Title: Howl
Title: Howl (1/?)
Author: she_burns1
Pairing: Bret/Jemaine
Rating: PG-13
Word Count:
Summary: Bret had always wanted a pet, but this was never how he had envisioned it.
Warnings: Bit of a horror fic, so mentions of blood and what have you, but pretty tame overall.
Disclaimer: Don't own FOTC or anything fun.
Author’s Note: Haven't written in weeks but this just came out. I happen to like werewolves quite a bit and still do, despite all the recent attention. Just thought this might be a spot of fun. Something different.
Bret had always wanted a pet, but this was never how he had envisioned it.
--
Several weeks ago, Jemaine had come thundering into the apartment cursing a blue streak. Bret, rather absorbed in a television program at the time, had not taken notice until Jemaine cried out rather loudly - releasing a string of expletives Bret had never thought he would hear his friend utter.
Bret rolled his neck to one side, trying to look over the edge of the couch without actually moving. He could barely make out Jemaine fiddling with the kitchen sink. It looked as if his friend was struggling and Bret sighed, resigning himself to the fact that he would most likely have to rise from his comfortable position soon.
Still, wanting to prolong the inevitable, he asked gingerly, "Jemaine? You need something?"
"No," Jemaine returned snappishly, "Just...leave me 'lone."
Bret shrugged, resolving to do just that, when Jemaine hissed, the 'f' word and the 'mf' word and...another word...was that a 'q' (?) bursting forth viciously from him and Bret couldn't just leave him like that.
He rose to his feet and turned, finally able to better assess the situation, only to rear back, stomach twisting at the sight, "Ah! Jemaine! Blood!"
"Yeah, I know," Jemaine sneered as he continue to struggle with his wounded right hand, his reluctance to address it palatable, "Was coming back from the Laundry when some loony on the bus bit me."
Bret's eyes widened, "He bit you?!"
Jemaine flashed the wounded hand and, sure enough, a clean set of teeth prints laced the skin. Bret swallowed, feeling a cross between sick and faint. He settled a hand on the couch and looked away, clearing his throat, "Yeah...bit you all right."
"...didn't even do anything to provoke it," Jemaine muttered, "Just mindin' my own business and there's this guy sittin' next to me rockin' and mutterin' and carryin' on 'bout the moon and next thing I know..."
"...maybe we should go to the hospital," Bret offered, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, "Might get infected..."
"Think it'll be fine," Jemaine grunted as he struggled with the sink once more, his obvious intention to clean the injury, "'Sides, can't afford it..."
Bret steeled himself and walked over. He did his best to look away as he helped Jemaine click the tab on, cold water rushing into the basin. Jemaine slowly started washing his hand, cursing viciously as he did so. As the blood rushed away, Bret started to look at his friend's hand more and more. With the blood gone it was a bit more tolerable but still grisly, the teeth marks now almost highlighted, ghastly translucent against Jemaine's dark skin.
Jemaine whispered his thanks and drew his hand back from the water. He took hold of a kitchen towel and pressed it to his hand, taking in a deep breath, "Think if I just put some disinfectant on it, bandage it up nice...it'll be fine."
Bret nodded his agreement, what else could he do? But as it turned out, it was well and far from 'fine'.
--
The changes were subtle at first.
Or, well, not so subtle, but to Bret...
Well...
"Jemaine?"
"Hmm?"
"...why's there so much...meat in the icebox?"
"What?"
"There's like...six packs of deli meats...and then...think, mean...is this steak raw?"
"It's food, Bret. You told me to go to the grocery, I did, what's the big deal?"
"You didn't get any cereal, man. Or milk. Or anything on our list, really. In fact, you didn't get anything past meat."
Jemaine sighed, "Meat's good for you, Bret. Protein. 'Sides, it looked good."
"...it looked good?"
"Yeah, man, it..." Jemaine shook his head, rubbing at his eyes, "Look, just wanted it, all right? Been feelin' sort of...peckish, lately."
