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maderrMotivation seems to have left me for now -_- and I'm tired of sitting here staring and getting nothing but more frustrated. Maybe it's time I cleaned this nasty pigsty house a bit. At least my bedroom, god knows I'm up to my neck in fsking laundry again and I have all the crap and the shelves to put together *sigh*
But, the first fourteen pages of Midsummer rewrite, and I will try to get back to it in a bit, cause I am going to finish it...I just seem to be in a foul mood of a sudden and need to work it out, I think, before motivation will love me again.
Part One: Waxing Moon
Lowell sighed as yet another car passed him by, and made a note to hate the driver and passengers the rest of his life. 'Body Found By Highway: No One Would Give Poor Werewolf A Ride in the Rain.'
The cold rain that was probably going to give him hypothermia or the flu or whatever. Maybe that was for the best, really. 'Werewolf Finally Dies: World Sleeps Better.'
Shaking his head at himself, Lowell waited until the car was well out of sight and truly had no intention of maybe turning around to help the poor bastard drowning slowly to death after all.
Damn it, he just wanted not to be wet anymore. He'd been needing a shower, but this was so not what he'd had in mind. Now if the rain was near-boiling and had come with soap…
Ugh, he must be tired if he was thinking such stupid thoughts.
At least it was a light, if steady, downpour. Unfortunately, the sun had decided to continue obeying the laws of nature. Or spac.e. Physics? Whatever. It had decided to set, rather than help him by not setting, and his chances of hitching a ride diminished by the minute. When it finally well and truly dark, he could kiss any hope of one goodbye. Dark automatically made him evil in scary, even if he was nothing more some sort of sad, drowning puppy.
Werewolf. Drowning Puppy. Haha. 'Werewolf Kills Self To Spare World Bad Humor.'
He probably should have tried to sneak a sleep at the last gas station, but the clerk had creeped him out in no small way. Being a werewolf wasn't good for much, but it helped loads with the self-preservation thing.
At least the last sign had said Midsummer's Night was only twenty miles away.
Twenty miles and he could, at the very least, spend an hour or few in a waiting room. Like as not Dr. Kuhl would want nothing to do with him, and have security or something escort him out – that'd happened enough times in his life for him to know when it could happen – but at least for a bit he'd be warm and dry. Maybe there'd be time to read a few magazines, have a nap…
He really had come far in life, Lowell thought miserably, when the highlight of his day was killing time in some doctor's waiting room. Pathetic. He slid a hand into his pocket and touched the ziplock within it, filched from a shelter kitchen to protect his precious slip of paper from the elements.
Nothing but a name, an address, and the directions he'd gotten off a library computer. Not much at all, but it was a goal – a sliver of hope.
Hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to become normal. Get rid of the damned curse which had ruined any chance he had of a life. To be human, rather than some horrid monster no one could stand.
Of course, he wasn't stupid enough to get his hopes too high – it did seem kinda farfetched that anyone could actually make a cure for werewolf. He thought there was a fancier term for it. Ly-something.
Though at the rate he was going, it might not matter. He sneezed hard, shuddering in the rain, his clothes totally not up for the inclement weather. He'd had a raincoat once, an ugly red thing with an even uglier plaid lining, but it had been warm and dry. That's what he got for falling asleep at a bus station. He should have worked harder at staying awake. Served him right.
Drat it. Not so much as a single car. Even for an old highway this was a bit ridiculous.
Not that it really mattered. Raining and getting darker by the second – he should stop looking for a ride and look for a place he could sleep without getting run over or picked up by cops or mugged or something.
For better or worse, he was still two weeks from changing. Just as well, in the end, because he might have been tempted to travel as a wolf and he resisted such temptations whenever possible. The last time that had happened… Lowell shuddered and turned his thoughts elsewhere.
No, wolf form meant finding a place to hide until the hell was over.
Instead of bad memories, he turned to his most-hated, favorite game of 'what if'.
What if this Dr. Kuhl really had found a cure for ly…ly…werewolf-ness? What if he was good enough to give it to Lowell? Would he expect cash? The thought soured Lowell's stomach, because what little money he did have he'd refused to spend on the hope a meager two hundred dollars would be enough to pay for the cure, and he had the sinking feeling it wouldn't be nearly enough.
Maybe, however, Dr. Kuhl would let him work to cover the rest of it. He could certainly think of worse arrangements. Just stupid grunt work, but it wasn't like he could do anything else.
Then…then he'd finally have the cure, and would be normal and people wouldn't freak out and shun him or try to turn him over to animal control or the cops. They wouldn't try to shoot him or toss silver at him…and…
And it was all stupid daydreaming, because even assuming for one minute there was a cure and the doctor would give it to a nobody werewolf like him, he still would have a long way to go before he was a homeless, worthless nobody.
Still, life would be a lot easier when he wasn't part wolf.
It would.
Determination renewed, he trudged on through the rain, glaring at the now nearly-set sun. It wasn't like it was the first time he'd had to trudge about everywhere in the dark. He'd live. Probably.
He sneezed again, steps faltering, sneaker catching on some stray bit of rubble and Lowell went tumbling, landing hard on the roadside. Damn it. 'Werewolf Killed By Own Clumsiness.'
Rolling his eyes, Lowell started to get up again – then just fell back down, suddenly too tired to move. His motivation of only seconds before had gone out like a light. What was he thinking, seriously? He was wearing jeans that had more holes than he could count, socks that were only clean because he'd collected enough change to do some laundry. The expense had made him cringe, but he definitely wasn't going to get a cure if he smelled like a garbage pit…an old corduroy jacket that should have been retired long ago…and hair so scraggly it was probably hard to tell he did, in fact, spend most of his time in a human-shaped form.
Homeless and pathetic, that's all he was, and once glance was all it took for anyone to figure it out. No way was some semi-famous doctor going to waste his time on a vagabond werewolf when he could sell the cure for thousands or even more to wealthy werewolves.
If there was such a thing, Lowell supposed. Probably there was. Surely not all werewolves were like him…but he'd only ever met a handful of others, and none of them had been much better off than he. There didn't seem to be many of them, but there must be if werewolves kept popping up, if a doctor would go to the trouble of creating a cure.
Right?
So, likely Dr. Kuhl would just call security and that would be that.
Which mean, nice waiting room aside, he was wasting his time. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should take his pathetic two hundred dollars and a find a room and food and then in the morning he could scrounge up some work to do to make more money.
…and pretend to be normal until the full moon struck and he turned into a wolf and either was accidentally seen or missed work and was fire, or something more disastrous (which had never happened to him, but he'd heard stories from the few other wolves, and didn't want a story of his own to tell).
Sighing, Lowell tried to make himself stand, because doing something was better than nothing – but for more years than he could remember he'd been trying one thing or another and all it had gotten him was an address and an empty road while the rain slowly pneumonia-ed him to death.
His head jerked up at the sound of a car, and he reflexively held out a thumb – wholly unsurprised when it kept right on going, paying him no mind.
Jerks. Couldn't they see he was too wet and cold and miserable to be a crazy ax murderer? His poor little backpack, filched from a dumpster, couldn't even hold an axe. It barely held his spare clothes as it was.
Lowell yawned, and gave serious consideration to the idea of falling over and going to sleep right in the puddle he was occupying.
