Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lycanthropy isn’t conducive with keeping secrets. Thus, when it became apparent that ‘investigating a living mummy’ now meant ‘travelling the world with a renowned archeological figure,’ Hershel had a talk with Professor Sycamore.

“You wished to speak with me?”

“Yes, it’s rather important. In general, Luke accompanies Emmy and I everywhere.” How to begin? “And I’m aware that you’ve permitted my assistant and apprentice to stay for the entire journey, however long it may take.”

“That’s true. We have more than enough space, and cost shouldn’t be a problem,” the other man says graciously.

“You’re very kind, Professor. However, I think it would be prudent to mention that Luke has a condition.” It’s now or never, and Hershel watches the other professor’s expression carefully.

Typically, the professor would say that he’s fairly intuitive at reading others. Professor Sycamore, however, seemed to be as expressive as a brick wall. A brick wall or a bauta mask. “Unless he needs consistent medical attention, I’m certain that we can work something out. Is he ill?”

“Not quite.” Hershel takes a sip of his tea. Sycamore seems to be the rational sort. Would he think Layton a liar? A fool? “Luke is a lycanthrope.”

Sycamore blinks, and the mask cracks just enough for Hershel to see genuine surprise. “Pardon?”

“My apprentice is a werewolf. A very young one, and his episodes can get a bit…” He shouldn’t imply that Luke is dangerous. “Out of control. Should he end up causing damage, I will reimburse you.”

Sycamore cracks a smile. “Forgive me for being skeptical, but I find it hard to believe that werewolves exist, much less that you know one personally.”

“If our situations were reversed, I’m certain that I’d be incredulous as well.” Hershel looks at his tea cup, leaving way for a contemplative silence. He wouldn’t be pushy with it, lest it sound even more ridiculous.

“Have you seen him transform?”

He lifts his eyes to the professor across the couch. Professor Sycamore’s eyes are glinting beneath his red-framed glasses. “Er- as a matter of fact, I have.”

“And I don’t suppose that you have any proof?”

Hershel shakes his head. “There may be dog hair on some of my garments, but I don’t have any way to verify that it’s his.”

The other professor puts a hand to his chin. It seems that this is the moment of truth. There’s many ways for this to go wrong. Sycamore could rescind his offer for Luke to accompany him, or simply not believe him entirely.

“Very well. I suppose I’ll see for myself sometime along the way and verify for myself.”

“So Luke is still allowed to come, then?”

“Indeed. Just because something seems unbelievable doesn’t necessarily rule out its validity. To disregard information due to one’s opinion isn’t exactly the mark of a true scientist.” He adjusts his glass. “That, and you trusted me enough to board the Bostonius and extricate Aurora. That trust will be repaid.”

“Thank you.”

…

Dr. Desmond Sycamore was one of the most eminent archeologists in England. He was particularly well known to those who studied the Azran, as it was a relatively niche sector.

Clark had done his research on the man in the time before Luke departed with Hershel to meet him. While most of his friend’s adventures are short notice, this one granted him a few days to dig around. Considering their propensity for sniffing out danger, Clark would have been remiss if he didn’t verify that his son and friend wouldn’t be in harm's way.

The search came up clean. No noted or publicised crimes, no connections with unsavory parties… Sycamore seemed fine enough. There was very little on his family or private life, and a laundry list of details on his exploits. He was the lead archaeologist on the team that went to Ambrosia after Hershel discovered it, and did extensive research on the Golden Garden after news of it was released to the press. It seems that he’d been dancing around the discovery of Clark’s friend for a while, just as Hershel had been on some excavations for sites that had been marked by the other professor.

Impressive. And when he’d spotted the man with Hershel as he allowed their group access to the museum, there had been some spark of anticipation. It would be an honor to meet a distinguished scholar like Dr. Sycamore any day, but especially now that he’d actually looked into the man’s accomplishments.

That being said, his excitement was pretty quickly stamped out as their group entered the exhibit.

It wasn’t nearly so bad when they were outside, but in a closer capacity it was clear that Dr. Sycamore wore a strong-smelling cologne. Or perhaps it was a perfume considering the sweet fruity scent.

