Chapter Text
“You know I’m a little old for the circus, right?”
Marie laughs - laughs musically as she leans back on the little plastic seat that reaches up to her mid back. Colours fly in kaleidoscopic waves; dancing in your vision as they reach up to the center of the tent. It’s not a full house by any means, but it’s a day off you both desperately crave. Marie managed to get you both front row seats, and well: something in the scent of cheap popcorn and culled grass that sends you homeward, fills you with a comfort and a strange anticipation in your stomach.
“Too old for the circus” she scoffs “right, sure. Because that’s a thing that happens. Suddenly you get to a nondescript age and they say ‘ma’am, you want to come to the funnest place in the world for a few hours to break the monotony of life? No, you’ve got tits and we’re worried it’ll startle the jugglers.’ And then they throw you to the curb with a squeak of their nose.”
Marie doesn’t do subtle. You like that about her.
Lights dim; drawing your gaze to the center of the ring. Crowds hush and acts bustle on - tightrope walkers, jugglers. At one point, some sort of fire-breathing based act (you can’t quite comprehend it - how the hell is he doing that?) and three gymnasts doing tricks over hot coals (Marie winces the entire time).
It’s only when the final act comes on that you really feel yourself drawn forward in your seat. Plastic digs into your jeans as you grip your legs; some sort of cage being dragged into view by four lycra-clad gymnasts. The cage is entirely obscured by a thick red blanket, but something inside it jitters and groans as though it’s distressed. You’re sure this isn’t a circus with animals - sure of it. Didn’t the brochure say so? An all-human circus. Exclusively. No ifs or buts.
“Ladies and gentlemen” a voice booms through the speakers, lights slightly dimming “and for our final act, we are pleased to present: The Terrifying Wolf-Man!”
A gymnast rips the red cover from the top of the cage, leaving it trailing in a flurry on the floor as sand kicks up. The cage rattles with the force - and then, the crowd freezes.
“Holy shit” Marie whispers, equal parts reverence and fear.
Everyone hears of little stories about circus freaks and what. You remember watching a documentary, somewhere in the late night re-runs on Youtube, about dog-faced men and people with genetic defects. You hear stories of animals kept as curios by ringmasters - white tigers, elusive two-headed rats. Exotic scorpions.
This is none of those. Nothing like that.
Jet black fur covers its body; a mass of dark tangles, untamed and smoky in the dull light. One of its arms is shackled to a bar in the cage; the other cuts off just above the elbow, leaving a stump in its wake. The shackle is stained with crusted blood, rubbing against the skin of frighteningly large paw. Hind legs seem to shake as they’re forced to balance the creature’s weight, tail drooping and curled between them as though from intense fear. Muscles ripple on its stomach, taut as muscles can be - strong and defined on the soft underside in a way you’ve never seen on an animal before. Its snout is clamped shut by a leather muzzle: nostrils flaring as it sips in the scents of the crowd.
But the eyes. God, the eyes. Liquid gold flecked with chocolate brown - beautiful, really. Devastatingly so. And so, so afraid. It seems almost dazed as the lights flash over its eyes, metal bars separating it from the outside world.
A dark, cold prison.
Whispers of awe run through the crowd - mumbles, murmurs. There’s something ghastly about the scene before you; something cruel about the way the crowd stare at the huge, wolflike creature: like it’s a thing. Disgusting. Terrifying. No pity for the freakish thing.
One of the gymnasts rattles the bars of the cage with a thick, wooden stick. Clanks echo: the wolfish thing howls as though pain radiates through its bones from the sound. Chains jangle: its eyes scan the room in desperation, soft gold flitting from one shocked patron to another.
And then they land on yours.
The wolf huffs a soft whine, its cheeks puffing as it stares at you and holds you there - holding time still, for the briefest of infinities. A quiet stills you; the creature sniffing, tasting a scent in the roof of its mouth. Its struggles just...stop. Watching you. Holding to you. And in its eyes: you see all you need to see.
“It’s looking at you” Marie murmurs, her hand on your shoulder.
The roof of your mouth is suddenly incredibly dry. Palms shake.
“I know” you whisper. The wolf huffs another whine, leaning forward. Leaning towards you. In those golden eyes, there’s such profound intelligence. Gentleness. Awareness.
Human. It looks devastatingly human.
“It’s still looking at you.”
It won’t stop. It holds you in its gaze; curling in your stomach. Imploring you, begging you.
Help me.
“How much to see more of that wolf?” you ask; heart up in your throat as you stare down the ringmaster with a palpable nervousness. You can hardly feel your palms, nails digging in so hard that there’s a bitter sting rising up in the ridges.
The man scoffs, grabbing up a handful of leftover juggling balls. Thick, red hair laps at his neck: scratchy beard wisping at his chin.
Marie tugs your sleeve.
“Come on” she whispers “just leave it.”
You shrug her off and pull out a fifty dollar bill from your pocket.