Another car approached, but he didn't bother to try and flag it down, simply waited for it to zoom on past.
Except…he must be going crazy, cause it sure as hell sounded like it was slowing down…
Looking up, he saw that either he was sick enough the hallucinations had started – or the care really had stopped.
Then a man got out, bearing an umbrella, and jogged toward him.
"Are you okay?" the man asked. Lowell couldn't really seem him much, not with the rain and dark and only the car for light…but his voice was pleasant. He knew real kindness when he heard it, and despite the sneezing his sense of smell wasn't totally gone.
What little he could smell actually smelled…yummy. Bad dog. No weird thoughts. Humans did not smell yummy, except big bad wolfs and he wasn't one of those, no.
"Um…" Lowell tried to think of something to say, but obviously his brain was waterlogged. 'Mute Werewolf Left to Die.' Yeah, that'd be fitting.
But his possible rescuer didn't seem fazed at all, merely smiled and reached out to grasp Lowell's arm, tugging him up and close enough to stand beneath the large umbrella. "Come on, my friend, you can't stay out here – you'll catch your death, if you haven't already."
Lowell started to speak, then realized he'd probably only say 'um' again, and snapped his mouth shut again.
Too tired to worry if Mr. Nice Guy might be the axe murderer, he allowed himself to be dragged toward and pushed down into the car.
Oh, heat. He was making a mess of the car and felt really bad about that, but the heat was turned on and rain wasn't falling on his head anymore and he didn't have to keep walking for at least a little bit…
It was almost enough to make him cry.
The driver door opened, his rescuer sliding into the seat, and Lowell dare to take a wary peek, never certain what to say or do in these rare moments where someone was nice to him.
Damn.
Was it a blessing or a curse that his rescuer was insanely hot? Not like, typical hot, but…something out of an old book or movie hot. Khakis, oxford, a long trench coat he hadn't bothered to fasten up… Slender, but not boney, dark hair and pretty blue eyes behind old-fashioned looking spectacles. Pretty.
"You look as though you've endured more than your fair share of the rain," the man said with a gentle laugh, fingers moving absently over the dash as he cranked the heat up, adjusted the vents. "We should be home shortly, you can shower and dry off and all there; I should even have some clothes lying about the place."
Lowell blinked. Come again? "Um – you don't – that is – I don't want to be a bother. Um. Thanks for the lift, it's really appreciated." He sneezed hard, and was almost grateful for it cutting off the rest of the stupidity that would have fallen out of his dumb mouth.
The man laughed. "Not a bother. You're welcome. I insist you come to my house. I promise I won't kill you or anything. Where are you headed?"
"Um." Lowell wanted to smack his head against the window. Think, stupid. Speak. Good dog. "I'm trying to get to Midsummer's Night."
"I see," the man said softly, and Lowell wondered why the happy tone of his voice had suddenly shifted. His smell had altered too, and he'd better stop thinking about smell because now they were out of the rain he was forced to conclude that the stranger really and truly did smell yummy.
He couldn't quite define what yummy meant, but he knew that was definitely the way to describe it.
Damn it.
He licked his lips, and started speaking again just to drown his own dumb thoughts. "I'm, uh, looking for a guy…um, a doctor actually."
"Yeah, I rather imagined you were," the man replied sadly. He extended his hand, smiling in a way that was far from happy. "Doctor Peter Kuhl, at your service."
Lowell felt the hope he'd been trying not to have wither and die in his chest, leaving a terrible ache. "You are?" At Dr. Kuhl's nod, his shoulders drooped. "You don't have a cure."
"No," Dr. Kuhl said softly. "I do not. I'm afraid it's a rumor I've been trying to kill for a very long time." The hand Lowell hadn't shaken landed gently on his shoulder. "But, come home with me. I promise my house is always welcome to any werewolf in need of one. Get clean, warm, fed, and rested. We'll figure out the rest in the morning, okay? What's your name?"
He tried to argue, to make himself get out of the car or something, because what was the point if there was no cure?
But beggar's could not be choosers, and he was definitely a beggar, and even if this guy was a lying axe murderer or simply an honest, simple doctor with no cure for werewolves – and he'd known Lowell was a werewolf, obviously, and that said a lot – that was still probably the best offer Lowell had ever heard. In his entire life.
"Okay," he said. Then he tried to remember his manners. "Thank you, Dr. Kuhl. Oh, um. My name is Lowell."
"You should not be thanking me for anything," Dr. Kuhl replied. "Please, call me Peter. It's about thirty minutes to my house yet, so go ahead and relax a bit."
Lowell nodded, having no intention of doing any such thing, but exhaustion and hunger and disappointment and the warm car all conspired against him, overriding even his wet, freezing clothes, and before he'd fully realized it he was falling asleep.
His shoulder was gently some time later, and Lowell blinked sleepily at whoever was doing the shaking, a shout not to steal his stuff on the tip of his tongue – then he saw pretty blue eyes behind spectacles and everything came back. "Oh! Sorry!"
Peter laughed. "No worries, come on inside."
Stumbling a bit while he fought against sleep, Lowell followed him up a gravel driveway to a side door that led into a cozy little kitchen. Blue and green, little splashes of yellow here and there, a sturdy little corner table with benches and stuff at one end, an island in the middle.
Nice. He'd had a brief stint as an assistant in a diner kitchen, once. Most his job had been dishwashing and trash duty and stuff, but the cook had taught him a few things and he'd had a lot of fun actually making food and seeing how certain things were made…and eating all the leftovers, of course.
He so wished he knew what to do with a kitchen like this, 'cause it looked like knowing would be a lot of fun.
Ah, well. It wasn't like he was going to be here long. He was pathetic enough to take what was offered and stay the night, but he'd sneak off before morning. No one liked losers hanging around.
"This way," Peter said, and Lowell rather thought he should be too tired to notice Peter had a pretty smile…but then again, he saw very little pretty in his life, and even less of it smiled at him.
Slowly he followed Peter into what proved to be the laundry room.
"Here," Peter said, taking a folded towel from where it sat with other stuff on top of the dryer. He pointed past Lowell's shoulder, to where he saw another door. "Bathroom is right through there, just to the right. You can leave all your stuff here, we'll get it washed. I'll scrounge up some extra clothes while you get warm and clean, then throw some sort of dinner together."
He departed before Lowell could get a word in edgewise. Lowell stood for a moment, staring and blinking. Then he finally shrugged and did as he was told. Far be it for him to argue, though it would suck later to put on his dirty clothes. Oh, well. Nothing for it.
Stripping out of said dirty clothes, he left them in a heap in front of the washing machine, then clutched the towel close and went where he was directed, more than a little disconcerted to be walking about a stranger's house butt naked – but the bathroom was almost immediately off the laundry room.
He caught a glimpse of stairs, what looked like a living room, then he closed the bathroom door behind him and made a beeline for the shower. When it was hot enough to all but melt off his skin, he hopped in and just stood.
Oh, a guilty pleasure this, and he shouldn't just use someone else's hot water like this, but everyone else got to have hot water everyday and his last hot shower he could barely remember and Peter had told him to take a shower… 'Werewolf Drowns in Water and Own Thoughts.'
