#maybe instead of spending decades on flop games and not caring about giving good story you could idk

[strangefable]

can't decide if i want to cry or set someone on fire

[accio-ambition]

No Good Deed (3/15)

Summary: Killian Jones is a gentleman. He and his brother pride themselves on the matter, even if it ends with harm to them. So when an angry ex of Killian’s client bites him, he tends to the wound, watches it heal, and thinks no more of it.Until he wakes up in a closet on his ship with no memory of what happened the night of the full moon. Fleeing from the unknown, the brothers Jones find Storybrooke, and with it, Emma Swan, who is a lot more familiar with their situation than anyone could expect. And when an old foe comes to their new home, Killian has to rely on new talents to keep those he loves safe. Rating: M for language, violence, some sexual content. (better safe than sorry) Content warnings: violence

happy friday friends! time for another update, literally just in the nick of time (I PROMISE I’LL GET BETTER). anyway, hoping that the mods won’t hound me too bad about this chapter ;) as always, muchos gracias to Taylor aka @killiarious for her beta-ing skillz, @wellhellotragic for her art that I absolutely adore and will properly praise this weekend properly, and the mods at @captainswanbigbang who know what they’re doing and get me sucked into this project each and every time. :)

Ao3 if that’s the name of your game

Chapter Three

"Oy, Jones!"

Killian turns to see Gus running down the gangplank to catch him. He waits, though he's eager to get home, shower off today's grime, and settle down with a drink and the game of the night on the telly. In the few days since Gold’s attack, Killian’s been tired beyond belief. He’s also had more headaches, at least one a day, since the occurrence. It’s probably got something to do with the pills he’s downed to keep the pain of his bite at a minimum, or the lack of sleep caused by more frequent and vivid nightmares of that night.

All he wants to do is go home, but he waits for his coworker to catch up to him.

"I was hoping," Gus says, breathing deeply. Holding up a finger of pause, he bends over, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. Killian does all he can to keep himself from rolling his eyes at the man's dramatic action - he's in fine shape, he shouldn't be this winded from a slight jog. When Gus finally believes himself to be ready, he straightens.

"Sorry. I was hoping you could cover me next Tuesday. It's the night shift, which I know you don't normally do, but my son placed in the science fair and I-"

Holding up his own hand in interruption, Killian says, "No worries, Gus. I've enough warning so I can stock up on sleep." Grinning, he holds his hand out for a shake, one that Gus gratefully takes part in. "Tell the lad good luck."

"With pleasure!" Chuckling to himself, Gus claps Killian on the shoulder. "Thanks, man. You're a lifesaver."

When the Tuesday in question comes around, Liam, the sodding fool, hands Killian a brown lunch sack as he's on his way out the door.

"What the bloody hell is this?" Killian asks. "I'm not in school anymore, or have you forgotten that?"

"It's dinner, you arsewipe," Liam explains, flopping on the couch. "Nothing's going to be open by the time you get hungry, so I made you a sandwich and threw in some pretzels if you get hungry in the meantime."

His brows furrowed and a slight frown on his lips, Killian unravels the opening of the bag to peer inside. As he said, Liam had packed a sandwich, a ziploc bag of pretzels, and what looks like some cookies wrapped in plastic.

"If I didn't know any better, brother, I would say that you have a heart."

Liam laughs, his head falling on the back of the couch. "It's been known to come to life every once in a while."

The television clicks on and Jeopardy appears on the screen as Killian throws on his jacket and boots. "You'll need your strength and wits tonight. Supposed to be a full moon."

"And what, pray tell, does that mean?"

"Crazies come out in droves." Killian's popping his collar when he catches Liam's eye. "And, you know, werewolves and such."

"Ah yes, such a prevalent problem in the post-Twilight day and age," Killian quips. His keys jingle when he snatches them from the ring they rest on. "Alright, I'm off. Don't wait up."

"I won't."

“Thanks for caring.”

“Never a problem.” Killian’s scoff is overwhelmed by the slamming of the door shutting behind him.

The public transport ride down to the harbor is never been particularly notable. The occasional dancing crew or street musician sometimes serenades his ride, but at this hour, everyone is heading away from the water, for the most part. Sure, there’s a couple dressed nicely further into the car, probably heading down for a dinner cruise along the river. Everyone else has got families to attend to, laundry to do, errands to run before the shops close in Midtown.

Killian spends his time thinking mostly unconsciously on his wound. Especially as he comes up from the underground station, something about the sea breeze makes Killian scratch his injury a little more forcefully than he probably should. It's been hurting over the past couple of days, a soreness and itch that he attributes to healing, but currently is at its worst yet. The skin’s scarred over, flaked off, and knitted itself back together, but it's still obvious that the crazy man broke quite deeply into the skin. Frankly speaking, he should’ve probably gotten stitches, but Liam’s first responder skills seemed to the job well enough.

Still, he probably should have gotten it checked out. But, as he’s grown to do, Killian ignores it, jogging across the street in the last seconds of the crosswalk timer without a second thought. Thatch’s office window is alight, second story of the marina office building, one in from the corner. It’s a little quirk he’s picked up over the years, checking to see if the boss man was in and what the chances were of any surprise inspections or visits before setting sail. When that happened, Killian could always makes out his pacing figure in the lit window.

The windows are empty now, void of any person or object moving or otherwise. He’s safe from any surprise scolding for the night.

He strolls down the docks, head down as he makes his way past the line of anxious travelers. He walks up the gangplank, nodding to the lads in the crew he recognizes and the odd passenger whose boarded early due to age or disability. He’d stop to chat with them all, but he hasn’t the time. Gus’ men are good men, Killian knows that, or otherwise Thatch wouldn’t have hired them in the first place. Killian just doesn’t know them as well as he knows his own crew, and therefore can’t guarantee that they’d do all the tasks needed to safely get across the Hudson. With a final itch at his injury, Killian sets off to check all the stations, make sure proper switches are flicked and such before settling in at the captain’s wheel for the evening.