Bret's eyes narrowed, but he didn't have much more to say. After all, food was food, even if all of it was meat. He pulled out a few slices of deli ham and, after a few bites, merely shrugged it off.
--
Jemaine had to shave more.
A lot more.
They went through twelve packs of razors in one week and even then, Jemaine still seemed to retain a six o'clock shadow.
He was also starting to look more haggard. He told Bret he was having trouble sleeping, that he was having the strangest dreams. He would never elaborate on them though. He only got close once, talking about how he was always running and how the scent of copper was overwhelming and then, then...
At that point he just looked sort of scared and gave a twisty kind of laugh and said it was nothing.
Bret figured it was probably something embarrassing - he made light mention of it to Dave, who sagely offered that Jemaine was most likely dreaming he was a female runner 'on the rag', which Dave then had to explain to Bret meant a woman who was menstruating.
Then Dave had had to explain what menstruating was.
--
Jemaine started to get terribly sick.
Every day he got paler and, for a man with such a broad frame, he was starting to look rather gaunt, as if he was underfed.
Which seemed damn near impossible considering how much he ate.
He devoured all the meat in the icebox, went to the store, filled it back up again, only to clean it out once more. And Bret wasn't positive, but he got the sneaking suspicion that the food he was consuming was, well, rather a bit too fresh.
In fact, Bret wasn't sure of the last time he had seen Jemaine use the oven or the stovetop or the microwave. Yet tray after empty, tray ended up in the trash, the plastic peeled away, labels reading things like 'Pork Chops' and 'Chicken Breasts' and 'Sirloin'.
Bret wondered if it wasn't Jemaine's eating habits making him so sick.
His friend spent hours in the restroom just moaning and Bret kept asking him if he needed water or, if he was going to vomit, if he could make sure he flushed it down more than once.
Jemaine just tossed back briskly that he was fine and that Bret should mind his own business.
--
"Bret, he's obviously just going through the change of life, " Murray said reassuringly when Bret asked him about it after one band meeting.
Most of the band meetings had been solo affairs since Jemaine had gotten sick.
Murray had grumped about it at first, until Bret had explained what was going on, until Bret had shown his concern.
"'Change of life'?"
"Yes! Bret, honestly, you should be more informed. Everyone goes through one. 'The Change'," Murray did air quotes here. Smiling, as he was always happy to educate, "He'll probably start complaining about 'hot flashes' and bursting into tears at a moments' notice any time now!"
Bret looked horrified at the prospect.
He wasn't certain he could handle a weepy Jemaine.
--
"Jemaine, what happened to all our silverware?"
"I threw it out," Jemaine answered, shivering. He was buried under blankets, he was always cold these days and Bret didn't understand it. Maybe Murray had meant 'cold flashes'.
Still...
"Why'd you throw it out?"
"Hurt my eyes," Jemaine whimpered, "...couple other things too...they just...made me feel...itchy..."
Bret frowned and, suddenly, he felt like the one who wanted to burst into tears. Something was wrong with his friend. Something terrible. And he didn't know what. He didn't know how to help. And what was worse was that Jemaine didn't seem to want his help.
He slumped off to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, wanting to cry, but instead finding himself falling into a deep sleep. In his sleep, in his dreams, he thought he heard a wolf howl.
--
One day, Jemaine just got better.
And not just better, but almost, superhumanly better.
He woke up one morning and wanted to go for a run in the park. Bret, happy to see Jemaine's strength return, agreed to join him. Bret couldn't even keep up. Jemaine ran at a breakneck pace and Bret just lagged behind. Bret wondered over his own physical health. Maybe he had caught what Jemaine had caught. Maybe now he would be the one buried under blankets complaining about metals and eating copious quantities of meat.
Then a very interesting thing happened.
Two men were throwing a football back and forth when, suddenly, lightning quick, Jemaine intercepted the ball between them and joined the game. Neither man minded but Bret was certainly surprised.