“How much?”
The man does look up then; regarding you with a heady mix of skepticism and distaste.
“A hundred” he says, licking his lips. “For that, you can have as long as you want. Fuckin’ thing’s turning out to be a bad investment anyway.”
It’s no question. You palm him the hundred, even as Marie huffs a complaint and walks off toward her car. On shaky legs, you follow the redhaired man through the slew of seats and out of the curtains between the tents. Sunlight dapples through the red and yellow canopy of materials, soft sand kicking up on your boots as you pass a pair of jugglers.
Coming to a stop by a clearing, you note a hollowed-out truck. One of the sides is entirely made up of metal bars; glinting bright silver in contrast to the chipping red of the other three walls. Scratchy straw fills the space: thick chains hammered into the walls as though to hold the creature down. In the middle: the thing huffs, its back to you as it lays facing the back wall. The way its legs are curled protectively is almost...almost human. A distressed stance you’d know anywhere.
“What is that thing?” you ask quietly. Spit crackles in your throat, watching the way its chest rises and falls. Hitching as though desperately trying to calm itself.
The ringmaster laughs.
“You won’t believe me if I tell you.”
“Try me.”
The man folds his arms, waistcoat dipping as he leans back against the side of the truck.
“Werewolf.” His grin is cold and lopsided; he already knows how you’ll react.
And react you do - eyes rolling.
“Right.”
He shrugs. “Told ya.”
“So you’re telling me” you say “that’s...that’s a guy. A guy you’re keeping locked up in a little cage like that? Are you kidding me?”
The wolf’s ears seem to prick up, but it fails to move. Whether from exhaustion or fear, you’re not quite sure.
“Now you listen here” the ringmaster retorts. “We give ‘em good food and lodgings. Keep ‘em clean and let ‘em have peace and quiet outside of showtime. If he ain’t changin’ back into a guy; that’s his problem. Far as I’m concerned if he wants to get out of here, he can just go doin’ that.”
You don’t even dignify that with a response: approaching the cage and resting your hands on the worn bars. The metal is smooth at your touch, little sticks of straw poking at your belly. It smells good in here; almost like cologne. Nothing like you’d expect.
“When you’re done inspectin’ the merchandise” the ringmaster sniffs “get out. Don’t be comin’ back here.” He moves off, calling over his shoulder. “And his name’s Clyde.”
The man moves off as you silently appraise the huffing wolf - its back legs stretching out ever so slowly. A werewolf? How utterly stupid. Werewolves don’t exist - and if they did, wouldn’t they look like a shitty Hollywood blockbuster?
“Clyde?”
The wolf stirs in response as your eyes widen; the sound of a loose chain jinking on the floor as he rolls onto his side. Bleary gold eyes take you in as he huffs, muzzle now removed to let his jaws free of the leather. There’s a spark of acknowledgement that catches you off guard - even moreso as he staggers up onto three paws. His gait is slowed by the missing paw, but there’s something so familiar in his movements. Something hauntingly sad and pained and fearful.
Facing you, eyes low: Clyde stops.
“Can you...” you swallow thickly, pushing away from the bars “...can you understand me?”
Clyde puffs air from his cheeks. With a sweeping motion, he bows his head. Dark fur ruffles.
“Ohhh no. No. That wasn’t a nod. That’s...this isn’t happening.”
Clyde huffs again, yellow eyes appraising you with some form of soft skepticism. As though he’s the one testing you out. Your hands run through your hair nervously, jittering on the spot.
“Six times two” you offer. “Make a noise when you hear the right answer.”
Clyde blinks.
“Three.”
A pause.
“Eleven.”
Nothing.
“Twelve.”
Clyde whimpers.
“Oh my god.”
You stagger backward; breathing ragged as you stumble into the wooden bough of a nearby tree. This is insane: werewolves don’t exist. You’ve heard of all sorts of crazy shit: but people shifting into giant wolves and ending up as circus attractions? That really isn’t in the ballpark of stuff you’re willing to accept.
But this wolf is responsive. Intelligent.
“He’s right. You’re...Clyde, you’re a werewolf. Oh god.”
Clyde shifts his weight on his three paws; stump wobbling as he pushes his nose against the bars. It slips between them just so: just enough that he can push the black mass of his muzzle through and huff at you. Huff at you as though he’s trying to draw you in, draw you close.
Cautiously, you take several steps forward, letting your fingertips lightly dip out towards his nose. He seems to strain even further at that: furry chest straining as he whines, trying to reach you for just the briefest of moments.
And so when your fingers gently stroke the cold wet of his nose: Clyde makes a harrowingly desperate noise. His whole body seems to ripple with an insistent, painful energy as he nuzzles harshly into your hand - as harshly as he can, given the circumstances. Any worries you had about Clyde being something that needed chaining float away with the painful want in his eyes.
He’s lonely. He’s so, so lonely. Scared and lonely and desperate to be held.