After checking everything and requesting his second in command for the night, Tom, double-check behind him, Killian waves at the man on the gangplank to let the line file on and find spots on board. He closes the door of the helm behind him, ready to get going. The lights are dimmer up here to make sure sailors can see whatever lies beyond the ship. Others’ faces only illuminate due to the dashboard lamps and button lights. Killian checks the place over quickly before opening up a window and waiting for the signal that the ropes were untied and secured.

It comes in and Killian pulls away with ease despite the darkness falling around them.

With a contented sigh, he sets course for Union City.

They make it over uneventfully the first time, and then they make the return trip without consequence. But the third time, as the saying goes, is the charm.

It comes on suddenly, his migraine. He's been known to have them on occasion, but they're usually more gradual, his body having courtesy enough to give him a wee bit of warning before his head feels like it's about to split in two. But this one strikes him harder than the rest: even the deck lights from passing vessels and the dull dashboard blinkers are too bright, the few thoughts in his own head are yelps and howls, and that thoughtful dinner Liam packed him is more than threatening to make a reappearance.

"Sorry, lads," Killian groans, the mere movement of the ship and the action of speaking worsening his condition. "I need to take a minute."

"Go for it, Jones," Tom says, "people aren't supposed to be that color."

Barely able to nod, Killian blessedly wanders below deck, off to find some secluded corner of the ship that's dark, quiet, and hopefully has something he can lay horizontal across.

He hasn't felt this ill in ages. The last time it was this bad, he must have been in high school and, though he retains his youthful glow, that was easily a decade ago. Could it be food poisoning of some sort, he questions himself. Maybe Liam was finally sick of some of his more dickish tendencies and decided to off him.

When he finds a closet big enough for him to lie down on the floor, Killian is hobbling instead of walking. The clang of the closet door as it shuts behind him throws him to his hands and knees. For some reason, he looks up, his eyes caught by the light of the full moon shining through the porthole window above him. This light source - nature's nightlight, a guardian that used to calm him before closing the bedroom door and submerging a purely frightened Killian into darkness - seems to be the only one that doesn't bother his vision. Curious, Killian thinks, before his stomach rolls and causes him to curl into the fetal position.

There might be something impeding him from laying down, but he's too far gone to even bother. Eyes closed, Killian focuses on his breathing, hoping that maybe settling that will settle the rest of him.

It doesn't work much.

He might fall asleep, but it's fitful to say the least. The strangest dreams plague him. They're animalistic in nature, but, for some odd reason, he's on the water. It's sort of calming: even in his subconscious, the water has that affect, makes him stop whatever he's doing in the dream and take a breath. Somehow, he can even tell it's the Hudson, the very body of water his physical body sails across. It's something in the scent, the dirt and oil and rubbish that New Yorkers and New Jerseyans constantly bash it with.

(He's never been a huge believer in dreams having hidden meanings, but the appearance of this water makes him at least contemplate googling it.)

When he comes to, Killian feels oddly refreshed. It feels like he's gone on a run, one meant rid him of all the excess energy he sometimes has, and his muscles are beautifully sore. He goes to sit up and then the pleasant feelings he's got start to disappear. His back is blessedly achy, and when he twists around to see why, Killian finds a loose nail right where his right shoulder blade was. That, and the floor of the closet he's for some reason still in is pure metal.

"That can't be good," he mumbles to himself, his voice hoarse speaking about the errant screw. Clearing his throat, he notices it feels sore, as if he's coming down with strep or something similar, or like he'd spent the evening before shouting imitating his favorite screamo band's top hits.

(He doesn't have one. A favorite screamo band.)

Shaking his head, Killian glances out the porthole window. It's bright, but not too much so. "Early," he says to himself. Liam's going to be worrying: Killian should've been home a couple hours ago. The ship isn't swaying anymore, meaning they must be docked, probably fueling up for the day's cross-river trips.

Going easy on his body, Killian stands, brushing his clothes off. Or, he should say, what's left of his clothes. His pants stop at the knees now, tatters dangling from the fabric. There's also a rather sizable hole near the seam of his crotch that wasn't there when he boarded last night. Killian grabs at his shirt. Half of his left sleeve is missing, the skin showing scratched up and crusted over with dry blood.

"What the -" Searching his surroundings for any clue as to what might have happened or who might have attacked him in such an odd manner, Killian sees something curious. As he approaches the door to the closet, his hand reaches out to trace what looks like claw marks, deep ones, in the grain of the door. "Bloody hell."

Everything after that seems a little bit fuzzy, or at least that's what he'll tell the psychologist he'll definitely have to see because of this incident. In the moment, Killian is disoriented, sure, but more so, he's hyper aware of exactly everything that happens to him: the smell of the diesel filling up tank, the face of everyone he passes. The bracingly cool feel of the Hudson as he stumbles getting off the gangplank and trips into the water. Sand and sludge greet his feet, the water pretty shallow, thankfully, and after a quick scan, Killian swims to the closest ladder unharmed. Dripping wet and even more confused, he makes his way down the docks and back to land. He doesn't have the patience to deal with public transportation and, at this hour, it's run is limited, so he calls for a Lyft.

(Thankfully, working on and around the water for so long has taught Killian to invest in waterproofing his phone. His wallet, however, and the other various small things in his pockets aren't so lucky.)

Once safely back in the apartment, Killian leans against the front door, his head tilting back and his eyes sliding shut. His breathing is harsh. When he tries to remember what happened last night, his memories fail him. He knows he wasn't feeling well, had told the lads that he needed a lie down to get rid of a migraine. And then waking up this morning. Something must have happened in between the two memories, especially taking in to account the injuries and state of his clothing.