Shaking his head at himself, Lowell snagged the soap and began to scrub and scrub, washing himself until his skin was raw and not much of the soap remained. He'd leave money to pay for it.
Scrubbed clean, he tackled his hair next, washing and rewashing until he almost thought it didn't look like a rat nest.
At last he gave in and after one last, glorious minute of standing in the hot water, he turned it off and climbed out – and jumped.
Clothes were waiting for him on the counter. Like, they looked brand new and everything. Even the boxers still had tags on them.
What really bothered him, however, was that he hadn't heard Peter come in. He hadn't been that enamored of the soap. Almost, but not quite. That wasn't like him; the fact he always paid such careful attention to his surroundings was the reason he was a miserable werewolf rather than a dead one.
So why hadn't he heard Peter come in?
He shrugged the question off for the time being, and considered the clothes instead. Brand new, he felt more than a little guilty…but he'd take them off again before he left, so all was good. Tearing the tags off, he quickly pulled on the blue boxers, jeans, white t-shirt, dark green sweater, and lastly a pair of thick, soft, white socks.
Finally he dragged his eyes up the mirror – and was not as horrified by what he saw as he had been expecting. He'd always tried to care of himself as best he could, cadging and filching and stealing what he could on the chance that someday he might have to look healthy and presentable.
Cleaned up, with his blonde hair showing the grime scrubbed away enough you could see his green eyes…he was no one's idea of a prize, especially since he was mostly bone, but…he wouldn't make little children cry either.
Taking a deep breath, he threw his towel in a hamper near the toilet, then finally let himself out of the bathroom and found his way quickly back to the kitchen.
His stomach growled as the smell of something that contained veggies and steak and potatoes hit his nostrils. He wanted to actually growl, which was sort of freaky, 'cause normally he did that shit only a lot closer to the full moon.
"Warm and refreshed?" Peter asked, giving him another pretty smile.
Lowell nodded, hastily looking away, eyes landing instead on the table and the wonderful smelling food on it. Some sort of casserole thingie, with all the yummy stuff layered just so, mashed potatoes on top.
Peter laughed softly, and Lowell jerked his gaze up, feeling his cheeks heat. "Sit down, eat. Lord knows I would never have been able to eat this much by myself. Women around here seem to think I'm perpetually starving."
Not quite certain what to say to that, Lowell slowly slid into one of the seats and…sat and waited. He totally had no clue about uh, manners and stuff. 'Werewolf Eats More Like Werepig, Says Horrified Local Doctor.'
Then Peter sat down, and almost before he could blink Lowell found himself staring at a heaping plate of food. It was probably the second-best thing he'd ever smelled in all his life…and he would figure out why it took second place to Peter and his weird yummy smell later.
Picking up his fork, Lowell began decimating the contents of his plate. It was briefly empty, then suddenly filled again, and he could not find it in him to protest. He wouldn't be able to eat like this again for a very long time.
When he finally finished, and bothered to look up, he realized that Peter was watching him with a smile curving his face.
Flushing, Lowell dropped his fork and ducked his head. "Sorry," he muttered. "Guess I was hungrier than I thought…I, uh, didn't mean to—"
"It's all right," Peter said, reaching out and lightly patting his hand. "All this is the very least I can do, the very least I owe you, after you worked so hard to come here for something that proved false."
Oh, yeah. Suddenly the reason he would be sneaking out later came crashing back down, and Lowell struggled not to let it get to him because he'd known it likely wasn't true but still who wanted to spend his whole life a freak?
Peter's hand was on his again, squeezing it tight. "I'm sorry," Peter said slowly. "I tried for years to develop a cure, truly I did, but I've never been able to make it work. I gave up for good two years ago. A brighter mind than mine will figure it out someday, perhaps."
Lowell nodded, trying to accept, cause he'd known all along in his heart of hearts…but…"Stacey just sounded so..so…"
"Convincing?" Peter finished, voice going hard and flat. "Yes, I'm sure he did. Stacey was very good at sounding convincing."
Startled, Lowell looked up, only to be completely thrown by the anger and pain that were etched deep into Peter's face, sunk into his eyes. "Um…" He licked his lips, feeling nervous, hating that Peter seemed so miserable suddenly. "You knew Stacey?"
Peter nodded, voice still so flat and cold when he answered. "Yes, I knew Stacey." He started to say more, when the back door abruptly flew open.
Lowell stared, nostrils flaring at the smell of blood that washed over him. Yet he could not associate it with the woman who stood in the doorway, though she was unmistakably the source.
She was…colorful. Jangly. Her skirt was made of all kinds of blocks of different colors and patterns, like she'd made it from a quilt or something. She wore a bright red tanktop, and jangled because of the profusions of beads and bells and other random bits and charms at her neck, wrists, and waist. Her hair was just as crazy as the rest, curly here, braided there, most of it held up off her neck by a pair of red chopsticks. Pretty, but sort of overwhelming, and the color and beads and all were completely at odds with what he knew her smell to be.
"Vampire," he said in disbelief as she drew close enough there could be no mistaking the scent.
Peter groaned. "Bloodsucker, go away. Learn to knock."
The woman sniffed, planting a hand on her hips, a measuring cup clasped idly in the other. "If I knocked, you wouldn't let me in. Easier to skip that part."
"Go away, Sally," Peter repeated, glaring.
Instead, Sally just ignored him and strode to the counter near the stove, pulling forward a blue porcelain container, pouring out some of the contents into her measuring cup. "So who's the cutie?" she asked as she returned the container and wandered to the table.
Lowell just stared. He'd seen vampires before; they were usually kinda scary though they'd never actually bothered him. Always in the cities, though, he'd never seen them in the small towns. Not that he'd been in many small towns himself, but still.
"You're scaring him," Peter said sharply. "You scare everybody."
"Not you," Sally said, rolling her eyes. "I’m not scaring him. He's—"
"Probably not even eighteen," Peter said sharply. "I found him walking along the highway, and he was on his way to see me."
Sally blinked. "Oh. I see." She moved around the table and plopped down next to Lowell and slung an arm over his shoulder. "You're a handsome one, no mistake. If I every divorce my idiot husband, you and me can run away together."
Peter groaned. "I'm so about to go fetch your husband."
"Don’t you dare, he's still recovering from your nasty little stunt with the flares."
"You started it this time, bloodsucker," Peter retorted. "Next time tell him not to get in the line of fire."
Sally sniffed. "Whatever, Mad Scientist."
Lowell wondered if it were possible to discreetly slip under the table and then sneak away.
"You get used to her after awhile," Peter said, smiling briefly at him before shooting another glare at Sally.
"He's a cutie, really. Gonna keep him around?"
They exchanged a look, and Lowell new undercurrents when he felt them. What was going on? Should he bolt? The arm around his shoulders was starting to freak him out. People didn't touch him. Ever. Unless they were cops or something and those guys were never nice except for like one who'd given him a cup of coffee and kept looking vaguely guilty.
"Let him go, Sally."
Instead of arguing, as Lowell had half expected, Sally promptly let him go and stood up, wandering to the fridge and pulling out a carton of eggs. She selected two and put them carefully on top of her sugar.
"I am not your grocery store, you damn bloodsucker," Peter said, standing up in exasperation and taking away the butter she'd just stolen.