It was fine enough when Sycamore hovered by the door with Hershel’s assistant and a younger blond teen. Luke trotted over with Hershel and the three of them chatted about Clark’s current work at the museum. As the blond man feared, only two of the returned pieces were real. Likely an accident.

As Clark readied to assist Hershel in his deduction, Dr. Sycamore approached.

Strong was an understatement for how the man smelled. It was fine when the scent seemed to waft pleasantly from the other side of the room, but as the doctor stands just out of reach, Clark barely resists the urge to cover his nose.

The fruity-floral smell didn’t matter so much as the fact that it smacked Clark right in the face with its potency. He’s fairly certain that he won’t be able to smell anything for the next week.

Thus, the deduction doesn’t go nearly as well as it could have. It all passes in a blur of Clark trying to hold his breath to avoid the cloying scent and backing away step by step to maintain some of his composure. Why must some people choose to wear cologne as if no one else exists?

Eventually he excuses himself and his son, taking the boy out of the room. Clark just can’t stand it anymore. God, if only Descole wore perfume, whatever torture he put Clark through would have been so much more effective.

“Luke, are you sure that you want to go with Hershel this time around?” He touches Luke’s shoulder gently, “Dr. Sycamore is…”

His son’s nose scrunches, “He stinks.”

Clark huffs a laugh. “Remember not to say that to his face, please. But yes, it’s rather hard to focus in his presence. I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine. I can just ask him to stop wearing it.”

“That wouldn’t be polite either, hmm… I’m sure I can figure something out.”

That ‘figuring out’ came as Hershel and the others leave the museum. With nothing left to do, Clark prepares to leave as well. No point in staying with no purpose.

“Dr. Triton?”

He turns around, attempting to smile. It’s Sycamore, extending a hand. Clark straightens and accepts, rather dizzy already with the proximity. He can hardly breathe.

“I just wanted to thank you for getting us into the museum. Without you, we would be without a lead or a clue.”

“It’s no trouble at all. I’m glad to be of service.”

The doctor isn’t letting go of his hand. His remains firmly clasped in Sycamore’s, and his gaze is captured by the glint in the man’s eyes. The hair on Clark’s neck rises.

“Have I done something to offend you?”

“Not at all.” Clark replies on instinct. “Why?”

The other archeologist finally lets him go, and the lycanthrope resists the urge to step back.

“You just seem rather uncomfortable in my presence. I just wanted to ask if I’d done something wrong.”

He clears his throat. Might as well bring it up now. There was little chance that he’d see Sycamore in person again, after all. “It’s… Well, I’m sorry but your cologne is a tad too strong.”

His eyebrows raise, then there’s a hint of a smile in his expression. “Ah. Do you have a sensitive nose?”

“Something like that.”

“Does your son as well?”

Clark nods.

“I was wondering about that.” Sycamore takes a step back. “I shan’t invade your space, then. If I may ask… a little birdie told me that your son is a werewolf?”

“Who?” Surely Luke didn’t say anything. Hershel? Emmy?

“Is it true?”

… “Yes. It is.”

“And are you a werewolf as well, Dr. Triton? Does he get it from you?”

“Yes.” Clark grits his teeth. “He does.” Something about the other man is setting him off. The beast in him rears its head, calling that something is wrong.

“Fascinating. If we had more time, I’d surely ask you a few more questions about it. But as it stands, we’re practically out the door.”

“Some other time, then.” Some other time when Clark doesn’t feel like a pinned butterfly being watched by a lepidopterist.

“Before we’re off, I’d just like to ask if there’s anything I should know.” Sycamore gesticulates. “I presume that Layton will fill me in on how to handle the full moons, but is there anything in general that I should be aware of before we depart?”

Hershel was attuned to his son’s needs, as likely was Emmy. “Under no circumstance is he allowed to have chocolate. It will upset his stomach.”

“Is that all?” The other man cracks an amused smile, and Clark mimics it halfheartedly.

