driftfleet | Cry Wolf

[Kurt murmurs an acknowledgement, his chin dipping slightly as he thinks over those words a minute. On the one hand, theoretically if Bigby proved to be a threat to other living beings, he could teleport his head (okay, part of his head) off like anyone else. But it hurts, right in the remnants of him that remember being a little boy who believed in fairy tales, to think of the wolf of the stories dying so easily. If he's telling the truth, and not insane or fucking with him.]

You know, in the stories I heard the wolf was only agreeable when he was trying to get someone's guard down. [He lifts his chin, wanting it to be absolutely clear he's staring Bigby right in the eyes.] How hungry are you, wolf?

[Bigby gives a low chuckle at the statement, ears up and forward. He's confident in his dominance of this situation and it shows.]

Shouldn't that be Mister Wolf?

I don't eat sentient beings anymore. Unless there's exceptional circumstances.

Or they really fuck me off.

No. [He punctuates with the hint of a cheeky grin.

Kurt draws in breath to make some quip about who's stolen Bigby's balls, then pauses. His head tilts again, unabashedly staring at the wolf; comparing his posture now with his actions of earlier, noting the lack of tension in him. Surely if someone was keeping him from being the monster he used to be, surely there'd be resentment bubbling under the surface. Something.] I want to ask what you're getting in return for behaving yourself, but I suspect that might be too personal a question.

[Kurt will never know how close he came to losing a limb today. Bigby is much more relaxed than he used to be, older, wiser, no need to prove anything...

He can still be pushed. And that might've been a step too far.

Instead, his tail flicks slightly with interest.]

Pup, I'm thousands of years old. I have hunted and killed monsters that never made it into your stories because words couldn't describe the horror of them. I have eaten cities worth of people and three armies of soldiers.

I have nothing to prove to anyone. I am the Big Bad Wolf. I am the fear that haunts every heart that something implacable and unstoppable is out there, in the dark, waiting.

[He is calm, confident. Not the young wolf who needs cunning to not die. Not even the older wolf that ate an entire city because they boasted their walls could keep the wild at bay.]

[Kurt never will, and probably for the better. Even with the return of a dear team-mate lost in the first war, listening to the call of the void has always been a character flaw. He bit his tongue because he's honestly starting to believe Bigby, despite telling himself every inch of the way that he's being gullible. Bigby reminds him too much of home when that meant a house built away from mankind, so deep in the forest that Kurt never met a non-mutant until they came to kill him. He reminds Kurt of the stories he begged his mother to tell as a child, and of Victor Creed who he always thought was more canine than man. Especially when Bigby calls him pup.

His chin lowers, the shadows cast by his hair turning unnaturally deep.] I know. Wasn't questioning it, that time. I do know a few things about creatures that hide in shadows; know a few things about people, too. No matter how highly evolved my species are, most of us are still deeply afraid of what hides in the dark that we can't see through. Which is good for me, because that fear was invaluable to me during the wars. [He pauses, then continues with the non sequitur of:] Do you happen to be familiar with Lovecraft at all?

[Most of the time, Bigby keeps his full self shackled in. It's not just about keeping all the muscle and fur tucked inside a human skin, it's about keeping everything dark and sinister about himself hidden behind carefully built habits. Light up a cigarette, adjust his never properly done up tie, the things that make him seem more human.

Here, he's starting to indulge in not being like that.

With someone who knows his stories, who positively revels in the thrill of being a bit scared, it would take a stronger willed creature than him no to be himself.]

Humans are often the worst monsters. I am what I am. I don't hunt my own kind and eat them. Never have.

... yes, he was a writer.

[When Bigby mentions hunting and eating his own, that's when fear shoots through Darkholme. His face remains perfectly calm, the end of his tail twitches only a little, but the memory of his wife's murder is strong enough that the smell of terror breaks through the brimstone scent that hangs around him always.

His voice is remarkably even.] You're not telling me anything I don't know. My world is dead because of two men who decided it was a fine idea to commit genocide. I think even you would choke on the air there; I nearly did, after spending a few months in another world entirely. [And then a snicker, because what even Bigby?] Yes, yes, he was a writer. Was wondering how much worse than his monsters what you fought were.