Sally snatched it back, set it with her sugar, then vanished into the pantry. "Yes, you are. Especially when I'm making cookies. Don't you have any cocoa?"
"Third shelf, toward the back," Peter said, rolling his eyes at Lowell before striding over to the coffee maker tucked away in the corner of the counter near the sink. "Do you like coffee, Lowell?"
"Uh, yes," Lowell said. He loved coffee, not least of all because people would most often give him that for free. Coffee, (powdered) cream, and sugar tended to be his most common food groups.
Sally returned from the pantry, arms loaded down with various things – cocoa, chocolate chips, nuts… She smiled at him, setting everything on the table. "Do you like cookies, Lowell? I'm making double chocolate, classic chocolate chip, sugar cookies, and probably peanut butter or my husband will whine like a five year old."
Lowell tried not to stare, but he suspected he was failing. "Uh…you are a vampire, right?"
"Yes," Sally said, laughing. "The cookies are for the school fair tomorrow. I always help stock the snack bar. Plenty left over for my darling neighbor, however, even if he should still be in trouble for the flare stunt."
Peter snorted "You started it, bloodsucker, and given you just emptied my pantry to make the cookies – you can share the goods."
Sally rolled her eyes at Lowell, then winked at him. "Have you got a basket? I forgot to bring one, and I can't carry all this back by myself."
"You!" Peter said, heaving a long sigh before stomping off into the laundry room. He came back with a basket that looked like an Easter Bunny reject and knocked Sally lightly upside the head with it.
"Thank you, darling grocery boy."
"Bloodsucker!"
"Mad Scientist!" Packing everything neatly into the basket, she wiggled her finger at Lowell and departed as suddenly as she had come.
Peter rolled his eyes again as he returned with two cups of coffee, departing briefly to fetch a sugar bowl and a carton of half & half from the fridge. "You get used to her after a bit. Vampires think they can amuck with everyone and everything. Need to be kept in line." He grinned as he sat down, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
Was it okay to find his rescuer attractive? That was probably against the rules, or at the least very stupid – but ignoring shit like that was what had kept him alive. Despite everything, Peter smelled good and looked good and that definitely meant Lowell needed to go the very minute the getting was good.
He fixed his coffee and sipped it slowly, and wished he could freeze time right like this, where everything was perfect and nothing was going to ever go wrong. "Um. Thank you for, uh, all of this. I'm sorry to be such a problem."
Peter looked at him, smiling softly. "You're not a problem. I live here all alone, it's always nice to have someone else about. Besides, it's mostly my fault you're here at all. You're welcome to stay as long as you like. Was there anywhere else you needed to be?"
"No," Lowell said, almost laughing. Where would he have to go?
"If you don't mind my asking," Peter said slowly, setting his coffee. Down. "How old are you?"
Lowell shrugged, and looked down at his own coffee, humiliation making his cheeks hot. "I don't know." How could he? Vaguely he remembered an orphanage or something, but one too many fights with some of the others…
After that, it seemed there was always a reason no one wanted him around – even other supernaturals. The few wolves he'd encountered hadn't wanted company, which he'd never gotten, cause it'd be nice not to be the only wolf…
"That's what I thought," Peter said thoughtfully, idly tracing the rim of his cup. "If I had to guess, I would say you are right around eighteen, give or take a few months…" He smiled faintly. "Not that it really matters, forgive a scientist his curiosity."
Lowell shrugged, confused but beyond caring. It didn't matter to him how old he was, if it interested someone else, fine.
Peter laughed softly and stood to fetch the coffee pot, refilling Lowell's mug. "I'm glad you appear to have escaped being sick. I've learned the hard way that werewolves make lousy patients." He winked.
"Being sick sucks," Lowell said, because it did. He hated being sick. It just made the wolf stuff harder to control and contain, and he pretty much wanted to bite every stupid person that crossed his path.
He didn't know much about being a werewolf, but he'd learned pretty young not to bite people. Not that he usually wanted to, people never smelled like something he'd want to take sink his teeth into.
Sometimes he wondered who had bitten him. The other werewolves he'd met knew who had bitten them, and why. Lowell couldn't remember, he must have been really tiny when he'd been bitten. There wasn't even a scar. He wondered what sort of jerk inflicted ly-whatever on a poor, dumb kid.
"You look ready to fall over," Peter said, breaking into his thoughts.
Lowell shrugged. He was tired, but really it seemed like he was always tired.
"Come on, you can catch some z's. I keep weird hours, I warn you now. All of Midsummer keeps weird hours, minus a small handful." Peter smiled. "It's a supernatural kind of town, really. Even the humans here have some sort of connection to supernaturals."
"Um…" Lowell had never heard of such a thing. He rarely ever saw supernaturals. Sometimes he swore the ones he did see tried to avoid him, except that was dumb – well, unless they were avoiding the werewolf hobo, which made sense, but sometimes he got good work and managed to be respectable for a bit and even then none of them hung about him for long. "That's weird."
"It's certainly not common, but I promise you won't be treated here the same you've probably been treated everywhere else. Especially if you've got Sally's approval, which I think you do. No one is going to cross a top vamp, even if most other vampires consider her an embarrassment to their name."
Lowell almost smiled, but felt bad doing so. "I've never seen another vampire like her, though I haven't seen many. What's a…top vamp?"
Peter looked at him in surprise. "Do you not know anything about vampires? What do you know about werewolves?"
"Umm…vampires are scary, especially the ones that smell liked there's something wrong with their blood. I met two others that smell like Sally, though I only saw them from far away."
"Top vampires," Peter said. "They've been around usually for centuries. I think Sally staked a claim here back when it was just a handful of shacks and a village well. Her husband – just one of her eccentricities – is human. Jordan, he's a nice guy, with the patience of a saint if he's married to her." He winked again, then turned more serious. "So you really don't know much about werewolves?"
Lowell shrugged. "Not really. Biting spreads it. I've never run across many others, and they never wanted to stick around. I don't remember who bit me or why."
"Bit you?" Peter repeated softly. "I see."
"See what?" Lowell asked.
"Mm, you really do look tired," Peter said. "I shouldn't keep rambling on. Come on, I'll show you to your bed, and get you settled, and we can talk more over breakfast."
Lowell frowned. But he'd been about to talk about werewolves…why would he stop? That wasn't fair. How did a human doctor know more about werewolves than him? He probably even knew that stupid Ly-word Lowell could never remember. "But—how do you know so much about werewolves? Were you really working on a cure? What…" What was going on, and why did he feel like he was missing something?
Peter reached out to lightly hold his hand again. "I promise I will explain what I know, and why, in due time. But right now you're tired and upset, and being inundated with information would not help you at all. I should never have started asking questions; my curiosity gets me in a lot of trouble. Come, let's get you to bed."
He tried to muster a protest, but even with the coffee in his system Lowell was suddenly succumbing to the exhaustion he'd been fighting since Peter had woken him up in the car. Shelving the protests for later, he went obediently as Peter guided him out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into a room that smelled like it hadn't been used for a bit. All the people smells were old, faded, and the sheets as he fell down on them smelled like nothing more than detergent.