"Killian? Is that you?" Liam's voice breaks him from the point of falling apart. It sounds like he's in the kitchen, meaning it's early enough for him to be getting ready for work, but not so late that his brother's rushing out of the house. That's comforting.

Pushing off the door, Killian heads toward his brother, asking, "What time is it?"

"What time is...?" Liam's scoff turns into a chuckle as he comes into view. He's fixing a cup of coffee, back to Killian. He's got his police department shirt on, yet hasn't changed out of his pajamas pants. "Little brother, where the hell have you..." Turning around, Liam trails off. Killian can see his eyes widen. Placing his mug carefully on the counter, Liam rushes up to him. "Killian, what the bloody hell? Are you alright?"

"Am I alright?" Killian laughs at the notion. Gesturing wildly, he adds, "Do I look like I'm alright?"

Liam's hands inspect the scratches on his arm, then frantically search the rest of his skin for marks. He finds some on his other arm, and even more on his neck, face, and calves. "What the fuck happened, Killian? Did you get in a fight?"

"No!" Running a hand through his hair, Killian sighs. He can feel his pulse speeding up again, and an irrational sense of anger and frustration wells up in him.

"Move," he growls at Liam. His brother takes a step back and watches him cautiously as Killian begins to pace.

When he calms down a bit, is more able to string words together sensibly, Killian breathes deeply and stops in front of Liam. "I don't know what happened," he tells him. "I was feeling ill around eleven, so I went to one of the closets to rest and I woke up this morning looking like this."

Liam's brow arches. "You woke up this morning in one of the closets looking like a drowned rat and smelling like sun-baked shit?"

"Ugh, no," Killian says, shaking his head emphatically, "I fell in the river trying to get back home."

Shrugging his shoulders, Liam makes a noise of understanding.

Killian grasps his brother's arms, forcing him to pay attention and focus. "Liam, I think something's wrong with me."

"I would be more concerned if you didn't believe there something to be wrong," he says.

Releasing himself from Killian's hold, Liam places a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"We'll figure it out together, little brother, worry not." He gives him a comforting smile and squeezes his shoulder gently. "But let's get you in the shower and then dressed in something clean. Then we'll figure out the rest in time."

0000

Confusion and slight trauma of blacking out aside, Killian recovers for the entire experience quite well. Nothing a shower, some sleep, and a bottle of rum couldn’t solve.

When he comes back to the Jolly Roger after a day off, Thatch, Gus, and the rest of the men welcome him back as if nothing had happened. They were worried for him, sure, but they thought he’d been struck by a bad 24 hour flu.

Killian asks Tom, Rob, and everyone else who was on the ship with him that night. All they could recall was him going down below complaining of a headache. No one saw him leave the ship, yet didn’t question it because, as captain, he was often the last one to leave as it was. No one checked on him, figuring that he would be angry if they woke him or would appreciate the chance to rest. It’s a wee bit disconcerting, but at least Killian can argue that his crew is thoughtful enough of his well being.

A few weeks go by with nothing unusual to report. Life goes on and on. Killian keeps reporting to the Jolly Roger, each time pushing away the concern of his blacked out night. Liam keeps his shifts at the station, sometimes staying on duty over 24 hours to follow that ‘good form’ he drilled into his younger brother. It’s not very often they get to share a meal together, but when they do, it’s over DVR-ed games and alcohol.

It’s the night before one of those nights - Killian’s off for the next couple days, but Liam’s working on his last graveyard shift of the week. Tomorrow, they’ll be able to spend the day together, or at least the afternoon depending on how late Liam decides to sleep, for the first time in a while. The forecast calls for rain - torrential downpours at times - so the chances of them spending all of their time in pajamas, probably unshowered, and a questionable amount of alcohol is quite likely.

Killian’s already preparing for it.

For his last night of solo freedom, he’s conquered the couch, sitting in the middle cushion and sprawled out. No cares. Chinese food on the coffee table and a beer in hand.

Save for the slight headache grinding his brain, the night is pretty perfect.

He’s zoned off enough to only catch the tail end of the local weather report, the meteorologist warning of thunderstorms and higher tides due to the full moon.

He rolls his eyes at the weather report, and instead, settles on a rerun of Friends, something familiar, funny, and mindless. If he falls asleep - a likely outcome, given the growing severity of his headache - he won’t feel like he missed out on anything.

(Liam never liked watching Friends, he was always more of a Seinfeld person, so that’s an additional reason to get in an episode while he can do so without complaints.)

Idly scratching the scar left Gold left behind, Killian relaxes on the couch, fixing his feet on the table. He takes a sip of his drink as one of the characters begins complaining about her hair. Throughout the first episode, he closes up his dinner and lays down on the couch. On about the fourth episode, his eyes begin to droop, his headache unwieldy. He stays conscious long enough to turn the volume almost all the way down, hoping that will help soothe his aching head, before fading off to sleep.

Shooting awake an hour and a half later, pain wrecks his entire body. Killian can’t help it: he howls. His headache is wreaking havoc, somehow having gotten worse as he rested. The grinding has evolved into pulsations and mumbling, incoherent voices and questions unanswered. His muscles feel like they’re ripping apart, the pain manifesting in another, longer howl. Waves hit him, radiating from his wrist, right where Gold bit him. The voices and noises he hears are getting louder by the minute. Thank gods Liam was working that night, though the same can’t be said for their neighbors. He’s definitely woken them: they might have already called the police or banged on their shared walls.

Despite his better judgement, Killian tries to stand from couch, immediately collapsing. His skin is too tight: he feels like he’s going to explode. His clothes already seem to be doing so, the seams of his sweatpants tearing and his shirt hanging from his shoulders.

He grasps for the coffee table, his fingers sinking into the wood like putty. His eyes shoot to his hand.

It’s not his hand.

Rationally, he knows it’s his hand, can feel the coffee table splintering beneath his grip, but it’s not his hand. It’s far too large, too hairy, too pawlike to even be human.

