the soap had probably been on Bob’s skin just a while ago. Popping a boner right now would only make this whole situation even more awkward. Once finished, he eased out of the tub, donned his underwear, and limped to the bed. The floorboards creaked; Bob glanced over and frowned.

“I told you to call me, I don't think you should be walking around on your own just yet,” he scolded, rising with a small huff. Guilt pinched John’s chest.

Bob inspected the wounds, visibly relieved. “At least they don't look irritated. Good. Now spread your legs. I need to wrap that thigh first, then your arm.”

John’s head snapped up, his mouth falling open in surprise. That... was Bob saying it like that on purpose? Was he imagining things, or had Bob’s tone taken on something almost flirty?

He must've lost more blood than he thought. Yeah, that would explain the sudden dizziness. And the odd twist in his stomach? Probably just the same. No, he had to be wrong. Nothing about bandaging a wound was remotely sexual. He was just being a pervert. Obviously. Just as he settled on that comforting conclusion, Bob dropped another bomb.

“Or you know what, keep them closed. I’ll do the arm first. We’ll save the best for last.”

The best? What the hell did that even mean? What game was Bob playing? John didn’t say anything, couldn’t, even if he wanted to. What did one even say to something like that?

Bob moved to stand in front of him, taking his arm gently and inspecting the wound with clinical care. He hummed in approval before beginning to wrap it. John barely registered the sting of pressure, he was far too focused on not being weird about how close Bob was, not after those comments. What the hell was happening to him? Bob finished the arm faster than John would've liked, dread pooling in his stomach at what was coming next.

“All done. Now spread.”

Bob didn’t wait for a reaction. He dropped to his knees, settling between John’s trembling legs, fingers already prodding at the tender flesh of his thigh. “Jesus,” Bob muttered, almost to himself. “Your thighs are massive.”

That jolted John right out of the spiral he’d been in. “Are you seriously calling me fat right now?”

Bob laughed, tilting his head up to meet John’s eyes from where he knelt. “Not at all. I’m calling you beefy. I like your thighs. Wouldn’t mind having them wrapped around me again sometime.”

“Bob!” The sound that came out of his mouth barely qualified as a word. It would go down in history as one of the most humiliating noises he’d ever made. “Jesus Christ! You can’t just say things like that out of nowhere! What’s gotten into you?” His voice was breathy, his body betraying him completely, his underwear was starting to tent, and from Bob’s vantage point, there was no way he hadn’t noticed.

Sure enough, a smirk tugged at Bob’s lips. “You have any idea what it’s like seeing you practically naked for hours and not being allowed to touch? This—” he gestured vaguely, wrapping the bandage around John’s thigh, his hands a little more familiar than strictly necessary “—this has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. And I told you about my past, so that’s saying something.” He finished tying off the bandage but didn’t move his hands. He left them resting on John’s thigh, eyes lifting to meet his again. “You want me to stop?”

John swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “That’s... not what I said.”

“Good.”

That was all the warning he got before Bob pressed his face into his still-clothed crotch. The contact, even through fabric, was electrifying. He was so sensitive it felt like his nerves had been set alight.

“B-Bob, wait. Wait.”

Bob stopped instantly, pulling back with wide eyes, waiting for whatever John needed to say.

“You don’t have to do this,” John said, voice low, uncertain. “If you don’t really want to. I don’t want you to feel like you somehow owe me just because I got... hard. It’ll go away on its own.”

Bob shakes his head, no hesitation. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be right now than exactly where I am,” he said. “And if you don’t let me suck your dick in the next few seconds, I think I’ll actually explode.”

John groaned. “Christ, Bobby. You’re quite the romantic.”

Bob chuckled, ducking his head again, face buried where John was still tenting his underwear. His next words came out muffled against the fabric. “Yeah, well. You bring out the best in me. Now please don’t make me back off again.”

With that, he tugged gently at the waistband of John’s underwear, just enough for him to spring free. John caught the moment Bob’s pupils dilated, dark and wide, nearly swallowing the blue of his irises. The look alone made his stomach twist, breath catch. Then Bob leaned in and John nearly choked on his own groan. The sudden, wet heat of Bob’s mouth enveloping his tip was almost too much. One of Bob’s hands came up, steadying and squeezing the base, and John’s entire body trembled. He hadn’t had a blow job in years, God, maybe six? And even then, it had never felt like this. Everything was different. Bob’s hand was large, strong, rough with callouses. Where Olivia had been delicate, Bob was deliberate, powerful. His faint stubble scratched gently against John’s sensitive skin, a sensation that sent shivers racing down his spine. He hadn’t even known that kind of friction could feel good, but it did. God, it did.

John’s rose his uninjured arm and his hand found its way to Bob’s head, fingers threading into his soft brown hair like a lifeline. Bob seemed to know exactly what he was doing, his tongue tracing the thick vein along the underside of John’s shaft, swirling the head with slow precision, teasing the slit before taking him in again. Bob was thorough, confident. He sucked gently before pulling off with a string of saliva still connecting them, only to dive back in, deeper this time. His hand worked in tandem with his mouth, stroking steadily, purposefully, and the lewd, wet sounds that filled the cabin were obscene in the quiet.

John had the ridiculous thought that this was probably the first time something like this had ever happened in here. If his past self could see him now, he’d probably drop dead on the spot.

Bob’s rhythm picked up, and when he swallowed around him, John saw stars. That was it. He barely managed to get the words out.

“I’m—God—I’m gonna…” He tugged at Bob’s hair, trying to give him a warning, maybe to pull him back. But Bob didn’t move. He stayed exactly where he was, clearly set on finishing what he started and on driving John crazy along the way.

So when John came, it was with a full-body shudder, down Bob’s throat. Bob swallowed some of it, then pulled back and spat the rest into his palm, wiping at his mouth with a grin that should’ve been illegal.

“After this trip,” he said, smugly, “I’m definitely reading up on werewolves. Because if you won’t tell me, I’ve gotta find out if that—” he gestured vaguely between John, who was still breathless, and his cum filled palm “is just a you thing, or if all werewolves come like it’s a competitive sport.”

John groaned, dragging a hand down his face, more out of flustered frustration than anything else. “If that’s your idea of dirty talk, then we definitely grew up in very different households.”

Bob laughed, getting up from his knees and walking over to wash his hands with the water still left in the bucket. When he came back, his smile turned playful. “We sure did,” he said. “So why don’t you show me your idea of dirty talk, then?”

He stepped closer, standing right in front of John, who was still perched on the edge of the bed, spent but dazed. John moved to tuck himself back in, but Bob pouted and, in one smooth motion, slid a knee between John’s thighs, leaning forward and gently pushing him back onto the mattress, then he pressed his face into John’s neck, careful not to touch anywhere near the wounds. His lips ghosted over John’s skin, placing soft kisses along the slope of his neck, trailing down to his shoulders. It felt like he was mapping out every freckle and mole with a kind of reverence that made John’s head spin.

Even though Bob was doing his best to keep his weight off of him, John could still feel the press of Bob’s arousal against his hip. A fresh wave of guilt surged through him. He hadn’t even thought about returning the favor, and he was suddenly, crushingly tired. Still, he managed to speak through the haze. “I can help you take care of that, if you want.” To show he meant it, he shifted his hips, just enough to create more friction between them. The movement tugged at the soreness in his thigh, but the pain was manageable, and more importantly, he wanted to make Bob feel good. “How do you want me?”

Bob stilled. Then he leaned back and looked John in the eyes. He always did that, John realized. Always checking, always making sure he meant what he said.

“You have no idea what those words make me wanna do to you,” Bob said, voice low and strained. “But I can see you're tired. And you’re not healed enough for what I want to do to you.”

The way he said it sent a shiver down John’s spine. Heat began to build again in his belly, his skin prickling with anticipation. “I’m fine,” John insisted, maybe a little too fast. “Practically healed already. And I’ve got a short refractory period, so I can definitely go again. That's both a me and a werewolf thing.” He wasn’t even sure what Bob was planning, what exactly he had in mind, but it didn’t matter. Right now, John was more turned on than he’d ever been in his life, and he was sure that whatever Bob had in store, he’d enjoy every second of it.

But apparently, luck wasn’t on his side.