It occurred to him belatedly, as he grew too heavy and sleepy to move, that if he wanted answers than he couldn't sneak away…but could he stay? Why would Peter want him to stay?
Then sleep took him, and the questions left him in peace for a time.
But, the first fourteen pages of Midsummer rewrite, and I will try to get back to it in a bit, cause I am going to finish it...I just seem to be in a foul mood of a sudden and need to work it out, I think, before motivation will love me again.
Part One: Waxing Moon
Lowell sighed as yet another car passed him by, and made a note to hate the driver and passengers the rest of his life. 'Body Found By Highway: No One Would Give Poor Werewolf A Ride in the Rain.'
The cold rain that was probably going to give him hypothermia or the flu or whatever. Maybe that was for the best, really. 'Werewolf Finally Dies: World Sleeps Better.'
Shaking his head at himself, Lowell waited until the car was well out of sight and truly had no intention of maybe turning around to help the poor bastard drowning slowly to death after all.
Damn it, he just wanted not to be wet anymore. He'd been needing a shower, but this was so not what he'd had in mind. Now if the rain was near-boiling and had come with soap…
Ugh, he must be tired if he was thinking such stupid thoughts.
At least it was a light, if steady, downpour. Unfortunately, the sun had decided to continue obeying the laws of nature. Or spac.e. Physics? Whatever. It had decided to set, rather than help him by not setting, and his chances of hitching a ride diminished by the minute. When it finally well and truly dark, he could kiss any hope of one goodbye. Dark automatically made him evil in scary, even if he was nothing more some sort of sad, drowning puppy.
Werewolf. Drowning Puppy. Haha. 'Werewolf Kills Self To Spare World Bad Humor.'
He probably should have tried to sneak a sleep at the last gas station, but the clerk had creeped him out in no small way. Being a werewolf wasn't good for much, but it helped loads with the self-preservation thing.
At least the last sign had said Midsummer's Night was only twenty miles away.
Twenty miles and he could, at the very least, spend an hour or few in a waiting room. Like as not Dr. Kuhl would want nothing to do with him, and have security or something escort him out – that'd happened enough times in his life for him to know when it could happen – but at least for a bit he'd be warm and dry. Maybe there'd be time to read a few magazines, have a nap…
He really had come far in life, Lowell thought miserably, when the highlight of his day was killing time in some doctor's waiting room. Pathetic. He slid a hand into his pocket and touched the ziplock within it, filched from a shelter kitchen to protect his precious slip of paper from the elements.
Nothing but a name, an address, and the directions he'd gotten off a library computer. Not much at all, but it was a goal – a sliver of hope.
Hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to become normal. Get rid of the damned curse which had ruined any chance he had of a life. To be human, rather than some horrid monster no one could stand.
Of course, he wasn't stupid enough to get his hopes too high – it did seem kinda farfetched that anyone could actually make a cure for werewolf. He thought there was a fancier term for it. Ly-something.
Though at the rate he was going, it might not matter. He sneezed hard, shuddering in the rain, his clothes totally not up for the inclement weather. He'd had a raincoat once, an ugly red thing with an even uglier plaid lining, but it had been warm and dry. That's what he got for falling asleep at a bus station. He should have worked harder at staying awake. Served him right.
Drat it. Not so much as a single car. Even for an old highway this was a bit ridiculous.
Not that it really mattered. Raining and getting darker by the second – he should stop looking for a ride and look for a place he could sleep without getting run over or picked up by cops or mugged or something.
For better or worse, he was still two weeks from changing. Just as well, in the end, because he might have been tempted to travel as a wolf and he resisted such temptations whenever possible. The last time that had happened… Lowell shuddered and turned his thoughts elsewhere.
No, wolf form meant finding a place to hide until the hell was over.
Instead of bad memories, he turned to his most-hated, favorite game of 'what if'.
What if this Dr. Kuhl really had found a cure for ly…ly…werewolf-ness? What if he was good enough to give it to Lowell? Would he expect cash? The thought soured Lowell's stomach, because what little money he did have he'd refused to spend on the hope a meager two hundred dollars would be enough to pay for the cure, and he had the sinking feeling it wouldn't be nearly enough.
Maybe, however, Dr. Kuhl would let him work to cover the rest of it. He could certainly think of worse arrangements. Just stupid grunt work, but it wasn't like he could do anything else.
Then…then he'd finally have the cure, and would be normal and people wouldn't freak out and shun him or try to turn him over to animal control or the cops. They wouldn't try to shoot him or toss silver at him…and…
And it was all stupid daydreaming, because even assuming for one minute there was a cure and the doctor would give it to a nobody werewolf like him, he still would have a long way to go before he was a homeless, worthless nobody.
Still, life would be a lot easier when he wasn't part wolf.
It would.
Determination renewed, he trudged on through the rain, glaring at the now nearly-set sun. It wasn't like it was the first time he'd had to trudge about everywhere in the dark. He'd live. Probably.
He sneezed again, steps faltering, sneaker catching on some stray bit of rubble and Lowell went tumbling, landing hard on the roadside. Damn it. 'Werewolf Killed By Own Clumsiness.'
Rolling his eyes, Lowell started to get up again – then just fell back down, suddenly too tired to move. His motivation of only seconds before had gone out like a light. What was he thinking, seriously? He was wearing jeans that had more holes than he could count, socks that were only clean because he'd collected enough change to do some laundry. The expense had made him cringe, but he definitely wasn't going to get a cure if he smelled like a garbage pit…an old corduroy jacket that should have been retired long ago…and hair so scraggly it was probably hard to tell he did, in fact, spend most of his time in a human-shaped form.
Homeless and pathetic, that's all he was, and once glance was all it took for anyone to figure it out. No way was some semi-famous doctor going to waste his time on a vagabond werewolf when he could sell the cure for thousands or even more to wealthy werewolves.
If there was such a thing, Lowell supposed. Probably there was. Surely not all werewolves were like him…but he'd only ever met a handful of others, and none of them had been much better off than he. There didn't seem to be many of them, but there must be if werewolves kept popping up, if a doctor would go to the trouble of creating a cure.
Right?
So, likely Dr. Kuhl would just call security and that would be that.
Which mean, nice waiting room aside, he was wasting his time. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should take his pathetic two hundred dollars and a find a room and food and then in the morning he could scrounge up some work to do to make more money.
…and pretend to be normal until the full moon struck and he turned into a wolf and either was accidentally seen or missed work and was fire, or something more disastrous (which had never happened to him, but he'd heard stories from the few other wolves, and didn't want a story of his own to tell).
Sighing, Lowell tried to make himself stand, because doing something was better than nothing – but for more years than he could remember he'd been trying one thing or another and all it had gotten him was an address and an empty road while the rain slowly pneumonia-ed him to death.
His head jerked up at the sound of a car, and he reflexively held out a thumb – wholly unsurprised when it kept right on going, paying him no mind.
Jerks. Couldn't they see he was too wet and cold and miserable to be a crazy ax murderer? His poor little backpack, filched from a dumpster, couldn't even hold an axe. It barely held his spare clothes as it was.
Lowell yawned, and gave serious consideration to the idea of falling over and going to sleep right in the puddle he was occupying.
Another car approached, but he didn't bother to try and flag it down, simply waited for it to zoom on past.