You can’t imagine it. Being stuck in that body, tortured and chained - dragged out for amusement of crowds. How much it would make someone crave even the briefest of social interactions, the briefest of caring touches on your skin.
“I’m so sorry” you whisper, tears threatening to spill over as you run your hands over the soft fur on his muzzle. He puffs breaths into your palm, closing his eyes as though to savour the moment. “I’m so sorry they’re doing this to you.”
A buzz in your pocket leads your spare hand down to the back of your jeans: plucking your phone from the denim and pushing it to your ear. Clyde’s eyes follow the movement: still leaning against your other hand, mouthing the skin on it insistently.
“Marie, I just...”
“I don’t know what you’re doing, pal, but we’ve gotta go.”
Clyde whines, needy and strong.
“I can’t. I can’t leave him.”
The phone crackles as you push it into the crook of your neck, freeing your hand in the process. With both hands free, you’re able to pat Clyde’s head: lathering him in attention. His eyes flutter shut, breathing steady as he revels in it.
Marie sighs.
“I’ve got a meeting in an hour. It’s a 45 minute drive back to my place. We
need
to go.”
Annoyance flits through her tone - but you don’t have a choice. Marie’s your ride home - without her, you’re pretty much fucked. This circus isn’t going anywhere until the end of the week; and it’s not like you can stay with Clyde even if you want to. Night is drawing in: and what’re you going to do? Bust the guy out with no tools or plan? No - you need advice. Tactical thinking. To clear your head.
“Alright, I’m coming. I’ll be there in five.”
You withdraw your hands, ending the call and shoving the device into your pocket: and Clyde absolutely despairs. His paws clatter, making his chains jangle on the straw-covered floor. Pupils wide and dark and desperate as he howls.
“I’ll come back!” you tell Clyde; letting him earnestly nuzzle your palms again. His nuzzling seems even more panicked now; as though he no longer cares how needy he seems. “I’ll come back tomorrow. I’m going to figure this out, Clyde. I’m going to get you out of here. But I can’t do that tonight: not without a plan. You have to trust me.”
Clyde seems to still at that: eyes closing. His forehead pushes against the bars as he bows his head, pressing black fur against the flat of your hand. Resting it there. Regaining himself.
“I promise you, Clyde: I’m going to get you out of here. I swear.”
And as you turn to walk away, slipping your palm off of his head and feeling the dust crunch under your feet: Clyde’s head stays bowed against the bars.
As though he can imprint the memory of your fingertips right onto his soul.
He wishes it was like in the movies.
Clyde was never really much of a movie buff - he prefers the company of books. Any books, all books. His brother used to tease him for it; but Clyde could never help himself. Every cent he ever found was spent on endless books - when he wasn’t working the bar, he was curled up on the sofa. Book in hand.
The movies always tell you it’s something like a blur. You lose control: give in to some primal urge. All memory goes out with the human skin, and the time as a wolf is almost like dreaming.
It’s nothing like that.
Clyde feels everything. Every want, every need. Every thought. Crystalline and clear; his mind still entirely his own. He’s aware of everything: aware of the way the chains on his legs dig into the thin flesh there, aware of the way they all look at him like he’’s this creature.
The loneliness is the worst, he thinks. Being trapped in a cage, lonely and bitter and sad. Craving just...any form of company. Anything. The smallest exchange.
He shifts his body: yellow eyes drifting up to the soft cloud cover of the sky. Stars poke through every now and then, illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight. He lays on his side, paws curled in front of his body. Wet nose pressed against a metal bar.
It still smells like you. So much like you.
He wants to hold your scent in his lungs forever. Let it fill him up, up, up: fill him until it spills into his skin. Burns away the fur and paws and brings back the man he remembers being. He aches for it so badly that it feels like wildfire.
The way you looked at him...God. How long has it been since someone has looked at him like they feel for him? Looked at him like a man, a real man: seen the person in his skin? Too long. And when you touched him, he just...couldn’t help it. It should be shameful (and it is - it is) but it’s just...you smelled like heaven. Like something sharp and distinctive and exquisite on the roof of his mouth.
Beautiful. You’re so, so beautiful.
His head feels too full as he huffs a breath, lungs aching. Sooner or later, he knows he’ll fall asleep - fall asleep with that gorgeous scent on the roof of his mouth. Maybe it’ll carry him off to better dreams - dreams of a life where he’d be himself, he’d pour you a drink with a shy smile. On the house, darlin’.
He’s scared and alone: but for the first time in as long as he remembers, Clyde Logan feels that light shiver at the base of his spine. That little tug on the muscles in his legs, a tingling on his lips.
It’s not enough to shift, but it’s hope. Comfort, pulling him just slightly back towards humanity. If you give him enough of it: maybe he’ll be free.
He huffs quietly, giving a little whine.
“I’m going to get you out of here” you’d said.