Bob let out a strained sound and pulled back. “You need to stop talking,” he groaned, running both hands over his face before dragging them through his hair. “Or I’m going to do something I regret. God.” He sighed and got up but didn't step away from the bed. “If your wounds look good tomorrow, and you still want to, I’ll make good use of that short refractory period of yours. Would be a damn shame not to. But right now? I need you to sleep. I can see you're tired.”

He leaned down, kissed John softly on the lips, just a brief press, gentle and fleeting, then pulled away before it could deepen. “It’s late anyway, and I should sleep too. I’m exhausted. You’re not exactly easy to carry around, you know?”

John scoffed. “There you go, calling me fat again. You really do have a way with words.”

Bob laughed. “Not what I said. You’re exactly as heavy as you look; solid muscle and all that height. But I’d carry your ass halfway around the world if I had to. I’m stronger than I look.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see that. Kind of jealous, honestly. You just have it. No training necessary. It’s annoying.”

Bob was already tugging at his shirt, starting to strip. John stole glances whenever Bob’s hands were too busy with the bloody clothing to notice.

“Well, I’m jealous of your fighting skills,” Bob said, tossing his shirt aside. “So I guess we’re even. You can teach me some moves when this is all over.”

John hesitated. His eyes lingered on Bob as he stepped out of his pants, his movements casual, confident. He looked so effortlessly at home here now, in this temporary safety they’d found. Warm, close.

“Sure,” John said softly, “once this is over.”

He wasn’t even sure Bob heard him. Maybe that was for the best. Because John didn’t want to think about what came after—after the mission, after the forest, after the danger. For now, he was allowed to enjoy this. Bob’s closeness. His warmth. His tenderness. It was in their best interest to get along, to keep each other alive. That was all this was. He told himself that, again and again. Just for the mission. But once it was over... there wouldn’t be a mission anymore. And staying close to John? That could only lead to one thing. More pain and more danger. And after everything Bob had already endured, John knew he didn’t deserve any of that. No, John would have to let him go. Even if it hurt. Especially if it hurt. That would mean he'd gotten too close, too attached. Attachment wasn't something he was allowed anymore.

They fell asleep, thunder rolling, rain falling and the wind howling. But the cabin stayed warm.

--

A loud bang woke him the next day, and it took John a moment to realize that, for once, it wasn’t Bob’s fault. The noise was coming from outside, more specifically, from above. The storm was still raging, and for a moment, John feared that a tree might come crashing down onto the cabin. But he quickly pushed that thought aside. They had bigger things to worry about. He was fairly certain that Bob had already made the decision for both of them that they wouldn’t be continuing their trip today. And honestly, John agreed. He only hoped the storm would calm enough by tomorrow so they could move on.

He knew it was his fault they were stuck here, that it was his weakened state keeping them from leaving, and the risk of infection still being too great. But by tomorrow, things should have improved enough to get moving again. There wasn’t more than a day or two of travel left through the forest anyway. After that, they’d reach more populated areas, where they could sleep in a real bed and eat actual food. Bathe, maybe. Rest properly.

And then... well, then the trip would be over. And he’d deliver Val her prize.

The thought didn’t bring him the same satisfaction it had at the start. Back then, he’d wanted nothing more than to get this whole thing over with. Now, the idea filled him with hesitation. Not just because he’d miss his time with Bob, although that, too, but because something about the end felt wrong. Not just emotionally, but instinctively. Like his gut knew something was coming. Something that wouldn’t end well. But before he could unpack that feeling, the bed next to his creaked, and Bob slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“God,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, “I’m just glad we’re not sleeping out there. We don’t even have a tent anymore. Not that a tent would help much against this rain.”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching slightly as he made his way toward the door.

“Where are you going?” John asked, his voice coming out more panicked than he’d intended. He knew Bob wasn’t about to leave him here, not after everything, but still, the thought made his chest tighten.

Bob turned, clearly amused. “Porch. I need to take a piss. At first I didn’t understand why a cabin like this even had a porch, but now? Makes total sense. Don’t miss me too much.” With that, he moved the chair propping the door shut and stepped out into the storm.

Bob’s words had made John painfully aware of his own needs, and after waiting what he thought was an appropriately polite amount of time, because joining Bob while he was still mid-piss was not on the agenda, he got up and headed for the door himself. But the moment he stepped through, he walked face-first into something invisible. An unseen force that shoved him back a step with enough shock to make him stumble.

“What the—?”

Before he could finish the thought, laughter rang out from outside, cutting through the roar of wind and rain. Bob’s face appeared in the doorway, grinning like a child who had just pulled off the world’s best prank. “Oh my God,” he wheezed. “You should’ve seen your face. I'll have to tell Yelena about this. She’ll lose her mind.”

His laughter was breathy and disjointed, tumbling over itself between every sentence. John blinked and looked down, only now spotting the line of mountain ash at the threshold. He would’ve noticed it earlier if he hadn’t been too preoccupied thinking about Bob taking a piss.

“Why is that even there?” he snapped. “Are you seriously locking me in the cabin? I want to leave!”

Bob pouted. “Leave? And go where? You can’t leave before I’m done with you.”

That made heat shoot to John’s face, but he powered through the embarrassment.

“God, you’re annoying. I just want to take a piss. Same as you. Now let me out.”

“Hey, why so rude?” Bob teased. “I’m sure the wolfsbane didn’t burn all your manners out of you. Not that there were many to begin with.”

“Bob, please. I’m serious.”

That finally earned him a grin, and, with a flick of his hand, Bob disrupted the barrier.

“Sorry,” he said, still smiling. “I just can’t help teasing you. You go red so nicely.”

John didn’t dignify that with a reply. Instead, he stepped past the now-broken line, shoved Bob back inside the cabin, and shut the door behind him.

That guy was going to be the death of him.

--

They didn’t have much to do that day besides eating and drinking. It was strange, suddenly not knowing what to do with yourself after days and days of always having a plan. But it was also... nice. The constant walking had gotten old, and the forest, while dramatic at times, had long since lost the little charm it had. His eyes had been begging for a change in scenery, for a rest day. Even if this wasn’t exactly how he’d pictured it, but well, beggars couldn’t be choosers. This was fine. The company certainly helped. Still, with the absence of any real tasks to distract him, John found himself very aware of Bob’s words from the night before. Had that been just something he’d said to avoid what might’ve happened next? Or had he really meant it, about being tired, about not wanting to push John? And if he had been serious... how was John supposed to bring it up again? How was he supposed to tell Bob he was still interested?

He should probably just say it. Get it over with. But the problem was, he didn’t know what exactly he was asking for. Didn’t know what to expect. What did it mean to want something when you couldn’t even define what it was? He told himself it was just boredom. They needed something to do. Lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling wasn’t cutting it. He needed to move, to speak, to do something, before he spiraled into thoughts better left alone. So he spoke. “Bob?”

“Yeah? You thirsty? Hungry?”

How was he supposed to say this? “I’m fine.”

That earned him a squint. “Okay...”

John huffed, already frustrated with himself. “No, I mean I’m fine. I feel fine.”

Bob looked even more confused now. “Yes, you’ve said that already.”

John scrubbed a hand over his face. This was so stupid. “Bob. I’m telling you that my wounds don’t hurt and I’m not tired anymore. I’m bored.”

Understanding finally dawned on Bob’s face. “Oh! This is about what I said yesterday, isn’t it? Why didn’t you just say so?”

“I literally did!”

“No, you didn’t! You were being all weird about it. Don’t be weird.”

“I’m not weird! I’m never weird. I’m perfectly normal. Always.”

Bob burst into laughter, and suddenly John didn’t care if he was being weird if it made Bob smile like that. “Sure you are. All part of that werewolf charm. Wait there.”

John didn’t bother pointing out how ridiculous it was to tell him to “wait” when Bob had quite literally locked him into the cabin with an invisible mountain ash barrier. But his nerves were too jittery to be snippy. A minute later, Bob returned, holding a small jar.

“What’s that?” John asked.

“Petroleum jelly.”

“Okay... and why?” He felt a little dumb. Surely, he should’ve known this. Bob was definitely going to laugh at him.

