Now (B)
"...'Am i being annoying' are you aware that my heart is trying to crawl out of my chest to get to you?" mothicalspoken
The guest room was small but inviting, painted in warm tones that reflected the comfort Maria always managed to cultivate in her home. It wasn’t his room—it couldn’t be, not with Elena’s younger sister visiting to escape her family so often and Maria’s great-aunt claiming it whenever her old bones could manage—but it was familiar enough. The faint scent of copal and marigold lingered, mingling with his own smell embedded in the bedding and walls. It soothed the wolf, easing the restless pull beneath his skin. This was as close to den as it would ever get.
He dropped his bag near the foot of the bed, shrugging off his coat and folding it carefully over the chair in the corner. His shirt followed, tossed into the hamper along with his socks and trousers before he padded into the adjacent bathroom.
Remus wiped a hand across the mirror, letting his reflection emerge piece by piece. The bathroom was small, the steam clinging to every surface, and the sharp tang of antiseptic mingled with the scent of soap. He shifted, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at the cut on his torso.
The fresh wound cut diagonally across his ribs, red and raw but no longer bleeding. He reached for the first-aid kit on the counter, retrieving a small bottle of antiseptic. His fingers worked methodically, uncapping the bottle and pouring a generous amount onto a clean cloth. He pressed it to the wound without hesitation, his jaw tightening as the sting bit deep.
When he was younger, before he was used to the wolf tearing into him or people hexing him, he might have hissed at the pain, but now it was just another part of the routine. He cleaned the wound thoroughly, his expression unreadable in the mirror, then unrolled a strip of fresh gauze. The movements were practiced, almost automatic. Wrap, secure, and check for tightness. He tore a strip of medical tape with his teeth, anchoring the bandage in place before moving on to his calf.
The injury there was shallower, a claw mark that raked along the muscle. It hadn’t reached the bone, but the strain of walking on it had made it ache. He bent slightly, huffing quietly at the effort, and repeated the same methodical process. Clean, wrap, secure. He cleaned and rewrapped that wound, too, his hands steady even as his reflection wavered in the condensation-slicked glass.
When he finished, he straightened and allowed himself a moment to lean against the counter, studying his reflection through the dissipating steam.
There had been a time, years ago, when he looked devastated—like someone had hollowed out all the best parts of him and left him to wander the earth with his ghosts. That sadness had etched itself into his features: shadowed eyes, shoulders perpetually hunched as if bracing for another blow, a man on the verge of breaking. Entire swathes of his life were lost to a haze of addiction or depression, too high or too numb to remember.
Now, he just was. Not whole, not broken…just here. The devastation had settled into something quieter, something almost durable. There was a strength in his survival, not invincibility but resilience. The world was full of terrors, but then again—wasn’t he one of them? Of all the monsters that wandered the heavens and the Earth…
The man in the mirror had long, sandy-blond hair, streaked with gray, that hung loose around his face, damp from the shower. He tied it back in a low, messy knot, fingers moving by habit. His hazel eyes, ringed with exhaustion, were clear and sane. Not necessarily at peace, but something close to it.
The scars were there, of course. They always would be. The faint line on his jaw, the jagged marks across his neck and arms, the fresh bandages on his chest. His broken nose, crooked and healed long ago, gave his face an edge that was only offset by his crooked grin.
The earrings in his lobes caught the light faintly as he adjusted one, a habitual gesture that made the faint magic tied to them hum under his fingertips. He glanced at his wrist, where a glowing moon tattoo pulsed softly. The waxing gibbous shimmered faintly, its light accompanied by a small number etched beside it: 3. Three days until the full moon.
The tattoo had been his idea, something to keep him grounded. It waxed and waned in tandem with the actual moon, a constant reminder of the wolf inside him—always present, always watching. The ache was there, low and familiar in his bones, but it wasn't there yet. He would never again lose track of when the turning was, always aware. Knowledge was power, and knowledge about when your bones were liable to snap as you turned into your alter ego was dead useful.
With a soft exhale, Remus turned from the mirror. The towel draped loosely around his waist shifted as he stepped into the cooler air of his room. His movements were deliberate as he pulled on a clean shirt, his fingers lingering briefly over the freshly bandaged wound on his torso. He was tired, and he desperately wanted to sleep, but his brain was too keyed up to even entertain the idea. He pulled on his sleeping pants and stepped out of the room.
The living room was warm, lit by the soft glow of a lamp near the sofa. Maria sat curled up with her embroidery hoop, her legs tucked under her, her fingers working steadily through the fabric. She looked up when Remus stepped in, her expression softening in that familiar way, a quiet acknowledgment of his presence.