Pain ripples through him again, another wave curling him up on the floor. Whatever illness he has, or attack that’s struck him, is ending him. Killian is convinced this is how he dies, in the fetal position on his living room floor.

And then it’s done. The sinews of his muscles return to their spots. His organs have halted their threat of explosion. He is fine.

Except now his eye level barely reaches the top of the couch arm.

And something heavy hangs from his ass.

Panic starts to set in. Killian’s somehow shrunk, and the idea throws him off balance. He thumps into the couch seat, then slams into the destroyed coffee table. He looks down and, instead of seeing his knees and his bare feet as expected, he’s met with the floor.

And paws. Not paw-like hands. Paws.

His head whips over his shoulder. The heavy weight is connected to him, switching swiftly from side to side.

He’s got a tail.

“Oh fuck,” he says. But it doesn’t come out in words. It’s incomprehensible, something like a moan or a man without a tongue trying to speak.

There’s a banging on the ceiling that Killian can somehow differentiate from the nearly identical banging three floors door. It’s two couples having sex, the woman above him having a much more pleasurable time than the other. He’s not quite sure how he knows that, but he can pick up the hitches in her breath.

“FUCK!” Killian barks. An actual bark.

Before he’s sure he’s made up his mind, Killian’s barreling toward the front door. He needs to get out of here, but without opposable thumbs, he’s trapped. That flusters him even further, his tail wagging furiously and running him into the wall.

Killian tries to headbutt the door down to no avail. Anger floods him, brings a growl from the depths of his stomach in frustration. He pulls back, adrenaline coiling in the muscles of his legs, and jumps, throwing the whole of his body weight against the door. It budges, and with another, more forceful headbutt, the door gives, leading Killian to freedom.

He’s running: where, he knows not. Killian can already smell the dirt and garbage in the air from the stairwell. He hits the outdoors, the fresh air as stunning as the puddle of rain his paws splash in. The colors of neon business signs flash as he runs by them, the lights far too bright, and the noises he usually finds comforting enough to fall asleep to far too loud. He can hear the garbage truck six streets over, the drunk conversation in the pizza parlor on the corner of the block, the rumble of thunder rolling southeast. It’s overwhelming to the point of nausea.

That is until he reaches a wooded area. What little part of his rationality remains realizes he’s somehow made it to Central Park and over the fence. He’d made what was normally a 20 minute subway ride in maybe ten on foot. The pavement here smells differently, damp grass and dead leaves mingling and growing stronger in his nostrils. He slows down to a trot, his senses calming. He can feel his heartbeat slow, the adrenaline leaking from his muscles. The noises are quieter here, more natural. Nocturnal animals scurrying around in search of a meal. Zoo animals breathing deeply in sleep. The occasional couple passing on the outskirts of the park.

This is a side of New York no one really ever considers. Even as a self-professed New Yorker for life, Killian sometimes forgets how peaceful New York is at night, especially Central Park when it’s closed to the public eye.

It’s nice.

Breathing deeply through his nose, Killian lets out a contented sigh. A crack of wood to his left catches his attention, the noise far louder than he’s used to. It startles him. It startles him further when he can tell that, whatever creature broke the stick, is smaller than him.

And panicking because it knows it’s been heard.

Before he can realize what’s truly happening, Killian’s running. His breath comes hard and fast. His muscles stretch and contract more than he’s ever really realized possible. His legs feel stronger. There’s an ache in his shoulders he knows will be even worse come morning.

The animal’s a coyote, rare in the park, but not unheard of. It’s running, far and fast.

Killian’s faster.

He catches up to the creature in less than a half a mile, a good effort on both sides.

Unsure of killing it, Killian lets the animal in himself take over.

This primal side of him sated, Killian carefully ambles back to the apartment. He’s not quite sure what the hour is, but somehow knows it’s late enough to be considered early. He’s been out for far longer than he should have been. It’d be wise for him to watch where he strays. The last place he’d want to end this transformative night is the city pound, especially when he doesn’t know what might happen come sunrise.

(He hope he isn’t...whatever he is by sunrise. That’s put a damper in some plans.)

The front door is just as he left it, slightly unhinged, just as he feels. Killian crawls through the opening, his back bristling as the wood scratches his spine.

(Idly, he hopes he doesn’t have weirdly-placed splinters on his back tomorrow.)

The sun is barely peeking over the horizon, hardly shining through the grates of the fire escape outside the living room when he settles on the couch. He’s got nothing left to do but wait out this demonstration. Might as well catch up on some sleep while he does.

Killian nods off, only to come to when a noise pricks at his ears.

Someone’s coming up the building stairs. The gait is somewhat familiar, heavy.

They stop on his floor. Killian’s hackles rise.

The person stops short of the apartment door. There’s a brief scuffling, as if the person is looking around. In his throat, Killian feels a slight hum rising.

And then the door creaks open.

“Who’s there?” Liam’s threatening voice startles him and brings a growl from the back of his throat. Killian can feel the noise reverberate off the walls of the apartment. He hops off the couch and stalks toward the front door, hiding in the shadows of the couch.

When his brother comes into view, it’s a little unnerving. The door fully pushed in, much more wonky than it was when Killian came back earlier in the evening. Liam’s off duty, yes, but he’s still got his badge and his gun, leading him into the apartment. His eyes search the opening area quickly, methodically, until they land on Killian. Liam’s eyes go wide in shock, his arms falling slightly. He’s scared and Killian isn’t quite sure why.

And then Killian realizes: he’s the reason Liam is so frightened.

Coming out of the shadows, Killian cautiously approaches his brother, looking him straight in the eyes. When he’s within reach, he knocks his head against Liam’s knees, hoping that, somehow, his brother will get the message.

“Hoooooly shit,” Liam breathes. His eyes, if possible, go even wider. In an instant, his arms fall to his side and the gun goes back in its holster. His brother runs his hands through his hair, the exhaustion already on his face further emphasized with messy hair. He cocks his head for a moment, something like recognition washing over his expression, before asking, “Killian, is that you?”