“As a general rule of thumb, if you can’t give it to a dog, don’t give it to Luke. We do have a higher protein requirement than most other people, so don’t be surprised at his appetite. Try to avoid having strongly scented things lying about- candles, perfumes, oil…” That just about covers it, right? “If you’re caught alone with him while he’s transformed, just don’t panic. He’s more likely to cuddle than bite. But if you try to run away there’s a high probability for him to give chase.”

“I see… Thank you.”

Clark inclines his head and looks back to his work bag, trying to subtly indicate that their conversation is over. Their conversation had gone on far too long for his comfort.

Thankfully, the other archeologist seems to pick up on his hint and wanders off towards the entrance.

Dr. Sycamore seems to be a nice man. He’s well accomplished, and his deductive skills compliment Clark’s friend well. That being said, the lycanthrope hopes to never see him again.

Not until he stops using cologne, at least. Good lord.

…

As predicted, it’s barely a week into their journey across the world when the moon becomes full. It’s decided ubiquitously that Professor Sycamore and Aurora will stay out of the room until the boy settles. He’s bound to want to explore and sniff around the new environment before any excitement of new people.

Emmy stood vigil by the kitchen door, poised to help if needed. While ‘ensuring that a werewolf pup doesn’t tear up furniture’ didn’t exactly come with the job description, she’d taken it in stride to an admirable degree. Despite her skepticism surrounding the supernatural, it was fairly quickly necessary for her to believe. There weren't many other explanations for a suspiciously Luke-dressed wolf at their campsite after all.

Hershel only hopes that Sycamore believes just as quickly, and that he isn’t convinced that they smuggled a wolf onto the ship for the purposes of fooling him. The other professor is surely smarter than that, but one could never be too certain.

The professor held Luke as he transformed. While the boy had grown accustomed to the pain of the changing of his limbs and no longer attempted to hurt himself, it was the easiest way to comfort the werewolf. He whines and squirmed all the while, but Hershel continues to pat his back. It would be over soon enough, just a few minutes and it would all be done. Just a little more, he reassures his apprentice as the boy grasps his sweater like a lifeline.

Luke relaxes as the transformation ends, either too tired to remain tense or just relieved that it’s over. Within a few minutes, however, he’s up and sniffing around the living area. He seems particularly entranced with the spot on one of the couches where Keats typically resides.

Thankfully, they’d had the foresight to put the cat in Hershel’s room. None of them wanted Luke to be terrorizing the poor thing.

Once he’s had a full sniff around the perimeter, Luke makes his way to Emmy and stands up on his hind legs.

“Hey, squirt.” He barks as she pets his fuzzy gray ears.

It devolves into Hershel’s assistant ruffling his fur all over. “Emmy, please don’t rile him up.” Despite the way Luke vocalizes happily, he’d like to avoid getting Luke in the mood to play. It was rather inevitable with the boy’s nature, but Hershel was hoping for a quieter start before bringing in their other two companions.

“Wouldn’t it be better to get some of his energy out now? We can just play around for a bit.” She swipes one of Keats’ toys that had been discarded and chucks it across the room and over the railing of the upper landing. Luke, in response, shoots off like a bullet and scrambles up the stairs to retrieve the toy.

Despite Hershel’s displeasure, he remains silent as Emmy plays with the pup. They can’t exactly let Luke out of the ship despite being docked, and reluctant as he was to admit it, there was some merit in trying to tucker him out.

It takes about half an hour before Luke has had enough and he comes to sit by Hershel on the couch.

“Hello, my boy. Have you had your fun?”

Luke whuffs in response and flops across the professor’s lap.

“Should I get Aurora and the professor now?”

“I believe it’s time, yes.”

Professor Layton keeps a hand resting against Luke’s scruff, ready to grab him if the pup should get too excited. He was large enough to bowl Hershel over, and without any spacial awareness, there was a nonzero chance that he could hurt one of the others by accident.

Luke lifts his head when the kitchen door clicks, and Hershel scratches behind his ears.

“Is that him?” Aurora is the first to speak, peering over the railing and cocking her head.

“Yes, this is Luke. Just for the night.”