But Bob didn’t laugh. Instead, he sat down, his voice calm. “Before we do anything, I need to ask a few things. I want this to be good—for both of us. I’ve had bad experiences, and I don’t want to be that for you. I know you’re a grown man and can take care of yourself, but I’m guessing I’m not wrong in assuming you’ve never done this before? With a guy, I mean.”

John swallowed, throat suddenly dry. There was no judgment in Bob’s tone, just care. It made his chest ache a little. He wished this whole thing didn’t have to be so damn embarrassing.

“I—no. You’re not wrong. I’m not gay. Or... I wasn’t before.”

Bob gave him a kind look. “I’m not gay either.” He must’ve seen the confusion on John’s face, because he went on, “I like both. You don’t have to pick just one. There’s not only one or the other, it's not always purely black or white. Don’t think too hard about it.” Then he smirked. “I’d rather have you hard somewhere else.”

John let out a huff, unsure how to respond, but secretly grateful Bob was trying to lighten the mood.

“You fine with bottoming?” Bob asked, voice casual, but still watching him carefully. “I can totally do that too, but I kinda want to be inside you today.”

God.

All the blood rushed straight to John’s dick, his brain practically shutting down in its absence. His thoughts scattered into nothing.

“You look so innocent,” he muttered, “and then you go and say such filthy things. I can’t believe you.”

Bob grinned wide. “You like it.”

And well, who was John to deny that? It was obvious to both of them that he did, his dick betraying how he really felt.

Bob continued, voice low and calm. “Oil would be better, but this is all I could find in the cupboards. It’ll do.” He held up the jar, unscrewed the lid, and showed John the contents. “I need this because I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll use it to open you up first. Now lay back.”

John did as told, settling on the bed with his head on the pillow, watching as Bob got up and retrieved the second pillow from across the room. He gently lifted John’s hips and slid it underneath his lower back. The gesture was oddly tender.

“If you feel uncomfortable at any time, you tell me. It’ll feel strange at first, but I think you’re going to like it,” Bob said, settling between his legs with the jar in hand. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of John’s underwear and glanced up, silently asking for permission. John nodded, wide-eyed and flushed.

“Relax. I won’t do anything you can’t handle. You’re good,” Bob murmured, dipping his fingers into the jelly and coating them thoroughly.

“I’ll start with one,” he said, voice calm and steady, “and then we’ll see how you do. Now be good for me, spread your legs again. Just like that.”

John was certain that if all the blood hadn’t already rushed to his dick, his face would’ve turned bright red. Bob touched him, circling his rim before gently pushing a finger in. It did feel odd, unfamiliar, but not painful. Just different. He breathed through it, and Bob kept going, moving slowly, adjusting.

When Bob seemed satisfied with the progress, he added a second finger. The stretch was more noticeable now, but still manageable. He moved with purpose, angling, searching, and then suddenly—

A bolt of pleasure shot through John’s body. His back arched off the mattress and a sharp gasp escaped him, half-whine, half-moan.

“Jesus Christ!”

Bob smirked. “Not quite, but I’ll take the compliment. I just hope you’re not religious, or I guess we’re both going to hell.”

“Bob. Shut up.”

That smirk stayed, only deepening. “As you wish.”

He bent his fingers again, right there, and John’s whole body tensed, breath catching in his throat as pre-come began to bead at the tip of his dick. Bob kept working him open, careful but deliberate, brushing over that sensitive spot inside him again and again. A third finger slid in next, the stretch pushing at the edge of what John could handle, but the pleasure quickly overrode any discomfort.

It felt like Bob was deliberately holding him at the edge, stoking the heat without letting it spill over. John was vaguely impressed with himself for not already falling apart—until Bob’s other hand, the one that had been resting gently on his thigh, suddenly wrapped around his dick and gave a firm stroke. That was it. John choked on a cry, on Bob’s name, and came hard, coating his stomach in hot release, hips twitching and muscles trembling. His vision blurred for a second. Bob didn't give him much time to recover before speaking.

“I’m guessing you liked it?” He said smugly, though they both knew the answer already. John could only manage a dazed nod, breath catching in his throat.

Apparently satisfied, Bob leaned in to kiss him, soft at first, then deeper. His mouth trailed down; his neck, his chest, down to his belly where the mess was already cooling on his skin. Then back up, kissing him again, this time with more heat.

“How long does it usually take for you to go again?” he asked, grinding his own still-clothed erection against John’s ass for emphasis.

“Not long,” John breathed. “Just gimme a minute, Bobby.”

Bob looked far too pleased at that answer, more than happy to keep touching him in the meantime: kissing, groping, grinding slowly against him while they waited. It didn’t take long. True to his word, John’s body responded quickly, need reigniting in the aftermath.

“Alright,” John said finally, eyes half-lidded, voice a little hoarse. “I’m good to go. You can...”

Bob let out a delighted groan, taking off his own underwear in record speed. “Those are the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard in my life. I’ll go slow, I promise.”

And he did. He grabbed the jar again, slicked himself thoroughly, so thoroughly, in fact, that John briefly worried about the state of the sheets, which was dumb, because they were already soiled with blood and dirt. The thoughts vanished the moment Bob lined himself up and began to press in. Every coherent thought scattered the moment he felt Bob nudge him open, insistent but patient. He feeling was different from his fingers, warmer somehow, softer but bigger. The stretch bordered on painful, but that was nothing John couldn't take, and he was too far gone to care now anyway. Bob buried himself completely and then shot John another questioning gaze. "Go- Go on. Ruin me the way you said you would." Bob hesitated a moment, searching John's face for further permission, then smirked when he seemed to find what he was looking for in John's face. "You don't even know how dangerous those words are. Show me your teeth, wolf boy."

John was aching for Bob to move, the pressure and heat becoming unbearable. He was gasping for friction, desperate for more, but then Bob spoke, and the words stopped him cold.

“What? You don’t mean that, do you?”

Bob’s face was serious, his voice low and unwavering. “I’ve never meant something more. I want to see you. You know I love your fangs. I want to see every part of you when I’m fucking you—even the parts you hate about yourself.”

He gave a shallow thrust, not enough to satisfy, but just enough to tease, and it nearly broke John’s brain. He could see it in Bob’s eyes, how genuine he was, and John didn’t have it in him to argue. So he let go. Let his fangs drop and whispered a breathy, broken, “Please,” before clamping his mouth shut in embarrassment. He hadn’t lisped like that in years. Not since he was younger and untrained, unaccustomed to the fangs in his mouth. But here he was, slipping back into old habits, undone by the man currently inside him. And it didn’t go unnoticed. Bob’s pupils blew wide, and John swore he felt Bob's dick twitch deep inside him.

“That was...” Bob growled, eyes flashing gold before turning back to the beautiful dark blue. “I’m going to make you scream. I’ll have you begging before this is over. I will hear that again.”

There was so much conviction in his voice that John almost wanted to laugh, that is, until Bob started moving.

Whatever restraint he'd been holding back vanished. Bob thrust into him with a power that would’ve split anyone else in two, but John could take it. Bob knew he could. He didn’t hold back, no, he used every ounce of strength he had, trusting John to say something if it got to be too much. He didn’t. Bruises were sure to appear on his skin after this, and that only made the fire under his skin burn hotter.

The sound of skin slapping and the creaking of the old bed filled the room, but John barely registered it, couldn't even pretend to worry about the bedframe breaking. He was too far gone, lost in the intensity of being taken apart, piece by piece. Bob moved like he was devouring him, hips hitting just the right angle every few strokes to brush against the spot inside John that made his whole world tilt. Despite being a predator, he suddenly felt like prey in Bob's arms, having been caught after a long hunt, being consumed whole, bones and all.

And just when John was getting close, when his body started to clench, tightening like a vise around Bob, ready to tip over, Bob would change the angle again, deliberately missing it. Sometimes he’d even grip the base of John’s dick, holding him right at the edge. Teasing him. Tormenting him. Time blurred. It could’ve been twenty minutes or two hours. With their stamina it might as well have been half the day. None of it mattered.

Bob kept his promise.

John couldn’t keep quiet anymore. The sounds spilling from him were unfiltered; groans, whimpers, half-formed moans that barely sounded human. He sounded like a wounded animal, like the ones they'd heard deep in the forst sometimes. He could hear himself babbling, past the point of shame, even forgetting to hide his lisp, the need far more important than pride.