Except…he must be going crazy, cause it sure as hell sounded like it was slowing down…
Looking up, he saw that either he was sick enough the hallucinations had started – or the care really had stopped.
Then a man got out, bearing an umbrella, and jogged toward him.
"Are you okay?" the man asked. Lowell couldn't really seem him much, not with the rain and dark and only the car for light…but his voice was pleasant. He knew real kindness when he heard it, and despite the sneezing his sense of smell wasn't totally gone.
What little he could smell actually smelled…yummy. Bad dog. No weird thoughts. Humans did not smell yummy, except big bad wolfs and he wasn't one of those, no.
"Um…" Lowell tried to think of something to say, but obviously his brain was waterlogged. 'Mute Werewolf Left to Die.' Yeah, that'd be fitting.
But his possible rescuer didn't seem fazed at all, merely smiled and reached out to grasp Lowell's arm, tugging him up and close enough to stand beneath the large umbrella. "Come on, my friend, you can't stay out here – you'll catch your death, if you haven't already."
Lowell started to speak, then realized he'd probably only say 'um' again, and snapped his mouth shut again.
Too tired to worry if Mr. Nice Guy might be the axe murderer, he allowed himself to be dragged toward and pushed down into the car.
Oh, heat. He was making a mess of the car and felt really bad about that, but the heat was turned on and rain wasn't falling on his head anymore and he didn't have to keep walking for at least a little bit…
It was almost enough to make him cry.
The driver door opened, his rescuer sliding into the seat, and Lowell dare to take a wary peek, never certain what to say or do in these rare moments where someone was nice to him.
Damn.
Was it a blessing or a curse that his rescuer was insanely hot? Not like, typical hot, but…something out of an old book or movie hot. Khakis, oxford, a long trench coat he hadn't bothered to fasten up… Slender, but not boney, dark hair and pretty blue eyes behind old-fashioned looking spectacles. Pretty.
"You look as though you've endured more than your fair share of the rain," the man said with a gentle laugh, fingers moving absently over the dash as he cranked the heat up, adjusted the vents. "We should be home shortly, you can shower and dry off and all there; I should even have some clothes lying about the place."
Lowell blinked. Come again? "Um – you don't – that is – I don't want to be a bother. Um. Thanks for the lift, it's really appreciated." He sneezed hard, and was almost grateful for it cutting off the rest of the stupidity that would have fallen out of his dumb mouth.
The man laughed. "Not a bother. You're welcome. I insist you come to my house. I promise I won't kill you or anything. Where are you headed?"
"Um." Lowell wanted to smack his head against the window. Think, stupid. Speak. Good dog. "I'm trying to get to Midsummer's Night."
"I see," the man said softly, and Lowell wondered why the happy tone of his voice had suddenly shifted. His smell had altered too, and he'd better stop thinking about smell because now they were out of the rain he was forced to conclude that the stranger really and truly did smell yummy.
He couldn't quite define what yummy meant, but he knew that was definitely the way to describe it.
Damn it.
He licked his lips, and started speaking again just to drown his own dumb thoughts. "I'm, uh, looking for a guy…um, a doctor actually."
"Yeah, I rather imagined you were," the man replied sadly. He extended his hand, smiling in a way that was far from happy. "Doctor Peter Kuhl, at your service."
Lowell felt the hope he'd been trying not to have wither and die in his chest, leaving a terrible ache. "You are?" At Dr. Kuhl's nod, his shoulders drooped. "You don't have a cure."
"No," Dr. Kuhl said softly. "I do not. I'm afraid it's a rumor I've been trying to kill for a very long time." The hand Lowell hadn't shaken landed gently on his shoulder. "But, come home with me. I promise my house is always welcome to any werewolf in need of one. Get clean, warm, fed, and rested. We'll figure out the rest in the morning, okay? What's your name?"
He tried to argue, to make himself get out of the car or something, because what was the point if there was no cure?
But beggar's could not be choosers, and he was definitely a beggar, and even if this guy was a lying axe murderer or simply an honest, simple doctor with no cure for werewolves – and he'd known Lowell was a werewolf, obviously, and that said a lot – that was still probably the best offer Lowell had ever heard. In his entire life.
"Okay," he said. Then he tried to remember his manners. "Thank you, Dr. Kuhl. Oh, um. My name is Lowell."
"You should not be thanking me for anything," Dr. Kuhl replied. "Please, call me Peter. It's about thirty minutes to my house yet, so go ahead and relax a bit."
Lowell nodded, having no intention of doing any such thing, but exhaustion and hunger and disappointment and the warm car all conspired against him, overriding even his wet, freezing clothes, and before he'd fully realized it he was falling asleep.
His shoulder was gently some time later, and Lowell blinked sleepily at whoever was doing the shaking, a shout not to steal his stuff on the tip of his tongue – then he saw pretty blue eyes behind spectacles and everything came back. "Oh! Sorry!"
Peter laughed. "No worries, come on inside."
Stumbling a bit while he fought against sleep, Lowell followed him up a gravel driveway to a side door that led into a cozy little kitchen. Blue and green, little splashes of yellow here and there, a sturdy little corner table with benches and stuff at one end, an island in the middle.
Nice. He'd had a brief stint as an assistant in a diner kitchen, once. Most his job had been dishwashing and trash duty and stuff, but the cook had taught him a few things and he'd had a lot of fun actually making food and seeing how certain things were made…and eating all the leftovers, of course.
He so wished he knew what to do with a kitchen like this, 'cause it looked like knowing would be a lot of fun.
Ah, well. It wasn't like he was going to be here long. He was pathetic enough to take what was offered and stay the night, but he'd sneak off before morning. No one liked losers hanging around.
"This way," Peter said, and Lowell rather thought he should be too tired to notice Peter had a pretty smile…but then again, he saw very little pretty in his life, and even less of it smiled at him.
Slowly he followed Peter into what proved to be the laundry room.
"Here," Peter said, taking a folded towel from where it sat with other stuff on top of the dryer. He pointed past Lowell's shoulder, to where he saw another door. "Bathroom is right through there, just to the right. You can leave all your stuff here, we'll get it washed. I'll scrounge up some extra clothes while you get warm and clean, then throw some sort of dinner together."
He departed before Lowell could get a word in edgewise. Lowell stood for a moment, staring and blinking. Then he finally shrugged and did as he was told. Far be it for him to argue, though it would suck later to put on his dirty clothes. Oh, well. Nothing for it.
Stripping out of said dirty clothes, he left them in a heap in front of the washing machine, then clutched the towel close and went where he was directed, more than a little disconcerted to be walking about a stranger's house butt naked – but the bathroom was almost immediately off the laundry room.
He caught a glimpse of stairs, what looked like a living room, then he closed the bathroom door behind him and made a beeline for the shower. When it was hot enough to all but melt off his skin, he hopped in and just stood.
Oh, a guilty pleasure this, and he shouldn't just use someone else's hot water like this, but everyone else got to have hot water everyday and his last hot shower he could barely remember and Peter had told him to take a shower… 'Werewolf Drowns in Water and Own Thoughts.'
Shaking his head at himself, Lowell snagged the soap and began to scrub and scrub, washing himself until his skin was raw and not much of the soap remained. He'd leave money to pay for it.