Killian nods. There’s a weird sensation occurring on his head, high above his brows. He’s felt this sensation earlier tonight, but not enough for him to question it. New muscles are stretching behind him, and Liam’s voice becomes a wee bit fainter. His brother holds up his hands. “Don’t be afraid.” Killian tilts his head up to match gazes. Liam points at his head. “Your ears are back.”

Killian grumps. This weird body he’s inhabiting is so unusual. He already tends to wear his heart on his sleeve and now, it seems, his thoughts bubble up in his ears or his hackles. Killian stalks around the apartment, back toward the cushions and destroyed coffee table. Liam follows, as evidenced by his footfalls. Killian leaps onto the couch and sits, staring at his brother as he observes the damage inflicted.

“Christ alive, you’re a fucking wolf,” he mumbles. “What the fuck happened here?”

When he opens his mouth to explain, Killian is unfortunately reminded that his vocal chords aren’t as advanced as he’s accustomed to. His words come out as whimpers and grunts. With a groan, Killian rolls his eyes.

Liam chuckles. “Right,” he says, “I suppose you can’t really tell me anything that happened.” Looking around the living room, he must come to the conclusion that nothing more can be said - or barked - on the matter.

“Just tell me this. It’s a simple yes or no question. Are you okay?” Killian nods, his tail wagging behind him.

Nodding, Liam scrubs at his forehead and mumbles, “Go to bed, Killian. Or go to your bedroom. You don’t have to sleep, but I do.” Sighing, Liam stands, his joints crunching in protest. “Just stay in your room until morning and then we’ll discuss options.” He glances toward Killian once more. “Hopefully it won’t be as one-sided as this conversation.”

Killian watches as Liam heads to his bedroom. He hops off the couch and trots up to his brother’s side, his haunches coming up to Liam’s hips. Hoping his brother perceives it as the sign of affection it’s meant to be, Killian knocks his head against Liam’s knees again.

Liam chuckles, reaching his hand down to pat Killian’s head. “I know, brother,” he says.

“Don’t stress about things you don’t understand and can’t fix at the moment. Try and rest.” With a brush of Killian’s ears and a final pat to the head, Liam smiles tiredly and heads off to his room.

Following suit, Killian lopes into his own bedroom, bed still made from this morning and his sleep clothes still folded on the dresser. Unsure of what state he might be in come morning, all Killian can do is jump up on the bed, circle a spot in the center and plop down, his head resting on his paws. All he can do is close his eyes and hope that he can find some sleep and some answers tomorrow.

0000

A cold breeze wakes Killian. It runs over his shoulders, his bare back, and over his ass. He shivers so violently that his eyes shoot open and he inhales deeply and suddenly.

He’s caddywompus on the mattress, one foot hanging off one edge, a forearm and both hands hanging off the other. But they’re human hands, not paws anymore. Pushing himself up on his elbows, Killian takes a quick inventory. He’s naked, his clothes from last night mostly likely in tatters on the living room floor next to the destroyed furniture. He’s cold, yes, but goosebumps cover his skin, not his fur. All of his parts are in place and, save for a few scratches and bruises on his calves and arms, he’s unharmed.

Cautiously standing, his muscles scream from overexertion. Killian rifles through his drawers for some of his less-loved clothes just in case a repeat of last night occurs. Once clothed, he stretches further, reaching a high as he can and moaning.

Last night was interesting, to say the least. He remembers everything that happened, thankfully, and the migraine that preceded yesterday’s events has since disappeared.

That’s promising.

Shuffling out of his room, still a little disoriented, Killian makes his way into the kitchen. Liam stands at the counter, pouring out his own mug of coffee.

“Morning,” Killian grumbles, squinting at the light from the windows and the gravel in his own voice.

Liam glances over his shoulder with a chuckle. “Oh good,” he says. “I was wondering whether I’d have to go out and get some kibble for you, but it looks like you can find some breakfast on your own now.”

“Yeah, opposable thumbs are quite the invention.” He opens the cabinet and pulls out a coffee cup. He fills it to the brim before replacing the pot and taking a healthy swallow.

Turning to Liam, mug wafting steam up his nose, Killian asks, “How did you know it was me and not some stray dog?”

“Eyes,” Liam says solidly, pointing to his own. “I raised you, little brother. I’d know the family trait if I were blind.” Walking to the living room, Liam gestures for Killian to follow. He does, naturally, only to see the destruction from last night cleaned up. Liam sits on the couch as if nothing were unusual. “What happened, Killian?” he asks.

“I…” Clicking his tongue, Killian sits down on the other side of the couch. “I’m not quite sure. I think,” but that can’t be right, could it, “I think I ran to Central Park.”

Liam chokes, spitting his coffee messily back into his mug. “Excuse me?”

Killian shrugs. “It would explain the unhinged door.” The more he thinks about it, the more he’s sure that it’s the only logical explanation. “Yeah. The noises on the street, the lights.” He looks up. “It was a lot to take in.”

“What happened in the park?” Liam inquires.

“Nothing.” Eyebrows furrowed as he mentally reviews what he did, Killian tilts his head.

“It was quite lovely, actually. It was quiet and dark. I got to hunt. No one bothered me.”

“I should think not,” Liam says. “Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t know! I wasn’t paying them much attention.” He’s pretty sure no one saw him, though the more he ponders on the topic, the more concerned he grows. Matching his gaze with his brother’s, Killian professes, “We can’t stay here, Liam.”

“I agree.” Killian leans back against the couch arm, confused.

Liam shrugs, pointing toward the door. “What? You were a goddamn wolf mere hours ago! We live in one of the most populated cities in the entire world.”

Setting his cup down on the floor, Liam rests his elbows on his knees, fingers templed over his mouth. “Look, I know human you has a heart of gold, but how am I supposed to know that animal you won’t attack someone in the building or on the street?”

