| There's got to be a morning after |
[Aug. 19th, 2007|07:20 pm] |
Snow. Snow drifts five foot thick and more coming down every second as the wind howled in a full fledged blizzard. Julie shivered violently as she searched for her clothes. "I had to change back in the middle of a fucking blizzard!" she muttered between chattering teeth. "Could've really used that fur coat to stick around a while longer."
She was buck naked five miles outside the nearest town in the middle of a Montana blizzard. If she didn't find her clothes in the next few minutes she'd be dead, werewolf's stamina or no.
Julie stirred in her sleep, and pulled the jacket tightly around her as she shivered despite the heat of the Nevada morning sun pouring in through the broken door and windows of Whistler's trailer. The werewolf had changed back in her sleep moments before, and still in the grips of a dream that had begun in her wolf shape. That snowstorm had nearly killed her, the first winter she'd been changed and on the run from Brad, and she still had nightmares from it every now and again.
It used to be one of his favorite dreams. A white sandy beach, a row of palm trees set about fifty feet back from shore. Two beach towels spread out. Feet dug into the warmth of the dirt, creating little divots as he flicked it to the side. Inevitably some overdressed waiter named Jeeves would appear from the tree line with a pina colada. Rhiannon's head would bob up from the surf beyond, a smile across her face. He'd wave.
The sea was virulent now. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon and charged the beach with Rapturous fervor. Jeeves was an animated corpse, offering toxic sludge.
No one emerged from the churning mass of water to greet him.
And then pain crept in. A small sting at first, as if from a bee. But as the realization took hold, his tolerance for sleep waned. Whistler woke and attempted to move his arm, growled as nerve endings fired up and reminded him that just hours before, he'd been locked in a battle for his life.
He glanced over at his former opponent and quickly averted his eyes. Too much bare leg showed underneath his jacket. If Julie stretched, it was Atlantic City all over again.
"They've got to be around here somewhere," Julie chattered, searching frantically. She could feel the numbness starting to spread from her hands and feet toward her midsection as the wind driven snow continued to blast onto her and she trudged through what snow was already on the ground.
Something from outside the dream gradually got her attention. At first it was the scent of blood and sweat, but eventually the sounds of someone shifting around nearby dragged her out of the dream and into the real world.
She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling of what looked to be a double wide trailer, a pretty trashed up one too. What was she doing here? The last thing Julie remembered was stalking out into the desert to be alone after not finding Whistler at home...
Suddenly it occured to her she was draped in a leather jacket and nothing else. "What the...?"
Whistler looked at the immediate probabilities. One of two things would happen next.
No, make that three.
One. Julie would drop the jacket, giving the Agent an unexpected eyeful, and run. Two. She would scream at the top of her lungs, jump to her feet and run out the door. His jacket would never be seen again.
Three. They could have a very uncomfortable situations about the night before.
Whistler was kind of hoping for number one two. "Morning."
Julie turned her head and stared at Whistler...she was starting to recall bits and peices of her time in wolf form, and standing out most vividly was an image of Whistler standing before her with his arm ripped open.
There was also the knowledge that he wasn't directly responsible for Hannah's death, though exactly how she knew that. She could almost swear it was as if she'd had a chance to look inside the man's head, but that would be impossible, wouldn't it?
"Um...morning." The werewolf tugged the jacket down as far as it would go. It was one of the few times she was glad she was so short, it covered quite a bit. She gestured at the injured arm, caked with dried blood and the torinquet still on. "I...I didn't bite you...did I?" please say no, please please pllleeeaassee say no.
It was one of Julie's worst fears, that she'd do to someone else, even accidentally, what Brad had done to her.
He nearly responded with 'You got frisky,' but thought better of it. Julie had the facial expression of near panic. "Just claws," he finally answered.
Already standing, Whistler decided that now was probably a good time to do the gentlemanly thing and find something more appropriate for the (former) werewolf to wear, at least in his trailer. "Wait right here," he asked more than commanded, and retreated into his bedroom.