Professor Sycamore had offered to explain lycanthropy to the girl while they were alone, and Hershel had agreed. It might cause some confusion if Aurora were to go in blind.

“Ah ah.” The professor holds Luke close as the pup tries to wiggle into sitting up. “Not yet. Lay back down.”

He grumbles but lays his head back on Hershel’s lap. The wagging of his tail betrays the nonchalance however, and his eyes don’t stray from Aurora as the girl approaches.

“Put your hand out by his nose, dear. He’ll want to sniff you.”

“Doesn’t he already know what I smell like?” She asks but extends an arm anyway.

“He does, yes. It’s just a thing that dogs do.”

Aurora giggles as his nose presses into her palm, then pulls back as he licks her. “He licked me!”

“That he did, yes. Dogs do that. It means he likes you.” Is it condescending if he’s unsure whether or not she knows certain things?

“Your dogs are much different than ours.”

“How so?” Sycamore has chosen to sit on the couch opposite Luke and the professor.

“Well, yours are much friendlier. And these dogs live with people, you say?”

“Yes.” Hershel guides Aurora to pet Luke. “Domesticated dogs are often used as companions, though some do jobs. Others are wild.”

“I think we had wild dogs.”

The conversation shifts from there, with Sycamore’s curiosity piqued on canines in Azran mythology and Aurora’s curiosity on service animals.

Emmy teaches Aurora how to play with Luke after he regains his energy, and the emissary cheers his assistant on in a tug of war against the werewolf.

“I have to say, this isn’t quite what I imagined.” Sycamore at some point excused himself to make them some tea, and he hands Hershel a cup as he beside him.

Hershel jests lightly, “Does he not meet your expectations of a mythical beast?”

“No, no. He’s just quite friendly. I imagined that a werewolf would be rather… ferocious.”

Hershel watches Luke squeak as Emmy rolls him onto his back, and he bats at her with his hind paws.

“He is only a pup. I imagine that his father has grown more ferocious in the time since I watched over him in uni.”

“So Dr. Triton is truly a werewolf as well, then?”

“Yes.”

Professor Sycamore sips at his tea. “Admittedly, I rather hoped that you both were pulling my leg.”

“It’s hard to reconcile with for an average person, I suppose. I imagine that I reacted rather similarly in uni upon finding out his secret.”

“Hm.”

Luke tires again and trots over to Hershel. He’s panting happily, but pauses as he draws closer.

“Is something the matter?”

The pup pads closer, once step after another, but won’t get within reach. His nose twitches as his gaze turns to Sycamore.

“Err…” Sycamore extends a hand for Luke to sniff, and Luke almost trips while backpedaling. “Have I done something wrong?”

Hershel wracks his mind. Luke hasn’t expressed anything to him indicating distaste, except…

“Professor Sycamore, are you wearing cologne?”

The man blinks, then turns his head to look at Layton, “Yes, I am. Is that- Ah!”

They both look to where the puppy is pressing his face into the rug and pawing at his muzzle.

“His father did recommend that I stop wearing so much cologne back in London, but I hadn’t thought…”

Hershel nods. “Yes, it’s a bit unfortunate. While Luke’s nose is already sensitive, wearing any fragrances would be rather overpowering to his werewolf form.”

The other professor adjusts his tie with a frown. “I should excuse myself, then.”

Hershel does debate on convincing Sycamore to stay for a bit longer, but it might be best for Luke if he were to retire. The point about the validity of Luke’s lycanthropy was proven either way.

“You’re leaving, Mr. Sycamore? Why?”

“Luke thinks he stinks.” Emmy supplies helpfully, to which Hershel gently chides her.

…

Desmond awakens to the sound of clawing at his door. He immediately rolls over and pulls the pillow over his head.

More scratching. It’s been a recurring thing in recent months. Every full moon, Luke seemed hell bent on getting into the man’s room.

More scratching, accompanied by whines and hushed words. Layton, surely, is trying to discourage the brat from breaking down Desmond’s door.