Scrubbed clean, he tackled his hair next, washing and rewashing until he almost thought it didn't look like a rat nest.
At last he gave in and after one last, glorious minute of standing in the hot water, he turned it off and climbed out – and jumped.
Clothes were waiting for him on the counter. Like, they looked brand new and everything. Even the boxers still had tags on them.
What really bothered him, however, was that he hadn't heard Peter come in. He hadn't been that enamored of the soap. Almost, but not quite. That wasn't like him; the fact he always paid such careful attention to his surroundings was the reason he was a miserable werewolf rather than a dead one.
So why hadn't he heard Peter come in?
He shrugged the question off for the time being, and considered the clothes instead. Brand new, he felt more than a little guilty…but he'd take them off again before he left, so all was good. Tearing the tags off, he quickly pulled on the blue boxers, jeans, white t-shirt, dark green sweater, and lastly a pair of thick, soft, white socks.
Finally he dragged his eyes up the mirror – and was not as horrified by what he saw as he had been expecting. He'd always tried to care of himself as best he could, cadging and filching and stealing what he could on the chance that someday he might have to look healthy and presentable.
Cleaned up, with his blonde hair showing the grime scrubbed away enough you could see his green eyes…he was no one's idea of a prize, especially since he was mostly bone, but…he wouldn't make little children cry either.
Taking a deep breath, he threw his towel in a hamper near the toilet, then finally let himself out of the bathroom and found his way quickly back to the kitchen.
His stomach growled as the smell of something that contained veggies and steak and potatoes hit his nostrils. He wanted to actually growl, which was sort of freaky, 'cause normally he did that shit only a lot closer to the full moon.
"Warm and refreshed?" Peter asked, giving him another pretty smile.
Lowell nodded, hastily looking away, eyes landing instead on the table and the wonderful smelling food on it. Some sort of casserole thingie, with all the yummy stuff layered just so, mashed potatoes on top.
Peter laughed softly, and Lowell jerked his gaze up, feeling his cheeks heat. "Sit down, eat. Lord knows I would never have been able to eat this much by myself. Women around here seem to think I'm perpetually starving."
Not quite certain what to say to that, Lowell slowly slid into one of the seats and…sat and waited. He totally had no clue about uh, manners and stuff. 'Werewolf Eats More Like Werepig, Says Horrified Local Doctor.'
Then Peter sat down, and almost before he could blink Lowell found himself staring at a heaping plate of food. It was probably the second-best thing he'd ever smelled in all his life…and he would figure out why it took second place to Peter and his weird yummy smell later.
Picking up his fork, Lowell began decimating the contents of his plate. It was briefly empty, then suddenly filled again, and he could not find it in him to protest. He wouldn't be able to eat like this again for a very long time.
When he finally finished, and bothered to look up, he realized that Peter was watching him with a smile curving his face.
Flushing, Lowell dropped his fork and ducked his head. "Sorry," he muttered. "Guess I was hungrier than I thought…I, uh, didn't mean to—"
"It's all right," Peter said, reaching out and lightly patting his hand. "All this is the very least I can do, the very least I owe you, after you worked so hard to come here for something that proved false."
Oh, yeah. Suddenly the reason he would be sneaking out later came crashing back down, and Lowell struggled not to let it get to him because he'd known it likely wasn't true but still who wanted to spend his whole life a freak?
Peter's hand was on his again, squeezing it tight. "I'm sorry," Peter said slowly. "I tried for years to develop a cure, truly I did, but I've never been able to make it work. I gave up for good two years ago. A brighter mind than mine will figure it out someday, perhaps."
Lowell nodded, trying to accept, cause he'd known all along in his heart of hearts…but…"Stacey just sounded so..so…"
"Convincing?" Peter finished, voice going hard and flat. "Yes, I'm sure he did. Stacey was very good at sounding convincing."
Startled, Lowell looked up, only to be completely thrown by the anger and pain that were etched deep into Peter's face, sunk into his eyes. "Um…" He licked his lips, feeling nervous, hating that Peter seemed so miserable suddenly. "You knew Stacey?"
Peter nodded, voice still so flat and cold when he answered. "Yes, I knew Stacey." He started to say more, when the back door abruptly flew open.
Lowell stared, nostrils flaring at the smell of blood that washed over him. Yet he could not associate it with the woman who stood in the doorway, though she was unmistakably the source.
She was…colorful. Jangly. Her skirt was made of all kinds of blocks of different colors and patterns, like she'd made it from a quilt or something. She wore a bright red tanktop, and jangled because of the profusions of beads and bells and other random bits and charms at her neck, wrists, and waist. Her hair was just as crazy as the rest, curly here, braided there, most of it held up off her neck by a pair of red chopsticks. Pretty, but sort of overwhelming, and the color and beads and all were completely at odds with what he knew her smell to be.
"Vampire," he said in disbelief as she drew close enough there could be no mistaking the scent.
Peter groaned. "Bloodsucker, go away. Learn to knock."
The woman sniffed, planting a hand on her hips, a measuring cup clasped idly in the other. "If I knocked, you wouldn't let me in. Easier to skip that part."
"Go away, Sally," Peter repeated, glaring.
Instead, Sally just ignored him and strode to the counter near the stove, pulling forward a blue porcelain container, pouring out some of the contents into her measuring cup. "So who's the cutie?" she asked as she returned the container and wandered to the table.
Lowell just stared. He'd seen vampires before; they were usually kinda scary though they'd never actually bothered him. Always in the cities, though, he'd never seen them in the small towns. Not that he'd been in many small towns himself, but still.
"You're scaring him," Peter said sharply. "You scare everybody."
"Not you," Sally said, rolling her eyes. "I’m not scaring him. He's—"
"Probably not even eighteen," Peter said sharply. "I found him walking along the highway, and he was on his way to see me."
Sally blinked. "Oh. I see." She moved around the table and plopped down next to Lowell and slung an arm over his shoulder. "You're a handsome one, no mistake. If I every divorce my idiot husband, you and me can run away together."
Peter groaned. "I'm so about to go fetch your husband."
"Don’t you dare, he's still recovering from your nasty little stunt with the flares."
"You started it this time, bloodsucker," Peter retorted. "Next time tell him not to get in the line of fire."
Sally sniffed. "Whatever, Mad Scientist."
Lowell wondered if it were possible to discreetly slip under the table and then sneak away.
"You get used to her after awhile," Peter said, smiling briefly at him before shooting another glare at Sally.
"He's a cutie, really. Gonna keep him around?"
They exchanged a look, and Lowell new undercurrents when he felt them. What was going on? Should he bolt? The arm around his shoulders was starting to freak him out. People didn't touch him. Ever. Unless they were cops or something and those guys were never nice except for like one who'd given him a cup of coffee and kept looking vaguely guilty.
"Let him go, Sally."
Instead of arguing, as Lowell had half expected, Sally promptly let him go and stood up, wandering to the fridge and pulling out a carton of eggs. She selected two and put them carefully on top of her sugar.
"I am not your grocery store, you damn bloodsucker," Peter said, standing up in exasperation and taking away the butter she'd just stolen.
Sally snatched it back, set it with her sugar, then vanished into the pantry. "Yes, you are. Especially when I'm making cookies. Don't you have any cocoa?"