And when Bob finally relented, when he lined up that perfect angle again and kept it, when he reached down and wrapped his hand around John, stroking him in rhythm with each thrust, it was over.

“You feel perfect around me,” Bob murmured. “Like you were made for me. You’re my wet dream in a body. Being so good for me. behaving so well. Do you wanna come?”

John couldn’t speak, just nodded, desperate and trembling. His body was taut with tension, and when Bob gave a particularly rough thrust paired with a tight stroke of his hand, John shattered, tumbling over the edge with Bob's name on his tongue. had his fangs not already been dropped, they surely would be now. Because he could feel himself losing control, could feel his claws unseathing, and to his horror, could feel his eyes start to glow.

He couldn’t stop it, not when he was having the most intense orgasm of his life. He could only pray Bob wouldn’t notice, but of course he did. Ironically enough, that seemed to be what pushed Bob over, eyes flaring gold as he kept moving, hips grinding through the aftershocks, riding it out until there was nothing left. Until every drop had been spilled from both of them.

John was a mess, his stomach streaked, his thighs weak, the bed beneath them damp and creaking under their weight.

And then Bob collapsed on top of him, still inside.

For a second, John thought the bed had broken, gone out from under them. But then he realized it hadn't and that the feeling wasn’t just his imagination.

They were floating. Bob was softly glowing, just faintly, golden light humming beneath his skin as he hovered an arm’s length off the bed, taking John with him. He didn’t seem to notice at all, just pressed closer, nuzzling into John’s neck like a sleepy cat.

It took John a moment to catch his breath, to gather his thoughts enough to speak. His body was still trembling, blood pounding in his ears, and when his voice finally came, it was low and breathless.

“Bob... Bobby.”

The other didn’t move at first, his face still buried in the crook of John’s neck, mouth lazily pressing kisses into the cluster of moles scattered across his skin. A content hum vibrated against John's throat. “Hm?”

John licked his lips, unsure how to phrase what he was about to say. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but, uh... we’re floating?”

That got Bob’s attention. His head snapped up like a startled animal, eyes wide. He looked at John first with an expression of absolute disbelief, then slowly turned his gaze to the space around them, realizing, perhaps for the first time, that they were no longer touching the bed at all. The realization seemed to hit all at once, because a second later gravity returned with a vengeance.

They dropped onto the mattress like a sack of bricks, Bob landing squarely on top of him with an unceremonious oof, pulling out of John in the same abrupt motion. John winced at the soreness, the overstimulated nerves flaring hot for a brief second.

“Shit—sorry, sorry,” Bob blurted, immediately scrambling to check if he’d hurt him. His hands moved to John's thigh, gently brushing over the sensitive skin, pressing apologetic kisses in a trail that made John twitch despite himself.

“I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t even know that could happen. I swear I didn’t think— Did it scare you? I’m sorry if it scared you.”

John rolled his eyes, though the flush on his cheeks betrayed how rattled he still was.

“Don’t be stupid. It didn’t scare me,” he muttered, glaring half-heartedly. “Just... next time, maybe warn me before you decide to levitate.”

Bob paused, then grinned like the devil himself. “Next time?”

John immediately regretted the choice of words.

“You into that sort of thing? Because if you are, we can absolutely make it a thing. I’ll have you ride me in the air—no bed, just you and me and gravity doing nothing to stop us.”

John’s entire face went red in an instant, and he cursed his pale complexion for betraying him yet again.

“How can you say things like that?” he groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Are you not tired? You literally just came!”

Bob leaned back over him, placing a soft kiss to his lips, far too pleased with himself. “You’re not the only one with a quick recovery time, sweetheart.”

He nuzzled their noses together, brushing his fingers along John's jaw in a way that was almost too gentle compared to everything that had just happened. “And let’s be real, we’ve got nowhere to be today, do we? Cabin’s cozy, storm’s still raging, and you’re here. So as far as I’m concerned...”

He leaned down, whispering the next words against John's flushed ear with a dangerous sort of promise.

“I’m not letting you leave this bed until that jar of petroleum jelly is completely empty. And you, my dear, won’t be walking properly tomorrow. That much I can guarantee.”

John shivered at the conviction in his voice. And the things was, he believed him. He wasn’t sure if he was more turned on or terrified. Maybe both. But either way, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Bob kept his word. Not that John had expected anything different because so far Bob had proven to be nothing if not reliable. Still, he’d been a little wrong about one thing. John was walking. Maybe a little slower, gait a bit unsteady, but he was on his feet. And that was important. Staying mobile was necessary, and thankfully Bob seemed aware of that, even if he kept offering, only half joking, to carry him the rest of the way out of the forest.

They’d spent their final day in the cabin sharing the same bed, even after exhaustion rendered them both motionless. Neither of them had the strength to do more than eat dinner before crawling back under the same blanket. Sleep came easily then, wrapped in warmth and the subtle ache of bodies well-used.

The storm had calmed by morning. Not completely, rain still fell intermittently, thunder rolled distantly through the trees, and the forest floor had turned into a slippery, mud-slick mess, but it was no longer enough of a threat to justify staying. As tempting as another day in bed had been, John had enough sense to resist Bob’s persuasive grin. They were already behind schedule, and pushing their luck any further could very well set Val off. John wasn’t willing to find out what her version of "losing patience" looked like.

So they kept walking, planning to push through the rest of the forest overnight and sleep in an inn once they reached civilization. The idea of a real bed and hot food was almost enough to make John forget about the ache in his thighs and ass.

Almost.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Bob asked, glancing at him for the third time that hour. “I know you said you've never done this before and I was a little... rough. So if you need to stop—”

“For the hundredth time,” John cut in, exasperated, “I’m fine. It would take a hell of a lot more than that to keep me from walking the next day.”

He knew Bob meant well, that he was just looking out for him, but the concern was starting to grate. It felt patronizing, even if it wasn’t meant to be. John wasn’t fragile. Sure, there were bruises dotting his hips and the inside of his thighs, and yeah, he was sore in places he hadn’t expected to ever be sore, but it wasn’t painful. Just unfamiliar, a little weird.

“Oh yeah?” Bob teased. “What would it take? I’m asking for a friend.”

John snorted, rolling his eyes even though he had his back turned towards Bob, his gaze fixed on the muddy trail ahead.

“Bob. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

But there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He hated to admit it, but bickering like this helped. It passed the time. And now that they were closer to the forest’s edge, the risk of running into another pack was lower. Still, John kept his senses sharp, especially for any hidden traps. He had no desire to relive the experience of being shot with wolfsbane.

“Hey, you’re the one who made it dirty!” Bob said, glancing back with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Sure, Bobby. You're the picture of innocence.”

And that’s how it went. Step after step, laugh after laugh. The forest might still be cold and damp, but something between them had warmed. They’d already been getting along well, but there was something deeper now. A closeness that went beyond survival or physical attraction. John wasn’t stupid, or well, not that stupid, he knew what vulnerability looked like. He didn’t share himself with just anyone. There had only been two people in his life he’d let this close. One of them was currently a few paces behind him, telling an animated story about a chicken with a grudge back home. The other was buried six feet under.

He didn’t know what this, them, meant to Bob. What the other man thought it was, or what he wanted it to become. John could only hope that when the time came, and it would come, they’d be on the same page. That there’d be no need for drawn-out explanations or awkward conversations. Just a quiet understanding that things had to end. Because no matter how much he tried to deny it, John knew someone was going to get hurt. And deep down, he feared it wouldn’t only be him.

He liked to think he’d gotten a decent read on Bob by now. The man was honest, emotionally open in ways John still didn’t know how to navigate. And sure, Bob had more experience, more partners, knew a little more about what he was doing than John, but still he was certain Bob wasn’t like this with just anyone. He didn’t treat people like this only to leave them guessing, to discard them.

But John... John would. Not out of malice, but necessity. Because Bob didn’t know the whole truth. He didn’t know what being with John might cost.