There’s barking now, yips and whimpers and incessant scratching at his very expensive mahogany doors. And finally he can’t stand it anymore and rises.

Keats comments on the motion with a meow from his spot in the cat tree. It seems all the creatures in the ship just adore his room, but the cat was a permanent fixture. Which is terribly unfortunate, considering that Desmond was allergic to cat hair. Keats, evidently, had no remorse for that fact considering that the professor would wake up with the cat sleeping on his chest half the time.

He cracks the door open to glare at the puppy, shoving his foot in the door to block Luke’s snout as he tries to get the door open further. “What do you want?”

“I’m terribly sorry.” The other professor tips his hat from his place on the floor. His other arm is preoccupied in trying to hold back the lycanthrope.

Not an easy task, considering that Luke likely weighed 40 kilos or more.

“It’s fine.” There’s a halfhearted attempt in hiding the venom, but it drips from his words. He must look like quite the picture in pajamas with rollers in his hair. It must be clear enough that his sleep was interrupted by all the ruckus.

“I don’t know what he wants.”

“The cat, probably.”

Luke howls plaintively, and both men grimace.

“Luke, please quiet down. There are people trying to sleep.”

“Can he even hear you in this state?”

Layton makes a gesture, but it’s stilted without free hands. “A bit. I think it might be difficult for him to listen, but he does hear us.”

Desmond bites back a comment about how that must not change much from how he usually is. The boy is impulsive and distractible to a fault.

“With time he should be able to talk. Clark can utilize human speech sometimes, depending on his lucidity. It’s difficult, but it’s a skill to be learned.” Most of what Descole heard from Luke’s father were snarls and growls.

“I suppose he can’t just tell us what he wants, then?”

“No, unfortunately.” Luke seems to have momentarily given up and lays down with a whine. Layton doesn't release him.

“Does he ever remember what he wants in the morning?”

“No.”

As Desmond makes to leave the room, Keats hops from the bed and tries to weave through his legs to exit as well.

“No. You’ll get eaten.” He whispers harshly to the cat, who meows rather angrily in response.

There’s scratching on the door again as he shuts it, but this time it’s from the inside. The eccentric cat wants out. Luke whines again.

“Layton, you can go to bed if you wish. I’ll take over watching the boy.”

He looks as if he’s debating for a moment, before asking if Desmond is sure.

“I won’t be able to sleep with Luke pawing at the door anyway. And It’s the middle of the night. You’re surely tired, no?”

“I’ve had enough tea to remain awake until Luke falls asleep.” Layton says evasively.

Desmond asks again. “Are you tired?”

His brother nods reluctantly, and Sycamore sighs. “It’s settled then. I’ll watch Luke, and you’ll head to bed.”

“Are you certain? Luke can be a bit of a handful.”

“I can handle him just fine.”

It takes three more assurances for Layton to pick himself off the ground and walk down the hallway to his quarters.

“It’s just you and me then, brat.”

The puppy follows him like a duckling, evidently having forgotten about whatever was so interesting in the man’s room.

“Sit.”

Luke sits on the couch.

“Stay.”

If he was going to be babysitting, Desmond would be making himself coffee. He didn’t trust letting a dog of Luke’s appetite into their kitchen. God only knows what damage he could do.

The wolf wags his tail but remains in place as the archaeologist climbs up the stairs and into the kitchen.

Why on earth had he agreed to watch Luke in the first place? It wasn’t as if he wanted to spend his night babysitting the brat and having a heart attack at whatever damage he’d surely cause.

Desmond rubs his eyes as the espresso machine works its magic. At least this meant that he’d have an excuse to be up and working so late.

Raymond couldn’t chastise him for burning the midnight oil if he needed to be up either way.

The sound of claws clicking on the floor alerts the man that Luke was just as bad at following directions as ever. He takes a moment to steady himself before turning, trying to curb his irritation.

Irritation that turns to ice-cold dread as he turns to see the puppy trotting into the kitchen with Descole’s boa in his mouth. The boa that was in his closet. In his room.

“Sweet Jesus Christ,” Desmond whispers to himself before kneeling. “Here boy! Bring that to me.” He pats the floor for emphasis, trying to beckon Luke closer. This was very very bad.