The rickety dresser was dragged open and the Agent tossed aside about a half-dozen shirts before finding one that might fit his guest (and one he didn't wear often) -- a navy bowling league shirt found in the lost and found at Rock 'N Bowl with 'Gus' sewn over the left breast pocket. As well, he grabbed a pair of grey shorts he hadn't worn all summer. No one needed to be subjected to his pale, hairy legs.
He reached around the corner with his good hand and dangled it. "Lemme know if ya need a belt."
Christ, Whistler needed a smoke right now.
Julie snatched the shirt eagerly out of the agent's hand and let the jacket fall to her feet. She kicked it around the corner and slipped into the bowling shirt. Whoever 'Gus' had been, he was a tall man as the shirt came down to her knees.
Whistler's assurance that he hadn't been bit had caused her to sigh in relief, as well as close her eyes and offer up a short prayer in thanks. Someone upstairs was definitely looking out for her. At least she hadn't passed her curse on to anyone else.
Nobody deserved that.
"I'm decent," she called out toward the bedroom door, "but I think Gus must have been a giant. I look like I'm five years old wearing one of my daddy's work shirts."
"Beggars can't be choosers." Whistler padded his pocket and found the crushed pack. He gingerly opened the lid and pulled out a bent tube of tobacco. "And for the love of mike," he continued, rounding the corner again, "don't make comments about age or the cops'll use that as an excuse to haul me down to the station again."
He continued past the brunette towards the refrigerator. Whistler yanked out a plastic tin of coffee grounds and set himself busy making a full pot of coffee. He hit start, then allowed himself the luxury of lighting the cigarette.
"Sooooo," he wavered. "How much do ya remember of last night?"
Julie looked down at her bare feet, thinking. How much did she remember?
"It's hard to explain." She finally said, plunking herself down on the sofa and tucking her legs underneath her. That coffee smelled divine and she was getting hungry too...big surprise for someone with her metabolism.
"When I'm...changed...things are different. I don't really remember things like a human would. Most times I can remember emotions, a particularly strong or interesting scent, an image here and there. This time is a bit different, obviously. It's like I have a memory of a memory, you know? I know things, but I don't really know how I know them. Does that make any sense?"
She shook her head, knowing it probably didn't but wasn't sure how else to explain it. "The last thing I remember clearly is Connor telling me..." her voice trailed off and she choked back a sob as the emotions of that night came back in full force. "that H-Hannah was dead."
Did he understand? The man who had a connection to an ever-updating Wikipedia of demonic activity available with a mental click. That fucked with your memory. Sometimes you couldn't be sure what someone else wrote and what you lived through.
But that last bit. That was all too fresh in his mind. "Yeah. I was there."
Whistler sucked back on the tobacco and allowed a stale ring of smoke to hang between them.
"Right." Julie knew that. She sucked in a deep breath and wiped a sleave across her eyes to get rid of the tears forming there.
Hannah was dead. Julie hadn't been there for her and she was dead.
Something else was bothering her though..."How long ago was that?" She had the feeling that it was longer than one night...and it had been the new moon! Something was definitely wrong.
Whistler rifled through the cabinet for two clean mugs. He settled for one clean (for Julie) and rinsed a second from the sink for himself. He poured both to almost the brim. "I dunno if you want cream or sugar. Doesn't really matter, 'cuz I don't have either."
He slowly turned to finally face her, offering the cup of joe before retrieving his own and enjoying a sip between puffs of smoke. "Coupl'a weeks, Julie. They had a small burial in absentia of not findin' anything to put in the ground. I wasn't there."
"A couple weeks?" They'd had a funeral for Hannah and she'd missed that too? Julie took the offered cup of coffee and drank deeply. She'd somehow been stuck in wolf form for two weeks?
"Just so I'm clear on this...there was a full moon last night, right?"
"I could'a lit my cigarette on it, it was so bright." He took another gulp of the black liquid, and only grimaced as it scolded his throat. Compared to the fire in his arm, the coffee was a non-starter.