Bob probably thought this meant something to John because he was the first guy, the second person ever. And it did mean something, more than Bob would ever fully understand. Which is exactly why it had to end. John would make it end, because he couldn’t bear to watch something happen to Bob. Because this, this John knew. He'd began falling. Falling for the weird but charming mess of a man behind him. And that could only end in disaster. Hell, disaster had already struck them, struck Bob, because of John. And it would happen again, it was just a matter of time. Maybe they'd get out of it the first few times, maybe they'd think they could handle it. But they couldn't, they can't. Something would inevitably happen, something irreversible. John couldn't carry another loss like that on his conscience. That's why he would have to cut Bob off once this was over. It would suck, but Bob would find someone better. Someone easier. Someone less broken. Someone who didn't put Bob in danger just by proximity alone.

All John had to do was make him understand that.

The moment they finally stepped out of that cursed forest would go down as one of the best feelings Bob had ever experienced. Right up there with seeing John’s eyes glow in the cabin during his orgasm—that had been... yeah, something else entirely. But this came pretty damn close.

They still had a few hours to go before reaching the town, but compared to the suffocating shadows of the forest, the open fields and winding dirt paths ahead felt like paradise. The air was fresher, lighter somehow, and even the occasional farmhouses and low stone walls dotting the horizon felt like a promise: real food, a real bed, and a break from everything they’d just endured.

Best of all, Bob finally got to walk beside John again instead of trailing behind him. No more having to admire his broad back and messy blond hair from a distance, although, to be fair, it had granted him an excellent view of John’s ass. And now that he knew what that ass looked like bare, knew what it felt like beneath his palms... well, he had even fewer reasons to look away.

If he played his cards right, maybe he’d get to see it again. Even though he could tell something was weighing on John, some quiet internal struggle Bob couldn’t quite read. He knew it wasn’t something he could fix for him. That was the tricky part: knowing when to be close, and when to give space. And right now, John needed space.

So Bob walked quietly by his side, brushing shoulders every now and then, letting their hands casually graze. John didn’t pull away. He didn’t reach for him either, but that was okay. This, just walking together, alive, side by side, was more than Bob had dared hope for not long ago. Still, that wasn’t the only thing lingering at the edge of his thoughts.

Val.

Even just thinking her name made his stomach twist. She had already messed him up once, left a mark on him he was still trying to fully heal from. And while John was strong, resilient in his own way, he wasn’t exactly a picture of stability either, especially not when it came to her. Bob knew from bitter experience how good Val was at getting under people’s skin, twisting the truth just enough to make you believe it. She could manipulate anyone, and John had lived under her thumb for the past few years. She probably knew every one of his buttons, and how to push them. Just like she once had with Bob.

That’s what scared him.

He didn’t trust her, not even a little. Whatever she had planned next, whatever "favor" she would call in from the Void, Bob was almost certain it would involve silencing someone, erasing a threat to her power. And if she thought Bob was still useful, maybe she’d send John along again, pair them up like she had before, sending them away to complete the mission together. She would have to see they worked well as a team. The thought made his chest tighten and a smile tug at the corners of his mouth all at once. Gods help him, but he liked working with John, even when the missions were dangerous. Especially when they were dangerous. They made a good team, and he wouldn't mind sharing nights in sketchy inns or whispering jokes as they waited in ambush. Even if the price for that was a few morally grey assignments.

John must have noticed the smile, because he glanced over with a curious raise of his eyebrow. “What has you grinning like that? You seem way too happy for someone who’s been walking for over 24 hours.”

Bob turned his head to look at him properly, soaking in the curve of his mouth, the crinkle at the edge of his eyes, the faint flush from the chill air. God, he really was pretty. He shrugged, opting for the safer answer. “Nothing in particular. Just... glad we made it out without any more surprises.”

And with a boldness he wasn’t sure he could explain, he reached out and took John’s hand, fingers slipping between his and holding on. He fully expected John to pull away, to make a sarcastic comment or act like it was no big deal, but he didn’t. He adjusted his grip instead, settled into it, and squeezed. Eyes forward. Silent, but solid.

Bob couldn’t stop the warmth that bloomed in his chest.

They didn’t speak much after that. Just walked together, side by side, hand in hand. The time passed faster out here than it had in the forest. When the town finally came into view in the soft, golden light of late afternoon, they both looked ready to drop where they stood. Nearly thirty-six hours of walking with few breaks, and not enough food had left them bone-tired. Still, they made it.

That was when the question hit Bob like a slap. “Wait—John,” he said, suddenly stopping in his tracks as they crossed under the old weather-worn sign that marked the town’s border. “You don’t happen to have any money on you, do you?”

John turned his head, expression unreadable. Their hands were still linked. “No? Why?”

“Because...” Bob grimaced, already imagining a long, awkward conversation with an innkeeper who would absolutely not take a weak explanation from strangers. “How are we going to pay for a room?”

John blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. “Ah, it’s fine. They know me around here. We’ll just have Val pay later—shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll also send word that she can expect us tomorrow evening at the latest.”

Bob blinked at him. “That’s... oddly convenient.”

John shrugged, like it really wasn’t a big deal. “Perks of working for a terrifying woman with too much money and influence.”

Bob squeezed his hand again. “Remind me to make you handle all future negotiations.”

There were several inns scattered across the town, and John seemed to be considering which one to head to, his brow furrowed in thought as they passed the first without even glancing at it. Bob would’ve taken the first bed that didn't creak and the first meal that didn’t come from a can, but he didn’t complain. He figured John had his reasons, and sure enough, just down the road, John finally slowed, coming to a stop in front of a modest but clean-looking inn. He gave it a once-over, then nodded, satisfied, and pushed open the door, letting go of Bob’s hand in the process. Bob tried not to let that small absence affect him, but he failed. He was getting too attached, too fast, and he knew it. But John made it hard not to. The quiet confidence, the little glances, the way he held Bob’s hand like it belonged there. Yeah, it was going to be a problem.

He stepped inside behind John, welcomed by the smell of old wood and clean linen. The reception area was simple but warm, a low couch pressed up against the far wall. John was already making his way to the counter, but Bob didn’t follow. Instead, he let himself collapse onto the couch with a tired huff, every joint in his body protesting. He felt eighty years old, sore and heavy from their endless march through the forest. More than anything, he was starving. Really, truly starving. He’d take anything that wasn’t beans or watery stew at this point. Eggs sounded good. Bacon. Even a hunk of bread and a glass of milk. Anything fresh. Three weeks. That’s how long it had been since he’d eaten something real. Jesus, he thought, had it really been that long? He wondered briefly if his family had gotten his letter, if they were worried, or if they'd just assumed this was business as usual. He didn’t get to dwell on it for long, because a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He looked up and there was John, his expression neutral but his presence grounding.

A key dangled from his finger, swinging lazily.

“Get up,” John said. “We’ll have warm water and food brought to the room in about thirty minutes. Let’s go.”

Gratefully, Bob stood and followed him up the creaky wooden stairs and down a carpeted, dimly lit hallway. They stopped at room twenty-one. John toed off his shoes at the door, clearly not wanting to drag mud into the room. Bob followed suit, kicking off his boots before stepping inside.

John disappeared into the bathroom without a word. Bob heard the rustling of clothes, and a moment later John reemerged with just a towel slung low around his hips. “Had to get those dirty-ass clothes off. You should do the same, we’ll hand them over when they bring the water and food. They’ll wash them and bring ’em back before we leave tomorrow.”

Bob nodded and stripped out of his worn clothes, leaving them in a small pile before walking back into the main room. He found John seated at the small wooden table by the window, eyes fixed on the healing wounds along his arm and side.

“How’re they looking?” Bob asked.

John grunted, not looking up. “Good. I don’t think they need to be bandaged anymore. I’ll let them breathe a bit.”

He was right. The wounds looked clean with no signs of infection, barely irritated despite everything they’d been through. Bob shook his head, impressed. “You really are a tough bastard, I’ll give you that. I’m glad you’re healing well.” He took the other chair, sinking into it with a sigh. They sat across from each other, the room quiet except for the faint creaking of the floorboards and the distant sound of town life below.

“So,” Bob said finally.

“So,” John echoed.

They stared at each other for a moment, the silence thick but not uncomfortable.

“Last night together,” Bob said softly. “Did you know it’s been three weeks? That’s insane, right?”

John let out a small chuckle, his gaze drifting to the table where his hands rested.