“I didn’t this time, did I?” Killian responds petulantly.

“Beginners’ luck, I guarantee it.”

“Technically, this would be my second time going through this transformation.”

“Killian, you don’t remember the first time this happened and you wrecked this place the second.” He has to concede: Liam does have a fair point. “Come now, let's get some food and then we can start looking for a new town.”

As his brother stands, Killian looks into his mug. The liquid is muddy, just like his mind. There’s so much running through it - transforming, ruining furniture, searching for a new home. He feels slightly hungover. Still, Killian hangs his head, bringing his cup down to his lap.

“I’m sorry, brother,” he apologizes morosely. His voice is soft, but he knows from years of experience that Liam’s listening.

“For breaking so much of this shitty furniture?” Liam asks with a chuckle. There’s a clink signaling he’s put his mug in the sink. “We’re due for some adult digs.”

“No, not that,” Killian says, standing himself. “You know how much I hated this table.” He makes his way back to the kitchen, pouring himself another cup unlike his brother.

“This is home. This is where we became a family again. This is our safe haven and I’ve ruined it.”

Liam’s shoulders sag as he sighs. “No you haven’t,” he replies, shaking his head. “We are home when we are together. Don’t ever forget that. The weather, the city, the blasted kitchen table might change, but our love for one another never will.”

His hand falls on Killian’s shoulder. He squeezes comfortingly, drawing his attention. “I love you, Killian. I don’t say it often, but I do. We’ll find a new place to settle and we will figure out this Twilight thing of yours.” Lightly punching him on the arm, Liam laughs.

“This is the weirdest way to reveal which side of that fight you’re on.”

Killian scoffs, pushing his brother away. “Team Jacob for the win,” he says half heartedly. That makes Liam guffaw, bending at the waist to help get air in his lungs.

“Shut up. You’re only laughing because you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I won’t pretend to.” He’s still laughing as he heads back to his room. “Get yourself together. We’ve got a long day of finding a house ahead of us.

[elrhiarhodan]

I am astonished these days by the bold-faced ballsiness of the Republican hypocrisy.

My jaw is perpetually on the floor. It’s not even attached anymore. It’s just a jawbone resting at my feet, as my tongue flops and flips around my rent-open face in moist gesticulations that fail to properly explain the sheer what-the-fuckery I’m forever feeling.

It’s probably always been there, this hypocrisy. Maybe it was better hidden, once upon a time. And certainly no political entity is without its duplicities and insincerities — but what we’re seeing now, what is paraded before us daily by both the administration and by Congress, is like satire written by an angry eight-year-old. It’s so clumsy, so on-the-nose, that no one would ever let the story air because it feels like a chimpanzee’s attempt at parody. Irony is dead. It’s six-feet-deep. Political humor is harder now than ever, because how do you make fun of a clown?

Every time I turn on on the news or even glimpse at Twitter, I see more and newer hypocrisies whipping fast past my eyes, scrolling like the list of side effects you’d get on a commercial for dick pills. It’s dizzying: an ever-growing display of towering horseshit so vertiginous that to attempt to climb it would be positively fucking Sisyphean. You’d never make it to the top. You’d forever be sliding back down as another shovel-load whaps you in the face.

They say they care about families, but then they rip them apart and deny them aid. They call women “hosts,” removing their personage, their choice, their access to care. They love unborn kids but somehow hate the women that give birth to them. Eat shit, Moms. They only want what’s in those uteruses, not the uteruses themselves. And once you’re born, ha ha, double fuck you, kid. Fuck your education. Fuck your health. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, they say only after they’ve bought up all the bootstraps for themselves and closed the bootstrap factories and what the fuck is a bootstrap, anyway?

They speak about individual responsibility, but can’t even show up for their own fucking town halls. They won’t be accountable to anything or anyone, but you, you have to be accountable for everything — even for them. When they say individual responsibility, they mean fuck you, do it yourself. Fuck the safety net. Fuck the general health and well-being of the nation. They got theirs, man. They mean that they won’t help you. The government’s very job is one of communal responsibility, but they have absolved themselves of that role and given it only to you. And how far down does that rabbit hole go? Will we be our kids’ only teachers? Are we our own doctors? Is the road outside my house mine and mine alone to build and to fix? They want to hold only their enemies accountable. They’ll investigate Hillary for decades after she’s dead, but they won’t cast one suspiciously-slitted eye toward Trump, toward Russia, toward every pay-for-play drip of corruption that erodes the bedrock of our government’s ability to self-regulate.

They talk about freedom, but the freedom they want isn’t for you. The freedom you want is the freedom to be able to drink clean water, to breathe clean air, to buy products that won’t kill you, to buy insurance that won’t bankrupt you, to invest in a future that helps you instead of hurts you. The freedom they want is for themselves. The freedom they champion isn’t yours, it belongs to big business. They want businesses to have the freedom to poison your air and your water, to lie to you, to tie you up with loopholes like nooses, to savage your investments and your future earnings. They want the freedom to take advantage of you, and they’ll sell that as your freedom, too. Don’t you want the choice to be lied to, to be cheated, to be ruined? What freedom! What choice! Ah, yes, just as our Founding Fathers wanted: the liberty of empowering others to fuck you from every angle. Isn’t that in the Bill of Rights? Can we get it in there somewhere?

They talk about being fiscally conservative, but then they spend money like they can just print more. (And our president thinks we can just print more.) It’ll cost more for our Comrade-in-Chief to go golfing than for the entire National Endowment for the Arts budget. The president has the fiscal discipline of a drunken gambling addict.

They talk about being stewards of the land, then take a flamethrower to the EPA, try to sell off the national parks, refuse to acknowledge climate change, and eradicate environmental protections — including streams. Because fuck streams, right? Streams have had it too good for too long.