Desmond is so totally fucked if anyone else is awake.

Luke prances closer, looking like the cat that caught the canary. Yet just as he gets in reach and Desmond grabs the other end, the puppy yanks.

“Luke- drop it.”

He doesn’t, instead bowing and growling.

“This isn’t a game. That’s- do you even know what you’ve got in your mouth?”

Luke yanks on the boa again, and Desmond mourns for the feathers that are surely getting slobbered on. Layton must have been bullshitting him on Luke being able to understand human speech, because Luke doesn’t listen to a single one of the professor’s pleas.

Which is how Desmond finds himself chasing the dog around the living room for an absurd amount of time, which only results in the man having eaten shit multiple times making quick turns and white feathers being scattered about the space.

“Fine.” Desmond spits, “You win. I give up.” And he collapses on the couch, rather exhausted and thoroughly humiliated at having been bested by a dog.

Luke walks back over and drops the garment at Desmond’s feet with a whine.

“What?”

The puppy whines again and snuffles at Desmond’s hand.

“No. We’re all done. I won’t play your little games anymore.”

The boy then takes to pacing the floor, looking at the stairs then back to Desmond.

He sighs. “Do you need something?”

A bark.

“What? What do you want from me?”

Luke returns to the couch to grab Desmond’s sleeve gently in his maw, then tugs.

“Do you want me to follow you?”

The boy woofs and tugs again, which he’s immediately reprimanded for. His pajamas are silk, thank you very much, and he doesn’t want teeth marks or slobber on his sleeves.

Luke grabs the boa again as they start walking, and Desmond just sighs.

The pair stop in front of Desmond’s door. It’s wide open, and Keats sits smugly in the way.

“You-” The professor rolls his eyes. At least he knows how Luke got in, then. It wasn’t that the child managed to figure out how to open doorknobs with his paws, no.

It was Keats. Keats, who somehow knew how to open doors, and had let the boy in. God.

“You are in serious trouble.” He points at the cat threateningly. “The second someone makes a cat jail, you’re going in.

Luke wiggles around Desmond’s legs to enter his room, and drops the boa next to the rest of the outfit. The box where Descole’s outfit typically resides neatly is tipped over, and it’s clear that the cat had been sitting on the pile of clothing.

It’s going to take ages to get all the purple hair off the fabrics.

Keats must have let Luke in and the boy had dug through his closet. Perhaps he caught the scent of something on the fabric?

Luke is whining at the clothes, and he paws at the cape before looking up at Desmond with wide eyes. Something in his human mind must recognize one of the scents clinging to it, and that’s why he wanted in so badly.

The dog evidently has no problem with the cat, who returns to nesting on Descole’s clothes.

“No- alright, both of you. Out. We’re not doing this.” The puppy whines again. “No. Go. Everything’s fine. Descole isn’t here.”

A yip.

“No arguing. Shoo.”

Desmond half-herds half-pushes Luke out of the room and glares at Keats before shutting the door. Infernal cat.

The boy still seems antsy, so Desmond reluctantly pats next to him as he sits back on the couch. Comforting the puppy seemed a better idea than having him whine enough that one of the others wakes. Explaining what spooked Luke would be rather difficult.

Rather than having the werewolf sit next to him like he thought, Desmond gets a very heavy ball of fluff in a blue sweater right in his lap.

“God, you’re heavy. How does Layton do this?” He mumbles to himself after spitting out some gray fur that had gotten into his mouth. Nonetheless, he pets Luke’s neck awkwardly. This is the first time he’s had to encounter Luke like this without cologne to ward him off. He’s surprisingly clingy, even with Desmond.

He’d assumed that the puppy would only be so affectionate with the others, but Luke leans into his touch and makes other miscellaneous noises that don’t seem to be out of distress.

Desmond can’t move like this, much less go grab his papers to work. So he resigns himself to his fate as a seat and settles into the couch.

He’d always rather liked wolves anyways. More than cats, at least. It might not be the worst thing in the world.