“Yeah. Kinda crazy. Especially since it wasn’t supposed to take more than a week. Guess things didn’t go according to plan. I’ll have a lot of explaining to do once we get there tomorrow. Val won’t be happy.”

Bob leaned back in his chair, the mood shifting with the mention of her name. “You thought more about what she might want?”

The air grew heavier. Even the anticipation of a hot meal couldn’t shake the grim tension that settled over them.

John was quiet for a moment, his eyes distant. “Not really. But it’s probably the same as always—get rid of someone or something that’s a threat to her. Business as usual.”

“Anyone come to mind?” Bob asked.

John nodded slowly. “Yeah, I can think of a few names. She’s not exactly short on enemies. But... I can’t say I care much about any of them. They probably have it coming, one way or another. So don’t feel too bad about it, if it gets to that. It’ll be fine. Then you’re done with her for another six years. You get to go home, see your folks again. Hopefully with fewer problems this time.”

A knot formed in Bob’s stomach. He wanted to feel relief, after all, going home was the goal, wasn’t it? But instead of peace, all he felt was a slow, rising sadness. He was about to speak, unsure about what he wanted to say, when a knock came at the door.

John stood and crossed the room with heavy steps. A staff member entered, wheeling in two buckets of steaming water and promising their food would follow in twenty minutes. Enough time to wash and get comfortable.

John thanked them when they disappeared with both of their dirty clothes and stepped into the bathroom again, towel still slung low on his hips. He didn’t take long in the bathroom, probably planning on doing a proper, thorough clean the next day once he was home, where he’d have the time and privacy for it. When he stepped back out and made his way to the table to let Bob know it was his turn, Bob almost forgot how to breathe.

His skin was still slightly damp, drops of water trailing down the curve of his neck and disappearing into the towel slung low on his hips. His hair clung wetly to his forehead, still dripping in places, and the golden light of the setting sun pouring in through the window made his skin glow, as if it were lit from within. He’d trimmed his beard again, just like he had back in the forest before they’d lost their tools, probably not wanting to look too much like a stray dog when he met with Val tomorrow.

Bob had no idea when he’d even found the time for it. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that John looked stunning. Absolutely, unfairly beautiful. For a brief, irrational moment, Bob had the urge to fall to his knees in front of him, to worship him properly, to show him the reverence he clearly didn’t think he deserved. But instead, he gave him a pat on the back as he walked by and slipped quietly into the bathroom himself, eager to get cleaned up quickly before the food arrived.

And when the food did arrive, Bob nearly wept. He almost hugged the young man who brought the tray up to their room, barely restraining himself from doing just that. There was warm bread, still soft and steaming; a plate of perfectly cooked eggs, a wedge of local cheese, and a pitcher of cold milk. Real food. Fresh food. The kind of meal that almost felt holy after weeks of rations and canned slop. Bob moaned after his first bite, leaning back with exaggerated bliss. “God,” he said with his mouth half full, “this might actually be better than sex.”

John, across the table, froze and looked up sharply, eyes narrowing like he’d just been personally insulted. “Hey! I really hope you’re not talking about me.”

Bob smirked around another bite, already falling back into their familiar rhythm. Teasing John was second nature by now, he was just too easy. “Never,” Bob said smoothly. “You’re still the best snack around.” Then, eyes sparkling, he added, “And with a cake like yours, I’ll never go hungry anyway.”

John paused mid-chew, blinking like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. His brows furrowed slightly as he swallowed and asked, “Cake?”

Bob waited until John’s mouth was empty before answering, he knew the guy well enough by now to know he was a choking hazard when flustered.

“I’m talking about your ass,” Bob said plainly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s very nice. Got a good shape to it. So I’m calling it cake.”

John immediately started spluttering, face going pink from his chest all the way up to his ears. The embarrassed flush spread beautifully across his skin, and Bob had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning like a fool. It was funny how someone who clearly thrived off praise, who needed validation like he needed air, still be so utterly incapable of accepting a compliment without short-circuiting. He was both adorable and impossible.

Dinner passed like that. Easy, full of light teasing and soft laughter, the heaviness that had been pressing in on them earlier held at bay by warm food and shared banter. Bob would’ve stayed like that forever if he could, just eating and talking, trading jabs and watching the sun slip down behind the buildings outside their window. But eventually the warmth of the food settled into their bones, and the fatigue they’d been holding off all day came back with a vengeance. Yawns started interrupting their sentences, and neither of them could keep their eyes from drifting shut between bites.

There were two beds in the room. Bob noticed that immediately and tried, unsuccessfully, to think of a reason to ask John if they could share one. Just to cuddle, maybe. Just to sleep close again. But he chickened out before the words could leave his mouth. John had probably requested two beds on purpose. Maybe he wanted some distance again. Bob didn’t want to push his luck, especially not now, when things between them felt so fragile and undefined.

He snuck one last glance at John as he slid beneath the covers. To his horror, and immediate arousal, John let the towel drop completely before slipping into bed naked, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Bob turned away quickly, heat creeping up his neck. Christ, he thought, sharing a bed would’ve killed him anyway. He cleared his throat and pulled the blankets up to his chest, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling. “Good night, John,” he said softly.

From the other bed, there was a pause, and then, just as quietly, “Good night, Bobby.”

Bob smiled to himself, eyes already drifting closed.

--

He had been sure he would sleep straight through the night. After the day they’d had, nearly 36 hours on foot, soaked to the bone, every muscle aching, then falling asleep in a real bed, with clean sheets and a full stomach, had felt like slipping into bliss. His body was heavy, warm, and safe. Waking up had seemed impossible.

And yet, just a few hours later, he was jolted from sleep.

It was still dark outside. The candles they'd lit when it was getting dark were burning low, a puddle of wax gathering at their base. The flames flickered weakly, casting shadows against the far wall. Bob blinked, confused at first, trying to figure out what had disturbed him, until he heard it again. A choked sob, barely more than a breath, fragile and broken.

John.

Bob sat up instantly, his sleep-heavy mind clearing in an instant. The towel he'd fallen asleep in slipped to the floor as he launched himself across the space between the beds.

John was caught in the grip of something awful. His body twisted beneath the sheets, chest rising and falling in fast, uneven gasps. His lips were curled back in a silent snarl, and his hands, clawed and trembling, were rising toward his chest. Bob reacted on instinct, catching John's wrists just before they could dig into his own skin. The claws were fully out, glinting faintly in the candlelight, and John's teeth were bared, his fangs prominent even with his eyes squeezed shut.

“John,” Bob whispered, gripping tight. “Hey. Wake up.”

It took a second, but John's eyes snapped open, and for a heartbeat, Bob lost his breath. They were glowing. That impossible, unearthly blue he loved so much. Intense and wild and aching.

Then recognition flickered behind them, and the light faded. His pupils contracted, the glow vanishing into the soft, familiar blue he loved just as much. He blinked rapidly, disoriented, and Bob gently released his wrists.

But John’s face was wet with tears. His lashes clumped together, cheeks streaked, and more were threatening to fall. Bob reached out and brushed them away with his thumbs, soft, instinctive. That was his mistake.

John's face crumpled.

Another wave of tears welled up at the gesture, and Bob froze, unsure what to do. But then John moved. Without warning, without hesitation, he surged forward and kissed him. It wasn’t polished or careful. It was messy and urgent, still-wet cheeks brushing against Bob’s, lips trembling. But it was real. Bob pulled back just slightly, breathing hard, his heart in his throat. “John... are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked quietly. “You’re not still half-asleep, right?”

John growled. A real, honest to God growl. It rumbled up from his chest, vibrating between them. Bob’s brain short-circuited for a second, and he had to will himself not to shiver. Shock. Anticipation. Arousal. Everything at once shot through his body.

“I’m fine,” John bit out. “Well... I’m not fine. But I want you. Please. Don’t make me beg.”

Bob's heart clenched at the raw honesty. Whatever this was, fear, sadness, need, it wasn’t just about distraction. It wasn’t about forgetting. It was about connection. About grounding.

“Of course, baby,” Bob said softly. “Do you want me to take care of you?”

John nodded.

Bob kept his voice gentle. “We can do what we did last time. Or we can switch. I don’t mind either way. Just tell me what you need.”