Jemaine had never been so quick. So agile.
Tired from the earlier, excruciating run, Bret sat on the grass and watched them all throw the ball back and forth. And then, for some reason, Bret noticed the bite on Jemaine's hand.
The wound had healed, naturally, but the scar was odd.
So strangely shaped.
Bret shook his head, wondering why he had noticed it or why he had even given it a second thought.
--
Jemaine had really hit it off with the guys in the park, they invited him out for a beer. Bret was a little miffed he wasn't even invited but, still, it would be nice to have the apartment all to himself.
A nice, quiet evening to play solitaire.
He sat at the kitchen table, pondering his next move over the old cards, news playing softly in the background.
"...that's right, Joanne, a nice, balmy degree in the low 80s is making this full moon night a lovely, romantic evening for New Yorkers and tomorrow's clear, sunshine is taking us into a perfect weekend..."
Bret tapped the Queen of Hearts' card against his bottom lip, scowling, wondering if he wasn't trapped when-
"...breaking news tonight, as a wild animal is apparently on the loose. The beast in question reportedly first appeared near The 169 Bar on East Broadway and, after causing some fright to local patrons, essentially 'vanished' into thin air. Word is sketchy at this point, but it would appear to be a rather large dog, possibly a wolf hybrid and, while he or she caused no true damage, viewers are advised to be cautious in regards to-"
Bret had just turned to the television, watching this with a bit of interest when he heard it. His eyes widened, not quite sure he could believe he had actually heard...
There it was again.
The howl of a wolf.
Bret got to his feet almost knocking over the table in his alarm.
That had sounded so close...
Bret cried out as loud, obnoxious pounding broke out. The door! Bret's mind went straight to Jemaine and, without hesitation, he opened it. Only to be greeted by a large, strange creature. Not quite a dog. Not quite a wolf. Not quite a man. Not quite...
Bret immediately fell backwards, landing painfully on his rear end. He cried out, then scooted back quickly, unable to move further when he met with the couch. He sat there, heart pounding, eyes wide as the creature crouched down onto all fours.
It moved forward slowly, cautiously.
Bret didn't move a muscle.
The creature's head tilted from side to side as it studied him. Then it eased forward. Bret gasped, scared, and closed his eyes tightly. He wanted to think this was a dream. He wanted to think he had gone crazy. He wanted to think anything other than that this was actually happening.
Oh god...he was going to die.
He was going to be eaten.
He was...
The creature's hot breath bathed his face and then he heard it, the wet snuffling sounds of the thing smelling him. Christ, he hoped he didn't smell appetizing...
Then he felt it.
A sandpapery tongue licked his face.
Bret winced, unable to keep himself from squirming.
Oh great! It was tasting him! Any moment now it would open those big jaws and snap his head clean off with those sharp fangs...
But instead he felt another lick and then...
Thumping?
Bret cracked open one eye. The creature was kneeling back, its' tail...thumping the floor. As if it was...
Bret cleared his throat, amazed he could even think of speaking at a time like this, and yet...
"...you...you wagging your tail?"
The creature whimpered, then let out a sound, something akin to a bark. Bret licked his lips and, timidly, trepidatiously, found his hand floating out. The creature eased its' head forward and Bret stroked its' dark fur gently. Its' gold eyes looked almost...pleased.
Bret eased a little closer, "Um...you...seem friendly enough...not...not gonna...eat me...are you?"
The creature just panted, mouth open. Like a dog. Or maybe a wolf. Or maybe...
The arms were too long...same with the legs...it was...
"You...you a werewolf, mate?"
Bret felt stupid saying that aloud, but the creature didn't seem to mind, nor did it respond. And then that's when Bret saw it. Right there on its' hand or its' paw or whatever one would call it. The same, strange scar.
Bret's eyes grew large,"...Jemaine?!"
The creature let out that same strange barking noise again, then licked Bret's face.
Oh.