"Third shelf, toward the back," Peter said, rolling his eyes at Lowell before striding over to the coffee maker tucked away in the corner of the counter near the sink. "Do you like coffee, Lowell?"
"Uh, yes," Lowell said. He loved coffee, not least of all because people would most often give him that for free. Coffee, (powdered) cream, and sugar tended to be his most common food groups.
Sally returned from the pantry, arms loaded down with various things – cocoa, chocolate chips, nuts… She smiled at him, setting everything on the table. "Do you like cookies, Lowell? I'm making double chocolate, classic chocolate chip, sugar cookies, and probably peanut butter or my husband will whine like a five year old."
Lowell tried not to stare, but he suspected he was failing. "Uh…you are a vampire, right?"
"Yes," Sally said, laughing. "The cookies are for the school fair tomorrow. I always help stock the snack bar. Plenty left over for my darling neighbor, however, even if he should still be in trouble for the flare stunt."
Peter snorted "You started it, bloodsucker, and given you just emptied my pantry to make the cookies – you can share the goods."
Sally rolled her eyes at Lowell, then winked at him. "Have you got a basket? I forgot to bring one, and I can't carry all this back by myself."
"You!" Peter said, heaving a long sigh before stomping off into the laundry room. He came back with a basket that looked like an Easter Bunny reject and knocked Sally lightly upside the head with it.
"Thank you, darling grocery boy."
"Bloodsucker!"
"Mad Scientist!" Packing everything neatly into the basket, she wiggled her finger at Lowell and departed as suddenly as she had come.
Peter rolled his eyes again as he returned with two cups of coffee, departing briefly to fetch a sugar bowl and a carton of half & half from the fridge. "You get used to her after a bit. Vampires think they can amuck with everyone and everything. Need to be kept in line." He grinned as he sat down, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
Was it okay to find his rescuer attractive? That was probably against the rules, or at the least very stupid – but ignoring shit like that was what had kept him alive. Despite everything, Peter smelled good and looked good and that definitely meant Lowell needed to go the very minute the getting was good.
He fixed his coffee and sipped it slowly, and wished he could freeze time right like this, where everything was perfect and nothing was going to ever go wrong. "Um. Thank you for, uh, all of this. I'm sorry to be such a problem."
Peter looked at him, smiling softly. "You're not a problem. I live here all alone, it's always nice to have someone else about. Besides, it's mostly my fault you're here at all. You're welcome to stay as long as you like. Was there anywhere else you needed to be?"
"No," Lowell said, almost laughing. Where would he have to go?
"If you don't mind my asking," Peter said slowly, setting his coffee. Down. "How old are you?"
Lowell shrugged, and looked down at his own coffee, humiliation making his cheeks hot. "I don't know." How could he? Vaguely he remembered an orphanage or something, but one too many fights with some of the others…
After that, it seemed there was always a reason no one wanted him around – even other supernaturals. The few wolves he'd encountered hadn't wanted company, which he'd never gotten, cause it'd be nice not to be the only wolf…
"That's what I thought," Peter said thoughtfully, idly tracing the rim of his cup. "If I had to guess, I would say you are right around eighteen, give or take a few months…" He smiled faintly. "Not that it really matters, forgive a scientist his curiosity."
Lowell shrugged, confused but beyond caring. It didn't matter to him how old he was, if it interested someone else, fine.
Peter laughed softly and stood to fetch the coffee pot, refilling Lowell's mug. "I'm glad you appear to have escaped being sick. I've learned the hard way that werewolves make lousy patients." He winked.
"Being sick sucks," Lowell said, because it did. He hated being sick. It just made the wolf stuff harder to control and contain, and he pretty much wanted to bite every stupid person that crossed his path.
He didn't know much about being a werewolf, but he'd learned pretty young not to bite people. Not that he usually wanted to, people never smelled like something he'd want to take sink his teeth into.
Sometimes he wondered who had bitten him. The other werewolves he'd met knew who had bitten them, and why. Lowell couldn't remember, he must have been really tiny when he'd been bitten. There wasn't even a scar. He wondered what sort of jerk inflicted ly-whatever on a poor, dumb kid.
"You look ready to fall over," Peter said, breaking into his thoughts.
Lowell shrugged. He was tired, but really it seemed like he was always tired.
"Come on, you can catch some z's. I keep weird hours, I warn you now. All of Midsummer keeps weird hours, minus a small handful." Peter smiled. "It's a supernatural kind of town, really. Even the humans here have some sort of connection to supernaturals."
"Um…" Lowell had never heard of such a thing. He rarely ever saw supernaturals. Sometimes he swore the ones he did see tried to avoid him, except that was dumb – well, unless they were avoiding the werewolf hobo, which made sense, but sometimes he got good work and managed to be respectable for a bit and even then none of them hung about him for long. "That's weird."
"It's certainly not common, but I promise you won't be treated here the same you've probably been treated everywhere else. Especially if you've got Sally's approval, which I think you do. No one is going to cross a top vamp, even if most other vampires consider her an embarrassment to their name."
Lowell almost smiled, but felt bad doing so. "I've never seen another vampire like her, though I haven't seen many. What's a…top vamp?"
Peter looked at him in surprise. "Do you not know anything about vampires? What do you know about werewolves?"
"Umm…vampires are scary, especially the ones that smell liked there's something wrong with their blood. I met two others that smell like Sally, though I only saw them from far away."
"Top vampires," Peter said. "They've been around usually for centuries. I think Sally staked a claim here back when it was just a handful of shacks and a village well. Her husband – just one of her eccentricities – is human. Jordan, he's a nice guy, with the patience of a saint if he's married to her." He winked again, then turned more serious. "So you really don't know much about werewolves?"
Lowell shrugged. "Not really. Biting spreads it. I've never run across many others, and they never wanted to stick around. I don't remember who bit me or why."
"Bit you?" Peter repeated softly. "I see."
"See what?" Lowell asked.
"Mm, you really do look tired," Peter said. "I shouldn't keep rambling on. Come on, I'll show you to your bed, and get you settled, and we can talk more over breakfast."
Lowell frowned. But he'd been about to talk about werewolves…why would he stop? That wasn't fair. How did a human doctor know more about werewolves than him? He probably even knew that stupid Ly-word Lowell could never remember. "But—how do you know so much about werewolves? Were you really working on a cure? What…" What was going on, and why did he feel like he was missing something?
Peter reached out to lightly hold his hand again. "I promise I will explain what I know, and why, in due time. But right now you're tired and upset, and being inundated with information would not help you at all. I should never have started asking questions; my curiosity gets me in a lot of trouble. Come, let's get you to bed."
He tried to muster a protest, but even with the coffee in his system Lowell was suddenly succumbing to the exhaustion he'd been fighting since Peter had woken him up in the car. Shelving the protests for later, he went obediently as Peter guided him out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into a room that smelled like it hadn't been used for a bit. All the people smells were old, faded, and the sheets as he fell down on them smelled like nothing more than detergent.
It occurred to him belatedly, as he grew too heavy and sleepy to move, that if he wanted answers than he couldn't sneak away…but could he stay? Why would Peter want him to stay?
Then sleep took him, and the questions left him in peace for a time.