John mumbled something that Bob didn’t catch. His eyes were drawn to the fangs still on display, glinting in the candlelight.

“Sorry, what?”

John huffed, clearly frustrated. “I said I want you inside,” he said, clearer this time, but still low. “Now.”

Bob’s pulse jumped. Heat coiled deep in his stomach. Every rational thought evaporated. “Say no more,” he murmured. “Stay right there.”

He disappeared into the bathroom and returned quickly, a bottle of lotion in hand. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. He wasn’t going to waste time. Not when John needed him like this.

Bob knelt between his legs, eyes locked with his as he slicked his fingers, then slowly pushed one inside. John gasped, the sound sharp and breathless, but his body welcomed the touch. Bob worked gently but efficiently, coaxing him open, adding a second finger, then a third once John adjusted. He glanced up. “You good?”

“Yeah,” John said. Then, “Come here. Just... come here.”

Bob leaned up, his fingers still working him open, and met him in a kiss; deep, messy, full of teeth. John's fangs scraped his lip and Bob didn’t flinch. He even angled his mouth so one caught just enough to break skin. They kissed through the coppery tang of blood, neither one stopping, the taste a strange but intimate thread between them.

Then Bob pulled back just enough to position himself, lined up, and slowly pushed in. John arched under him with a low sound, more breath than voice. Bob swallowed it in another kiss, settling fully inside, the warmth of John’s body grounding him in the moment. They moved together slowly at first, breaths syncing, skin pressed flush. John kept pulling him in closer, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance between them. His legs wrapped around Bob’s waist, heels digging in, guiding the rhythm.

It was intense. Close. Every movement was deliberate. This wasn’t about chasing release, it was about being seen, being held, being known. Bob could have stayed there forever, buried deep, kissing the breath from John’s lungs. But then he tasted salt that wasn’t sweat or blood. He pulled back and looked down. John’s eyes were closed, but silent tears spilled over his temples, soaking into the pillow.

“John?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Am I hurting you?”

John didn’t answer. Instead, he reached up, curled a hand around the back of Bob’s neck, and pulled him back down. Guided him to the crook of his neck, where those little moles dotted his skin. His favorite place. He pressed Bob's face there like a secret. He didn’t need to say anything. Bob understood. He moved slower then, rocking into him with reverence, kissing over his neck, his shoulder, whispering soft things he wasn’t sure John could even hear, didn't know if the other was present enough for that. He wasn’t going to ask questions now. He wasn’t going to ruin this with words.

When John came, clenching tight around him, head thrown back, fangs sinking once again into Bob’s bottom lip, it was as if the world cracked open around them. A bolt of sensation, violent and pure, tore through Bob’s spine, and in the rush of heat and overwhelming closeness, time broke.

He was twelve again.

Twelve, barefoot and bruised, slipping quietly into the silent sanctuary of the town’s church. The marble had been hard and cold beneath his feet, the pews towering above him like monuments to a life he hadn’t yet lived. He hadn’t come to pray. He’d come to hide, from fists, from screams, from a world too cruel for a boy like him. But that day... that day the sun was angled just right. It struck the stained-glass windows and split, refracting into a thousand shards of color; blue and crimson, gold and emerald, painting the stone floor and pews, casting the dusty air in a soft, holy glow. The silence of the church hummed in his bones, like something ancient and watching, and for one breathless moment, Bob had believed. Not in the God from the stories, not really. But in something.

For the first time in his life, he'd felt seen.

The bruises on his skin had disappeared under that sacred light, swallowed by amber and rose, transformed. For the span of a few stolen minutes, he was weightless. Untouchable. Loved.

Then he went home. And the world reminded him who he really was.

But he never forgot that single, golden moment.

And now, all these years later, it was John who brought it back.

John, with his eyes squeezed shut, tears still drying on his cheeks, body wrapped around him like a vice. John, glowing in the candlelight like something divine, something beyond Bob’s comprehension. That same worship slammed into him, more blinding than anything stained glass had ever offered. But it wasn’t directed at the heavens this time.

It was for him. It was for John.

Bob felt his release tear through him like a confession, overwhelming and raw. He drove into him one last time, deep and desperate, like he could anchor himself in this body, this moment, like he could stay there, inside him, with him, forever. He wanted to leave something behind. A piece of himself buried so deep that John would never forget, could never get rid of. That even if Bob disappeared tomorrow, his ghost would still live in John's blood.

He collapsed into him with a ragged sound, arms shaking, his forehead pressing to John's damp temple. His chest heaved with emotion, not just from the orgasm, but from the crushing weight of what he now knew.

He was gone. Utterly, terrifyingly gone on him. The kind of gone that made breathing feel difficult. The kind of gone that made the world outside this room pale in comparison. The kind of gone that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the man holding him close like he never wanted to let go either.

Tomorrow, they'd be back in the real world. Tomorrow, they’d face Val. Face whatever waited for them.

But tonight, in this quiet, sacred space carved out just for them, Bob made a vow, not to a God who never answered, but to the man beneath him.

Tomorrow, he would tell him.

Because if he didn’t... if he let John go without saying it, without trying... he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

John had made a decision. He would tell Bob tonight. There weren’t many options left anyway, this thing between them couldn’t go on. Not without consequences. Not without someone getting hurt. It had been fun, maybe even beautiful in its own fleeting way. But now it had to end.

Not now, though. Not while they still had hours to walk side by side, with Bob brushing their arms together every so often, more talkative than ever. Not while Bob kept looking over at him with that open, affectionate smile, the kind that made something in John's chest ache.

Later. It would have to be later. Tonight. After everything was settled.

If he was lucky, Bob would already feel the same. Maybe he’d even been thinking about it too. Maybe he knew this was just something born from tension and proximity, that it didn’t mean anything long-term. Maybe he’d let it go with a shrug and a joke. Thanks for the fun, see you around. That would make things easier.

But deep down, John knew better. Bob wasn’t like that. Bob felt things deeply, loved just as hard as he laughed, and he didn’t do anything half-heartedly. That’s what made this so difficult. Bob would try to understand, and he probably would, eventually. But it would hurt. And John would have to live with that. He just had to make him see that it was for the best.

He’d already been leaning toward this decision for days, but what had happened the night before, the dream, had solidified everything.

It had started the same way it always did: cold air, the scent of blood in his nose, the pressure of helplessness in his chest. But instead of Olivia lying in a pool of her own blood, this time it was Bob. Bob, with his throat sliced clean, blood rushing down his front. Bob, with his unblinking eyes staring past him, lips parted in some final thought that never got the chance to leave. And then he had woken up by a strong grip on his wrists. Bob had been there. Real, breathing, warm Bob. John had clung to him, kissed him, pulled him in close like he was afraid he’d vanish the second he looked away. He’d told himself it was a goodbye, a final moment of selfishness before he did what needed to be done. One last taste of this impossible thing between them.

It wouldn’t change anything, he’d reasoned. Just one more time. Just so he’d remember.

But it had changed something. It had only made it harder.

Still, he couldn’t let that stop him. This had to end, for Bob’s sake. For both of them.

It took nearly a full day of walking to reach Val’s estate. The message they’d sent ahead had clearly arrived, because two guards were waiting at the front gate. John barely managed a nod of acknowledgment, his tongue thick in his mouth, his stomach twisted in tight, sour knots. He felt nauseous, lightheaded even, and it didn’t help that Bob kept glancing over at him with increasing concern.

“You okay?” Bob asked for the third time. “You’re pale. You sure you’re not gonna pass out on me? We can stop for a second. I’ve got water—want some? Or I can carry you in.”

That last part was said with a smile, meant to lighten the mood, but John just shook his head and gave a low grunt in response, humiliated by how weak he must look. His legs worked fine, thank you very much. They’d gotten him this far, and they’d carry him through this next part too. Even if it tore him apart.

The gates swung open with a heavy groan, revealing the estate grounds beyond. And standing there, waiting for them like she always did, was Val.

She was all sharp poise and thin patience, a polite smile stretched across her face that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “John. Robert. I’m glad you two finally made it. You must be tired. I won’t keep you long. We’ll speak tomorrow, once you’ve rested. John, a word?”

She motioned for him to follow her a few steps away, but not far, just enough to give the illusion of privacy. Bob could still hear every word, and they both knew it.