God.
...what now?
Author: she_burns1
Pairing: Bret/Jemaine
Rating: PG-13
Word Count:
Summary: Bret had always wanted a pet, but this was never how he had envisioned it.
Warnings: Bit of a horror fic, so mentions of blood and what have you, but pretty tame overall.
Disclaimer: Don't own FOTC or anything fun.
Author’s Note: Haven't written in weeks but this just came out. I happen to like werewolves quite a bit and still do, despite all the recent attention. Just thought this might be a spot of fun. Something different.
Bret had always wanted a pet, but this was never how he had envisioned it.
--
Several weeks ago, Jemaine had come thundering into the apartment cursing a blue streak. Bret, rather absorbed in a television program at the time, had not taken notice until Jemaine cried out rather loudly - releasing a string of expletives Bret had never thought he would hear his friend utter.
Bret rolled his neck to one side, trying to look over the edge of the couch without actually moving. He could barely make out Jemaine fiddling with the kitchen sink. It looked as if his friend was struggling and Bret sighed, resigning himself to the fact that he would most likely have to rise from his comfortable position soon.
Still, wanting to prolong the inevitable, he asked gingerly, "Jemaine? You need something?"
"No," Jemaine returned snappishly, "Just...leave me 'lone."
Bret shrugged, resolving to do just that, when Jemaine hissed, the 'f' word and the 'mf' word and...another word...was that a 'q' (?) bursting forth viciously from him and Bret couldn't just leave him like that.
He rose to his feet and turned, finally able to better assess the situation, only to rear back, stomach twisting at the sight, "Ah! Jemaine! Blood!"
"Yeah, I know," Jemaine sneered as he continue to struggle with his wounded right hand, his reluctance to address it palatable, "Was coming back from the Laundry when some loony on the bus bit me."
Bret's eyes widened, "He bit you?!"
Jemaine flashed the wounded hand and, sure enough, a clean set of teeth prints laced the skin. Bret swallowed, feeling a cross between sick and faint. He settled a hand on the couch and looked away, clearing his throat, "Yeah...bit you all right."
"...didn't even do anything to provoke it," Jemaine muttered, "Just mindin' my own business and there's this guy sittin' next to me rockin' and mutterin' and carryin' on 'bout the moon and next thing I know..."
"...maybe we should go to the hospital," Bret offered, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, "Might get infected..."
"Think it'll be fine," Jemaine grunted as he struggled with the sink once more, his obvious intention to clean the injury, "'Sides, can't afford it..."
Bret steeled himself and walked over. He did his best to look away as he helped Jemaine click the tab on, cold water rushing into the basin. Jemaine slowly started washing his hand, cursing viciously as he did so. As the blood rushed away, Bret started to look at his friend's hand more and more. With the blood gone it was a bit more tolerable but still grisly, the teeth marks now almost highlighted, ghastly translucent against Jemaine's dark skin.
Jemaine whispered his thanks and drew his hand back from the water. He took hold of a kitchen towel and pressed it to his hand, taking in a deep breath, "Think if I just put some disinfectant on it, bandage it up nice...it'll be fine."
Bret nodded his agreement, what else could he do? But as it turned out, it was well and far from 'fine'.
--
The changes were subtle at first.
Or, well, not so subtle, but to Bret...
Well...
"Jemaine?"
"Hmm?"
"...why's there so much...meat in the icebox?"
"What?"
"There's like...six packs of deli meats...and then...think, mean...is this steak raw?"
"It's food, Bret. You told me to go to the grocery, I did, what's the big deal?"
"You didn't get any cereal, man. Or milk. Or anything on our list, really. In fact, you didn't get anything past meat."
Jemaine sighed, "Meat's good for you, Bret. Protein. 'Sides, it looked good."
"...it looked good?"
"Yeah, man, it..." Jemaine shook his head, rubbing at his eyes, "Look, just wanted it, all right? Been feelin' sort of...peckish, lately."