They want you to pay your taxes, even though our president is proud of having never paid his.

They bark about voter fraud, then gerrymander the shit out of everything, rigging the game with a hundred thumbs holding down their side of the scale.

They climb to their seat of power on a ladder whose rungs are fashioned from fake news, and then once they’re up there, they look down at you and say, you’re the fake news. Everything you want, fake. Everything you are, fake. You don’t even exist if you disagree. Did you protest? You were paid. Did you show up at a town hall? You’re not a constituent. You’re a unicorn. A snowflake in need of a safe space.

And yet, they call us snowflakes, but melt under the tiniest light of scrutiny, under the smallest agitation. The moment anyone disagrees, they retreat to their own safe spaces, close and lock the doors, turn off all the lights, lower all the blinds so they can peer out until we’re gone.

The evil circus peanut who sits in the highest chair in the land decries liberal Hollywood elites while being himself a liberal Hollywood elite. We must do more with less, the man says as he goes to one of his like, seven fucking White Houses to hold a rally for an election in four years that doesn’t even have an opponent.

They talk about making America great, as if Americans weren’t already great.

They vilify illegal immigrants, as if we weren’t all illegal immigrants — as if this isn’t a country built first on native land that wasn’t ours, then second on the backs of black slaves who we stole and enslaved and tried to treat more like livestock than as human beings. They try to demonstrate how great this America is, but then those who come here to share in its greatness are cast aside, are sent away, are rounded up and torn from their families and told they don’t belong here. They claim to serve an America for all Americans, but it’s not — it’s for a very narrow slice, for the richest and whitest and straightest, for the healthiest, for the abled, for the men, for the companies, for themselves. Even the white working class gets fucked even as they’re told they’re not, because they still have to drink the water and breathe the air. They vote for the right to poison the water, you drink the water, you get cancer, but fuck your health, and fuck your kids if they’re born with a defect, that’s America, now, buddy. The freedom they want is to get what’s theirs from your pocket and pay no price for it even as you wither and weep at their feet. The freedom they want is to rob you blind then point to The Other and say, they did it, over there, it wasn’t us. We look just like you. You could be rich someday. Wouldn’t that be nice? It’s them over there. The welfare queens. The foreigners. The terrorists and the rapists. Not us. Never us.

They make hats and shirts that say AMERICA but whose tags say CHINA.

All the while, that word America in their mouths like a Bible verse on the tongue of the Devil. God Bless America, they say as they pick up their axes and chop at the roots of this tree. We’re good Christians, they say, as they do yet another un-Christian thing, because I’m sure it was Jesus who said fuck you, I got mine. Piss on compassion. To hell with empathy. These hypocrites cut away at the foundation of all the things we need to be a smart, healthy, successful country. They attack science. They hack at education. They want to chop your healthcare to splinters. They destroy debate. They slit the throat of every fact they don’t want you to know. They call the media the opposition, the enemy. They claim that truth is fake. The truth that we are at greater danger from white nationalist terror than from radical Muslim terror? Fake. The truth that we have nothing to fear from refugees, and that they are already extremely vetted? Fake. The truth that transgender individuals are not the harassers but in fact, the harassed? Fakeity-fake-fake, they say. The sky is red, ham is a fruit, pray for the family of Shazaam Berenstein, a survivor of the Bowling Green Massacre who then went on to die in the Swedish Event.

Their hypocrisy only grows — swelling like a tumor, diverting blood-flow away from healthy organs and to itself, because that’s how a cancer grows. A cancer is your body in rebellion. A cancer is rogue cells bypassing the checks and balances of your biology. This is that. Their hypocrisy is a symptom, though. And like with all symptoms, we must not ignore it.

We must treat the disease. Inoculate against the bullshit.

They will not hold themselves accountable.

So we must.

We must demand they do better.

We must demand our media be the watchdog.

We must resist their duplicity and their lies.

Courage in this strange time, folks. Stay frosty. Remain vigilant. Hang together.

Comments closed because, really, c’mon.

[whatthehelloh]

I am astonished these days by the bold-faced ballsiness of the Republican hypocrisy.

My jaw is perpetually on the floor. It’s not even attached anymore. It’s just a jawbone resting at my feet, as my tongue flops and flips around my rent-open face in moist gesticulations that fail to properly explain the sheer what-the-fuckery I’m forever feeling.

It’s probably always been there, this hypocrisy. Maybe it was better hidden, once upon a time. And certainly no political entity is without its duplicities and insincerities — but what we’re seeing now, what is paraded before us daily by both the administration and by Congress, is like satire written by an angry eight-year-old. It’s so clumsy, so on-the-nose, that no one would ever let the story air because it feels like a chimpanzee’s attempt at parody. Irony is dead. It’s six-feet-deep. Political humor is harder now than ever, because how do you make fun of a clown?

Every time I turn on on the news or even glimpse at Twitter, I see more and newer hypocrisies whipping fast past my eyes, scrolling like the list of side effects you’d get on a commercial for dick pills. It’s dizzying: an ever-growing display of towering horseshit so vertiginous that to attempt to climb it would be positively fucking Sisyphean. You’d never make it to the top. You’d forever be sliding back down as another shovel-load whaps you in the face.

They say they care about families, but then they rip them apart and deny them aid. They call women “hosts,” removing their personage, their choice, their access to care. They love unborn kids but somehow hate the women that give birth to them. Eat shit, Moms. They only want what’s in those uteruses, not the uteruses themselves. And once you’re born, ha ha, double fuck you, kid. Fuck your education. Fuck your health. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, they say only after they’ve bought up all the bootstraps for themselves and closed the bootstrap factories and what the fuck is a bootstrap, anyway?