The Agent wondered how to broach the events of the previous night. Julie was outwardly a timid girl, and from his past experience at the Lighthouse Bar, when she allowed her personality to shine through it was anything but dark. That she was a werewolf wasn't something she had control over, and clearly during their fight control was the last thing she had.
"You're not disappointing her, ya know." Which Whistler guessed was the truth. He hadn't gotten to talk with Hannah since the beginning of her employment with the Powers That Be, but he suspected the blonde wouldn't hold it against her friends to lash out in grief. Even if they used claws to do so.
What happened?
Julie wasn't sure what to make of the fact. It wasn't natural for her to go more than a night, occasionally thirty six hours when the call of the moon was particularly strong, but two weeks?!
She'd worry about it later. "When I came looking for you back then, I thought sure that you'd killed her. But you didn't. How do I know that? I know it as sure as I know my own name, and I don't understand that."
"You have good instincts?" Despite Julie's ties to the supernatural, Whistler played his cards close to his torn shirt. Explaining that he'd dug into her wolfen brain to learn what drove the brunette to blind rage would also mean opening up about who and what he was, and his connections to a presence that didn't appreciate company. He also might slip and say too much about Hannah's status in the larger picture. And that was something the Powers were adamant he wasn't allowed. There were other things he could discuss, however.
"At the very least, Julie," he continued, "you know that the world isn't so black and white. You'd been... taken advantage of. The name Elfleda ring a bell?"
"Kind of," Julie sipped on her coffee. "I think I ran into her back when we were stuck in the 1900 version of Searchlight. Strange creature, and not something to be taken lightly." Taken advantage of? But she hadn't run into Elfleda since then...had she?
"St-stay back...please...I don't want to hurt you."
"Darling... Whatever makes you think you could succeed?"
"That Bitch!" Julie swore, her eyes flashing golden for a moment as she struggled to get control of her temper. "I played right into whatever little plot she had running, didn't I? I was stuck as a wolf for two weeks!"
Witnessing her eyes flash, Whistler wondered if it was a mistake bringing up the Corruptress. But Julie had a right to know. And given the burst of anger, he'd have to rethink the defintion of 'timid'.
"Don't flog yourself, Julie," he countered. The short man took a larger gulp of coffee. While the pain in his arm hadn't intensified, he was much more aware of it. Before the morning was done, the Agent would have to get it checked out. "She's been around a long time, knows how to play on the weaknesses of others. I've seen it first hand.
"Hell, I recently lived it. And Hannah healed me at the cost of her own life."
Julie blinked back tears again. "I should have been here," she managed to get out. "I owed her my life, she was part of the crew that helped me end things with Brad for good. I wasn't there for her when she needed me." I even missed the funeral. I never got to tell her how important she was to me.
"She was one of my best friends."
Whistler took one last drag of his cigarette before tossing the end into the sink. "She knows."
Julie wondered if she did. The werewolf had always been religous, keeping to her Catholic faith even through her years on the run from Brad and after he'd captured her. But Hannah's death had left something fundemental broken inside her.
A loving god wouldn't force someone to make that kind of choice.
"I don't blame you anymore Whistler," she told him, composing herself and standing up. "Whatever my instincts have figured out, they know that you weren't responsible for what happened. But I think its time I left." If nothing else she needed to get some real clothes. Whatever she'd been wearing when she transformed was long ripped to shreds, so she'd have to go back to the Lighthouse and change.
She was lucky her roommates and bosses were so understanding about all the craziness of Searchlight or she'd have been out of a job ages ago.
Either way, once she'd taken some clothes she needed to go out and spend some time by herself...without supernatural interference this time.
"Yeah, I get that. It's a lot to take in." Whistler finished his coffee, put down the mug onto the counter. He planned for a wash-up, toast and a hospital visit. Hopefully within that time he'd come up with a plausible reason for his injury.
"If you ever need an ear to work things out. Well I can't guarantee I'll be of much help, but I've been known to give strange advice that works out."
He forced a smile as Julie excused herself from the trailer.
Everyone left him in the end. |
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