Bret's eyes narrowed, but he didn't have much more to say. After all, food was food, even if all of it was meat. He pulled out a few slices of deli ham and, after a few bites, merely shrugged it off.
--
Jemaine had to shave more.
A lot more.
They went through twelve packs of razors in one week and even then, Jemaine still seemed to retain a six o'clock shadow.
He was also starting to look more haggard. He told Bret he was having trouble sleeping, that he was having the strangest dreams. He would never elaborate on them though. He only got close once, talking about how he was always running and how the scent of copper was overwhelming and then, then...
At that point he just looked sort of scared and gave a twisty kind of laugh and said it was nothing.
Bret figured it was probably something embarrassing - he made light mention of it to Dave, who sagely offered that Jemaine was most likely dreaming he was a female runner 'on the rag', which Dave then had to explain to Bret meant a woman who was menstruating.
Then Dave had had to explain what menstruating was.
--
Jemaine started to get terribly sick.
Every day he got paler and, for a man with such a broad frame, he was starting to look rather gaunt, as if he was underfed.
Which seemed damn near impossible considering how much he ate.
He devoured all the meat in the icebox, went to the store, filled it back up again, only to clean it out once more. And Bret wasn't positive, but he got the sneaking suspicion that the food he was consuming was, well, rather a bit too fresh.
In fact, Bret wasn't sure of the last time he had seen Jemaine use the oven or the stovetop or the microwave. Yet tray after empty, tray ended up in the trash, the plastic peeled away, labels reading things like 'Pork Chops' and 'Chicken Breasts' and 'Sirloin'.
Bret wondered if it wasn't Jemaine's eating habits making him so sick.
His friend spent hours in the restroom just moaning and Bret kept asking him if he needed water or, if he was going to vomit, if he could make sure he flushed it down more than once.
Jemaine just tossed back briskly that he was fine and that Bret should mind his own business.
--
"Bret, he's obviously just going through the change of life, " Murray said reassuringly when Bret asked him about it after one band meeting.
Most of the band meetings had been solo affairs since Jemaine had gotten sick.
Murray had grumped about it at first, until Bret had explained what was going on, until Bret had shown his concern.
"'Change of life'?"
"Yes! Bret, honestly, you should be more informed. Everyone goes through one. 'The Change'," Murray did air quotes here. Smiling, as he was always happy to educate, "He'll probably start complaining about 'hot flashes' and bursting into tears at a moments' notice any time now!"
Bret looked horrified at the prospect.
He wasn't certain he could handle a weepy Jemaine.
--
"Jemaine, what happened to all our silverware?"
"I threw it out," Jemaine answered, shivering. He was buried under blankets, he was always cold these days and Bret didn't understand it. Maybe Murray had meant 'cold flashes'.
Still...
"Why'd you throw it out?"
"Hurt my eyes," Jemaine whimpered, "...couple other things too...they just...made me feel...itchy..."
Bret frowned and, suddenly, he felt like the one who wanted to burst into tears. Something was wrong with his friend. Something terrible. And he didn't know what. He didn't know how to help. And what was worse was that Jemaine didn't seem to want his help.
He slumped off to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, wanting to cry, but instead finding himself falling into a deep sleep. In his sleep, in his dreams, he thought he heard a wolf howl.
--
One day, Jemaine just got better.
And not just better, but almost, superhumanly better.
He woke up one morning and wanted to go for a run in the park. Bret, happy to see Jemaine's strength return, agreed to join him. Bret couldn't even keep up. Jemaine ran at a breakneck pace and Bret just lagged behind. Bret wondered over his own physical health. Maybe he had caught what Jemaine had caught. Maybe now he would be the one buried under blankets complaining about metals and eating copious quantities of meat.
Then a very interesting thing happened.
Two men were throwing a football back and forth when, suddenly, lightning quick, Jemaine intercepted the ball between them and joined the game. Neither man minded but Bret was certainly surprised.