Val placed a hand lightly on his arm and studied his face. “You alright there? You look like hell. I can have the medics take a look at you.”

John shook his head. “No, I’m okay. Just tired. The trip was... a lot. If it’s alright, I’d prefer to go over the details tomorrow.”

“Of course,” she said, her voice gentler than he’d expected. “Take Bob with you. Show him to the guestroom down the hall from yours.” With that, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing off the stone like the snap of a verdict.

John let out a slow breath, relieved she hadn’t pushed further. But when he turned back toward Bob, he found the other man watching him closely, eyes narrowed in suspicion, brows drawn in quiet concern. That little crease between his brows made something soft and awful bloom in John’s chest. Still, he only jerked his head in a silent follow me, and led Bob upstairs to their floor. He pointed out the guest room, then turned toward his own without a word, needing a moment to steel himself.

He changed out of his clothes with mechanical movements, tried to force down a piece of bread and cheese left in his room, though it tasted like ash in his mouth. His hands trembled. His jaw was tight. He needed to get it over with. He would knock on Bob’s door in a few minutes. He just had to stop shaking long enough to walk. But he needn't have worried about that, because a few seconds later there was a knock at his own door. He stood up to answer, already knowing who it was on the other side. He took one last deep breath, forcing his hands to stop trembling, then crossed the room to his door and opened it. Bob stood there in his pyjamas, hair mussed and eyes a little tired but still bright. “Hey,” Bob said, voice soft. “Can I come in?”

John nodded quickly and stepped aside, holding the door open a little wider. “Yeah. I mean—yes. Of course. Come in.” He winced at himself. Perfect. If he keeps talking like that, he’ll screw this up before even getting to the hard part.

Bob stepped in, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt, clearly nervous too. There was a pause, then he glanced at John and spoke up. “Listen... I need to talk to you. There’s something I want to say.”

John’s heart started pounding in his throat. “Yeah. Um, me too. I was actually gonna come to your room, if you hadn’t been faster. You beat me to it.” He let out a breath that was supposed to be a chuckle, but came out flat and strained. Nothing about this was funny.

Bob gave him a small, puzzled smile, his brows drawing together in thought. “Do you want me to go first? Or do you wanna start?”

John hesitated, then nodded. “I should probably start.” His voice was quiet. “I guess I don’t really know how to say it. But... we’re not going to see each other anymore after tomorrow.”

It was like watching a rug get yanked out from under Bob. His expression froze, then cracked, his mouth parting with a sharp exhale. “What? Why? Did Val say something? Do you know what she’s gonna ask me to do?" His voice pitched up a little in panic, words tumbling over each other. John stepped forward quickly, catching both of Bob’s arms in his hands, grounding him.

“No—no. Stop. This isn’t about Val. I haven’t spoken to her since you saw us earlier. I don’t know anything about what she wants.”

That only seemed to confuse Bob more. “Okay... then what is this? Why?”

John let go of him, backing up a step and dragging a hand through his hair. “Because you’re going home,” he said quietly. “And I’m staying here. Val probably won’t need me to escort you back. I’ve... I’ve done enough damage already.”

Bob shook his head, his expression crumpling. “That’s not true. I’d be dead right now if it weren’t for you. And maybe I don’t have to leave right away. Or you could come with me? I’d love for you to meet my family.”

That last part gutted John a little more than he expected. Family. Like there was a future to plan. Like this was just the beginning. “Bob,” he said, voice heavy. “Let’s be realistic. That wouldn’t work. And... I’m not good for you.”

Bob’s face twisted in disbelief, his arms folding across his chest. “What? What does that even mean—‘you’re not good for me’? That’s bullshit. Why wouldn’t it work? We’ve already made it through way harder stuff than this.”

John could feel the tension in his chest rising, the tightness behind his ribs getting worse. He couldn’t make this gentle. “Look. This—” he gestured vaguely between them “—this thing has been fun. We’ve been a good team. But it can’t go on. It ends now.”

He watched it happen in real time, how the fight drained from Bob’s posture, the light in his eyes dimming. “Can you at least tell me why?” Bob asked quietly. “Is it me? Something I did?”

John stepped forward instinctively, wanting to reassure him, but Bob took a step back, keeping the space between them.

“No,” John said, almost pleading. “No, Bobby, it’s not you. You’re amazing. You’re...” He ran a hand down his face. “People close to me don’t just get hurt—they die. And I can’t have that happen to you. I wouldn’t survive it.”

Bob stared at him, silent for a beat, and then the fire returned to his eyes, bright and furious even as tears welled in them. “So what? You’d rather live without me entirely, just in case something happens? You’d rather both of us be miserable?”

“Better miserable than dead, Bobby.”

Bob flinched, and his voice cracked with anger. “Don’t—don’t call me Bobby while you’re throwing this away. While you’re throwing me away.” He gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You wanna know what I came here to say?” he said, his voice rising. “I was going to tell you that I’m in love with you. I thought maybe, just maybe, you might feel the same. But instead, I get this. You deciding for both of us. I knew you were stubborn, but I didn’t take you for a fucking coward.”

The candles around the room flickered wildly, flames rising. John took a step forward, trying to calm the storm. “Bobby—I’m sorry. I mean—Bob. Please understand. I’m not doing this because I’m a coward, even if you're right and I am. But that’s not the reason. I’m doing it to protect you.”

That was the wrong thing to say. He could see it instantly. The flames surged, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Bob’s eyes shimmered, not quite gold, but close.

“Protect me?” he repeated. “From what? Do you think I haven’t been through shit? I don’t need protecting. Not from you. Especially not from you. And yet here you are, doing the one thing that actually hurts.” The light dimmed again, shadows creeping in from the corners of the room like a tide rolling in. “God,” Bob whispered, shaking his head. “I’m so fucking stupid.”

“Don’t say that—”

“No. No, I get it now. You’ve made up your mind. You don’t want me. Fine.”

John’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“I won’t bother you anymore,” Bob said, voice hollow.

And with that, he turned and walked to the door.

But this, this wasn’t how John had wanted it to go. It hadn’t gone at all like he’d pictured it in his head. There was no relief, no clean cut, no noble sacrifice. Just pain. And the look on Bob’s face as he turned away, it shattered something deep inside him.

“Wait—” John reached out, his hand finding Bob’s arm and grasping it tightly, desperate to stop him, to make him stay just a little longer. “Please—just—”

Bob froze. His back was still to him for a second, then he turned. Slowly. His eyes were furious, wet, wounded. He didn’t just stop, he stepped closer, like he couldn’t help himself, even if he hated John in that moment. “You don’t even know what you’re going to say next, do you?” Bob’s voice was low, trembling with restrained rage. “Because deep down, you know this is bullshit. You know it makes no fucking sense.”

John opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He didn’t know what to say. Every reason, every carefully built wall was crumbling under the weight of Bob’s eyes.

“You’re not doing this for me,” Bob went on, his voice getting louder, sharper, like every word was a wound. “You’re doing it for yourself. Because you’re scared. Because it’s easier to push me away than to admit that there's still something inside of you that is capable of loving. You say it’s to protect me, but really, you just don’t want to risk getting hurt again. You want to protect yourself. And you don’t give a shit that you’re tearing me apart in the process.”

Then, suddenly, violently, he tears his arm from John’s grip, the force of it staggering. Before John could catch his balance, Bob shoved him hard. Too hard. John fell backwards, crashing onto the floor with a startled grunt, his palms slapping against the stone to break his fall.

Bob didn’t flinch. He didn’t offer a hand. He just stood over him, chest heaving, eyes burning. “Goodnight, Walker.”

The word hit like a slap.

He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the furniture. The sound echoed around the room long after he was gone.

John stayed on the floor, breathing hard, the sting in his palms nothing compared to the one in his chest. That 'Walker', was what really hurt. Bob hadn’t called him that for a while now. Not since they'd started getting closer. Not since they’d started becoming something. That name had belonged to a different version of them, a cold, distant, cautious version.

And now... now it felt like they were strangers all over again.

Maybe that was for the best. It's what he had wanted.

At least, that’s what John told himself as he stayed on the floor, staring blankly at the door Bob had slammed, hoping it would open again.

But it didn’t.