“You’re leaving soon,” she said, more statement than a question.
He nodded, stepping into the room. “In three days. I’ll be back the morning after.”
Maria’s fingers didn’t pause as she stitched, but the faintest shift in her body language drew her slightly closer to him for comfort. She’d always hated that she couldn’t solve the shift for him, that they couldn’t share that pain. “I’ll let Essie know. She’ll want to see you before you go.” Essie was always so curious about where he went during these times. Thankfully, she hadn't quite pieced together that her father's regular disappearances were connected to the moon phases.
Remus sank down onto the floor beside the sofa, leaning back against it with a quiet sigh. His arm brushed the edge of her leg, a subtle point of contact that neither of them commented on.
For a moment, neither spoke, the rhythmic pull of Maria’s needle through the fabric filling the silence. Then, as always, Maria broke it.
“The church down the road had a bit of a scare yesterday,” she said, her tone light. “Someone started hollering during the sermon about the devil in the bell tower. Turns out it was just the neighbor’s goat.”
Remus blinked, then huffed a soft laugh. “You’re joking.”
“Nope. Poor goat wandered in, got stuck, and scared half the congregation. Father Miguel had to go up there himself to bring it down. Said it was the most excitement he’s had in years.”
Remus chuckled, his head tilting back against the sofa. “How does a goat even get into a bell tower?”
“I’m guessing it climbed the scaffolding they’re using to repair the roof.” Maria smirked. “Essie’s been telling everyone it was an omen. I caught her yesterday trying to convince Elena’s sister that the goat was sent to ward off evil spirits.”
Remus smiled, the thought of Essie’s dramatic retelling lifting the weight off his shoulders, if only for a moment. “She’s got your flair for storytelling.”
Maria snorted. “And your talent for bending the truth. I don’t know whether to be proud or worried.”
He looked up at her, his expression soft. “Proud. Definitely proud.”
She glanced down at him, her lips curving into a faint smile, and for a moment, her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, a casual, grounding touch that spoke to years of shared history. Slowly, her fingers moved upward, brushing through his damp hair, her blunt nails scratching lightly at his scalp.
He leaned into the touch, his tension melting away bit by bit. No one else could do this—no one else could offer this kind of comfort without him recoiling. Fenrir had loved his hair. Loved to pull it, to yank it in moments of rage or twisted affection. The association had carved itself deep, turning touch into a trigger, flinching into habit.
But Maria wasn’t Fenrir. She never had been, never could be. Her touch was steady, firm without being invasive, and entirely her own. With Maria, he never felt trapped.
His eyes slipped shut, just for a moment, the quiet rhythm of her fingers against his scalp silencing the world outside the room.
“Comfortable?” she asked softly, her tone dry but warm.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Oh, please.” She snorted, giving his hair a playful ruffle before withdrawing her hand. “I’ve already got the biggest head in the house, and you know it.”
They sat there together, in the warm darkness, neither of them wanting to break the moment. The rhythmic tick of the clock on the wall filled the silence, blending with the faint rustle of Maria’s embroidery hoop as she worked absentmindedly. The room felt suspended in time, the weight of their usual burdens momentarily forgotten.
Remus let his head tilt back against the sofa, his eyes slipping shut as the warmth of Maria’s presence settled over him. He wasn’t asleep—not fully—but the heavy comfort of her nearness let him drift, hovering in the space between consciousness and dreams. He knew she was keeping watch, as she always did. If Maria was there, no one could hurt him. Not without getting through her first.
But all things had to end. Maria’s hand withdrew from his hair with deliberate slowness, her touch lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. She placed her embroidery aside and sat up straighter, her movement drawing him back to the present.
“Remy,” she began softly, her voice carrying a note of regret that echoed in the quiet room. “We have to finish our conversation soon.”
His eyes blinked open, hazel and tired but resigned. “I know.”
Maria exhaled, before saying, “Go take a nap. I’ll clean up in here, and then we’ll get started.”
He smiled faintly, a gesture that didn’t quite reach his eyes. With a slow push, he rose to his feet, his joints protesting slightly as he stretched.
“Don’t stay up too late,” he murmured as he passed her, his voice tinged with teasing warmth.
“Don’t snore,” she shot back, a smirk tugging at her lips.
"I don't snore," he refuted, before laughing under his breath, a quiet, rumbling sound that carried into the hallway as he made his way toward the guest room. He closed the door behind him and settled himself under the covers, his bones aching. The quiet pull of exhaustion dragged him to Hypnos, and he closed his eyes.