Jemaine had never been so quick. So agile.
Tired from the earlier, excruciating run, Bret sat on the grass and watched them all throw the ball back and forth. And then, for some reason, Bret noticed the bite on Jemaine's hand.
The wound had healed, naturally, but the scar was odd.
So strangely shaped.
Bret shook his head, wondering why he had noticed it or why he had even given it a second thought.
--
Jemaine had really hit it off with the guys in the park, they invited him out for a beer. Bret was a little miffed he wasn't even invited but, still, it would be nice to have the apartment all to himself.
A nice, quiet evening to play solitaire.
He sat at the kitchen table, pondering his next move over the old cards, news playing softly in the background.
"...that's right, Joanne, a nice, balmy degree in the low 80s is making this full moon night a lovely, romantic evening for New Yorkers and tomorrow's clear, sunshine is taking us into a perfect weekend..."
Bret tapped the Queen of Hearts' card against his bottom lip, scowling, wondering if he wasn't trapped when-
"...breaking news tonight, as a wild animal is apparently on the loose. The beast in question reportedly first appeared near The 169 Bar on East Broadway and, after causing some fright to local patrons, essentially 'vanished' into thin air. Word is sketchy at this point, but it would appear to be a rather large dog, possibly a wolf hybrid and, while he or she caused no true damage, viewers are advised to be cautious in regards to-"
Bret had just turned to the television, watching this with a bit of interest when he heard it. His eyes widened, not quite sure he could believe he had actually heard...
There it was again.
The howl of a wolf.
Bret got to his feet almost knocking over the table in his alarm.
That had sounded so close...
Bret cried out as loud, obnoxious pounding broke out. The door! Bret's mind went straight to Jemaine and, without hesitation, he opened it. Only to be greeted by a large, strange creature. Not quite a dog. Not quite a wolf. Not quite a man. Not quite...
Bret immediately fell backwards, landing painfully on his rear end. He cried out, then scooted back quickly, unable to move further when he met with the couch. He sat there, heart pounding, eyes wide as the creature crouched down onto all fours.
It moved forward slowly, cautiously.
Bret didn't move a muscle.
The creature's head tilted from side to side as it studied him. Then it eased forward. Bret gasped, scared, and closed his eyes tightly. He wanted to think this was a dream. He wanted to think he had gone crazy. He wanted to think anything other than that this was actually happening.
Oh god...he was going to die.
He was going to be eaten.
He was...
The creature's hot breath bathed his face and then he heard it, the wet snuffling sounds of the thing smelling him. Christ, he hoped he didn't smell appetizing...
Then he felt it.
A sandpapery tongue licked his face.
Bret winced, unable to keep himself from squirming.
Oh great! It was tasting him! Any moment now it would open those big jaws and snap his head clean off with those sharp fangs...
But instead he felt another lick and then...
Thumping?
Bret cracked open one eye. The creature was kneeling back, its' tail...thumping the floor. As if it was...
Bret cleared his throat, amazed he could even think of speaking at a time like this, and yet...
"...you...you wagging your tail?"
The creature whimpered, then let out a sound, something akin to a bark. Bret licked his lips and, timidly, trepidatiously, found his hand floating out. The creature eased its' head forward and Bret stroked its' dark fur gently. Its' gold eyes looked almost...pleased.
Bret eased a little closer, "Um...you...seem friendly enough...not...not gonna...eat me...are you?"
The creature just panted, mouth open. Like a dog. Or maybe a wolf. Or maybe...
The arms were too long...same with the legs...it was...
"You...you a werewolf, mate?"
Bret felt stupid saying that aloud, but the creature didn't seem to mind, nor did it respond. And then that's when Bret saw it. Right there on its' hand or its' paw or whatever one would call it. The same, strange scar.
Bret's eyes grew large,"...Jemaine?!"
The creature let out that same strange barking noise again, then licked Bret's face.
Oh.
God.
...what now?