They speak about individual responsibility, but can’t even show up for their own fucking town halls. They won’t be accountable to anything or anyone, but you, you have to be accountable for everything — even for them. When they say individual responsibility, they mean fuck you, do it yourself. Fuck the safety net. Fuck the general health and well-being of the nation. They got theirs, man. They mean that they won’t help you. The government’s very job is one of communal responsibility, but they have absolved themselves of that role and given it only to you. And how far down does that rabbit hole go? Will we be our kids’ only teachers? Are we our own doctors? Is the road outside my house mine and mine alone to build and to fix? They want to hold only their enemies accountable. They’ll investigate Hillary for decades after she’s dead, but they won’t cast one suspiciously-slitted eye toward Trump, toward Russia, toward every pay-for-play drip of corruption that erodes the bedrock of our government’s ability to self-regulate.

They talk about freedom, but they freedom they want isn’t for you. The freedom you want is the freedom to be able to drink clean water, to breathe clean air, to buy products that won’t kill you, to buy insurance that won’t bankrupt you, to invest in a future that helps you instead of hurts you. The freedom they want is for themselves. The freedom they champion isn’t yours, it belongs to big business. They want businesses to have the freedom to poison your air and your water, to lie to you, to tie you up with loopholes like nooses, to savage your investments and your future earnings. They want the freedom to take advantage of you, and they’ll sell that as your freedom, too. Don’t you want the choice to be lied to, to be cheated, to be ruined? What freedom! What choice! Ah, yes, just as our Founding Fathers wanted: the liberty of empowering others to fuck you from every angle. Isn’t that in the Bill of Rights? Can we get it in there somewhere?

They talk about being fiscally conservative, but then they spend money like they can just print more. (And our president thinks we can just print more.) It’ll cost more for our Comrade-in-Chief to go golfing than for the entire National Endowment for the Arts budget. The president has the fiscal discipline of a drunken gambling addict.

They talk about being stewards of the land, then take a flamethrower to the EPA, try to sell off the national parks, refuse to acknowledge climate change, and eradicate environmental protections — including streams. Because fuck streams, right? Streams have had it too good for too long.

They want you to pay your taxes, even though our president is proud of having never paid his.

They bark about voter fraud, then gerrymander the shit out of everything, rigging the game with a hundred thumbs holding down their side of the scale.

They climb to their seat of power on a ladder whose rungs are fashioned from fake news, and then once they’re up there, they look down at you and say, you’re the fake news. Everything you want, fake. Everything you are, fake. You don’t even exist if you disagree. Did you protest? You were paid. Did you show up at a town hall? You’re not a constituent. You’re a unicorn. A snowflake in need of a safe space.

And yet, they call us snowflakes, but melt under the tiniest light of scrutiny, under the smallest agitation. The moment anyone disagrees, they retreat to their own safe spaces, close and lock the doors, turn off all the lights, lower all the blinds so they can peer out until we’re gone.

The evil circus peanut who sits in the highest chair in the land decries liberal Hollywood elites while being himself a liberal Hollywood elite. We must do more with less, the man says as he goes to one of his like, seven fucking White Houses to hold a rally for an election in four years that doesn’t even have an opponent.

They talk about making America great, as if Americans weren’t already great.

They vilify illegal immigrants, as if we weren’t all illegal immigrants — as if this isn’t a country built first on native land that wasn’t ours, then second on the backs of black slaves who we stole and enslaved and tried to treat more like livestock than as human beings. They try to demonstrate how great this America is, but then those who come here to share in its greatness are cast aside, are sent away, are rounded up and torn from their families and told they don’t belong here. They claim to serve an America for all Americans, but it’s not — it’s for a very narrow slice, for the richest and whitest and straightest, for the healthiest, for the abled, for the men, for the companies, for themselves. Even the white working class gets fucked even as they’re told they’re not, because they still have to drink the water and breathe the air. They vote for the right to poison the water, you drink the water, you get cancer, but fuck your health, and fuck your kids if they’re born with a defect, that’s America, now, buddy. The freedom they want is to get what’s theirs from your pocket and pay no price for it even as you wither and weep at their feet. The freedom they want is to rob you blind then point to The Other and say, they did it, over there, it wasn’t us. We look just like you. You could be rich someday. Wouldn’t that be nice? It’s them over there. The welfare queens. The foreigners. The terrorists and the rapists. Not us. Never us.

They make hats and shirts that say AMERICA but whose tags say CHINA.

All the while, that word America in their mouths like a Bible verse on the tongue of the Devil. God Bless America, they say as they pick up their axes and chop at the roots of this tree. We’re good Christians, they say, as they do yet another un-Christian thing, because I’m sure it was Jesus who said fuck you, I got mine. Piss on compassion. To hell with empathy. These hypocrites cut away at the foundation of all the things we need to be a smart, healthy, successful country. They attack science. They hack at education. They want to chop your healthcare to splinters. They destroy debate. They slit the throat of every fact they don’t want you to know. They call the media the opposition, the enemy. They claim that truth is fake. The truth that we are at greater danger from white nationalist terror than from radical Muslim terror? Fake. The truth that we have nothing to fear from refugees, and that they are already extremely vetted? Fake. The truth that transgender individuals are not the harassers but in fact, the harassed? Fakeity-fake-fake, they say. The sky is red, ham is a fruit, pray for the family of Shazaam Berenstein, a survivor of the Bowling Green Massacre who then went on to die in the Swedish Event.

Their hypocrisy only grows — swelling like a tumor, diverting blood-flow away from healthy organs and to itself, because that’s how a cancer grows. A cancer is your body in rebellion. A cancer is rogue cells bypassing the checks and balances of your biology. This is that. Their hypocrisy is a symptom, though. And like with all symptoms, we must not ignore it.

We must treat the disease. Inoculate against the bullshit.

They will not hold themselves accountable.

So we must.

We must demand they do better.

We must demand our media be the watchdog.

We must resist their duplicity and their lies.

Courage in this strange time, folks. Stay frosty. Remain vigilant. Hang together.

Comments closed because, really, c’mon.