[Interesting. He makes a mental note, but says noting about the spike of fear.]

I choke on the stench of a city. A dying world...

[He can imagine something like it. And it turns his stomach.]

His monsters never scared me. Though I never had a big taste for seafood.

Where the water tastes like rust on a good day and a man can go nearly a year without seeing the stars, but the sunsets will take your breath away. [Despite the picture he's painting (and the bits he's leaving out, like how east Asia and half of South America are too irradiated for anything to live) his soft tone hints at wistfulness. His world was hell, but it was home. There are good memories amidst the death and pain.

The comment about seafood gets an impish grin, teeth catching the light first as he tilts his head up.] No? Don't like seafood, or don't like going into the ocean to get it and smelling of wet and salt for days? [He can empathize greatly with that pain. Even after scrubbing with soap, the smell was in his nose for ages.]

[Home is home. Whatever sort of nightmare it is.

He shrugs slightly.]

Either. Both. Seafood is okay cooked and chopped out. Ripping it apart with your teeth is sort of revolting.

This pelt also doesn't dry easily once the wet gets inside.

[The comment about his pelt gets a sympathetic, albeit subdued, wince.] Gott, I can imagine. My fur's a pain in the ass to dry, and it's hardly anything in comparison.

Bet the amount of times you've been truly cold is a short list.

[Bigby snorts.]

I don't feel cold. Can't. Can feel heat, but I generally don't go very hot places.

You're a bastard.

[There's absolutely no venom in the statement, just pure envy. Kurt feels cold very well; his fur isn't long enough to offer much protection, but more than enough for rain and snow to cling to. And then his mother went and built a castle in Antarctica.]

So I've been told.

Asshole, jerk and wanker have also featured prominently.

What, and you with such a gentle, unassuming personality? Perish the thought.

[He snorts and flops onto his side for a long stretch.]

I had a lot of brothers to survive.

So your mother was a wolf as well, or simply a prolific woman? [Bigby's a fairy tale, isn't he? A wolf cub being born of a human woman is hardly the most outrageous thing Kurt's heard of happening in fable and myth.

He pauses, watching Bigby for a moment to make certain the wolf isn't intending to move. Then he hops down from the wall, landing in a fluid crouch on the floor. Tail swishing curiously behind him, Kurt takes a step before straightening to walk on two legs and wander around the massive room, keeping out of easy lunge range (he thinks.)]

A wolf. Winter Wolf. I don't remember a lot about her.

[He's not insulted at the suggestion he was birthed by a human. Weirder shit happens and he knows it.]

My father wore the shape of a wolf when he got her pregnant.

[Bigby stays where he is, shifting to lie on his side but nothing more threatening than any relaxing dog.]

[Which is good, because Kurt was actually not trying to be insulting with either suggestion. It occurs to him, belatedly, that the suggestion of promiscuity might have been. With a human face it would've before leaving his mouth, but Bigby moves and behaves so authentically canine that it takes a minute for the possibility of prolonged exposure to human culture to sink in.

He opens his mouth to offer a curt apology, and is completely sidelined by the implied admission. The one about his mother, not the form his father took. That part notably doesn't phase him.] Even so, I'm sorry for your loss.

[Half-turning, the corners of his mouth twitch up at seeing the massive wolf stretched out on his side.] Are you going to roll onto your back if I continue keeping my distance?

[He gives just a tiny incline of the head, acknowledging the compassion given, even if he doesn't reply with words.

Then, Bigby's ears prick forward with amusement and he makes a noise which, after a moment, might be apparent as a wolf chuckling.]

If I'm showing my belly, you're being lured in.

You're saying I'm not already? For the big bad wolf, you're going to a lot of effort to look harmless.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

[ He gives a lazy yawn. ]

Didn't think you'd give a straight answer. At least you aren't a cat; they don't seem the type to speak outside of riddles.

[He pauses, then adds:] If you think I'm coming any closer either way, then I've clearly misrepresented my intelligence.

I've known some very clever cats, but they don't really think like other beings.

I didn't ask you to come any closer.

They wouldn't be cats if they did.

I know you didn't. I also know you could clear this space in a second, but that's more time than I'd have if I were in your reach.

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