Chapter Text
It’s impossible to tell the time this late into the evening— a murky hour past dusk, where Laura’s hair is still damp from a sunset shower, and it’s soon enough after dinner for Max to be tight-lipped about his black hole of a stomach.
Peace and quiet, where the birds have retired from their irritating position by Laura’s window, and Travis has disappeared into what can only be assumed as a boring, uneventful night. Like most in North Kills these last few months, akin to the solitude and grey of the dusty cells he keeps them in.
A sliver of light pierces Laura with arrowed accuracy, falling across the length of her torso and illuminating the hand she has resting on her stomach. Already again? she thinks, and pulls herself up as close to the window as she possibly can, socked feet slipping on the layered covers on her cot.
Travis, the same asshole who pulled them — meaning her and Max— over, was nice enough to offer Laura another blanket after the last night she spent shivering in her sleep, cursing up something about this derelict old building being cold in the middle of the fucking summer. Figures.
The shuffle of the other warm body a few cells away catches in Laura's ears, pulling her momentarily from the window. She looks over at Max and instead finds the familiarity of the ashen brick wall; the most contact she’s had in months is the heat of the Sheriff’s hands as he tightens her cuffs and wrenches her out of here, though she goes willingly.
“Full moon,” Max calls.
“Yeah, I got it,” Laura replies. Then, softer, “Thanks, Max.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, and then silence.
He’s still sulking after their earlier argument, and has hardly said a word since— something that’s nigh impossible for him, which is part of why Laura liked him in the first place. (The sudden loud heh of a laugh cutting through a crowd, the non-subtlety of his every word that Laura once found herself hanging on, the softness of his character that undercuts the harshness of her own. Balanced, as all things should be. But even he says some things he can’t take back in moments of anger, even if they’ll never be as casually cruel as the ones Laura can dish up.
She shouldn’t have mentioned his college rejection; definitely shouldn’t have mentioned their futures as if they were two separate things, like they’d never be Max and Laura again after this. Max used to like that she was stubborn, direct, stood grounds she wasn’t always sure about, but would defend regardless, just because she could. How long until the well of his patience dries up, just like all the others? How long until they get out of here and realise it doesn’t matter what they’d do for each other, some things just don’t work?)
Laura flattens a hand on her head, smoothing the ponytail ruffled by her brief interlude of a nap. No point ruminating over her stagnant relationship with Max, not when they have bigger problems. Like, the fact that Max got bitten in the cellar and is now a werewolf, Laura is missing an eye, or the Sheriff might realise one of these days it’ll be easier to cover up their deaths than the sudden reappearance they’ll one day have to make if things work out.
If.
“How do you feel?” Laura calls out, hoping Max can hear it.
The silence that follows says enough.
Stepping off the bed, she nears the bars to her cell gingerly, awaiting the telltale splash of his flesh against concrete or the low growl he’ll soon make in his throat. Sounds Laura would rather avoid after the last time they proved their hypothesis right and she was left to stitch up her fucked up eye in a dingy mirror with hands she kept from trembling.
No amount of apologies from Max made it sound as if he would ever forgive it, so Laura doesn’t mention the cavernous state of it the last time she checked, or what she’ll say happened when they get out of here, or how some nights it aches so much she can’t sleep.
Aches so much she wants to reach between the bars the next time the Sheriff comes by and scratch his out with nails she’s chewed to nothing. Those same blunt nails scratch at her arm, absentmindedly, as she awaits the inevitable, her head turned in the direction of Max’s cell and mind blatantly ignoring the silver stream of moonlight splashed on the wall opposite.
Any minute now, surely. Laura’s almost impatient waiting for it, nearing as close to the bars of her cell as she can get.
“Max, what’s going on?” she asks. “C’mon, you’re making me nervous over here. Can you just say something to me? I don’t care what it is, alright? Anything?”
“Laura,” Max roars, an uncommon timbre to the familiarity of his voice. “Would you shut the fuck up?”
Definitely a full moon tonight. Satisfied, Laura shifts away and glances back towards the window, antsy fingers retying the string of her pants and then finding the hold of her hips. Nothing to do besides wait for the sun to rise as the monster puppeteering her boyfriend catterwauls cells away, ruining whatever quiet ambience there once was.
She almost prefers the quiet. (Almost.)
“Now all I have to do is wait until sunrise…” she starts, glancing to her right, ” … and hope werewolves can’t eat through concrete. Perfect.”
The Sheriff left sometime earlier, after he’d dragged them off for separate showers and slid trays of lukewarm food under their cell doors. Laura had eyed him the whole time, forcing him to look at the bandage covering half her face; a permanent body modification she hadn’t chosen, which has thrown her depth perception off for the entire month since it happened.
He’d managed to look a little sad, weary— like if he could go back, which they can’t, he’d at least have the foresight to sit her a little further away from the dribbling, teeth-gnashing boyfriend she didn’t recognise.
Fuck him, anyway. This is his fault; who cares whatever bullshit he fed her the night she lost her eye, when he made the choice months ago to lock her and Max up. She doesn’t owe him anything. And if Max wasn’t being the way he sometimes is, he and she would be out of here by now, with Travis locked up here instead.
Dipping a hand into a pocket, Laura’s fingers find the fork she smuggled off her dinner tray and into her pocket hours ago. Not a perfect match for a lockpick, yet close enough to flood her with hope, regardless. He probably won’t even notice it’s gone. And with a little work, it could become close enough, or she’ll waste the entire night of a full moon driving herself crazy trying to make it.
“Well. I guess there’s no point waiting around to see if Max is hungry,” Laura quips, as the pained, guttural growls nearby deepen.
She never quite got as far as practical experience picking locks, a little too busy procrastinating her studying by watching YouTube tutorials she told herself might one day come in handy. But, “How hard could it be?” she murmurs, dipping to examine the lock. If she could somehow get the keys off Travis’ belt, it would make all of this a lot easier. Besides, he trusts her. She could’ve taken off the last time, and she didn’t— this time, he probably won’t be as lucky.
Knees cold on the solid ground, Laura curls her fingers around the fork, examining it. Not as sturdy as the ones her parents owned, and with a little pressure, she manages to bend one of the prongs back, lifting it to the lock. It slips into the keyhole without much fuss, Laura’s hands impatiently wriggling it until she hears it.
Click.
Laura grins immediately, teeth on display and a new fervour flooding her. “Fuck yes,” she says to herself. Then, turning in the direction of the howling, she calls out, “Max, I did it!”
The only response is more incessant growling, drowning out the harsh grind of the cell door as Laura nudges it experimentally open. She’s free, again. Again, she reminds herself bitterly. It would’ve been so easy to leave last time, get help that wasn’t from anyone in North Kills, and find a way to deal with all of this without half-jacked plans about killing the brother of her captor. (Maybe Laura doesn’t want to kill anyone. What then, Max?)
She hadn’t even told Max she’d swiped the fork off her plate in the first place— they were barely speaking, and she’d rejected his last escape attempt with empty excuses about not getting involved in the Hacketts’ fucked-up family dynamic. And that’s without mentioning Max’s case of lycanthropy.
If they can’t find Chris Hackett and cure Max, what the fuck are they supposed to do when the full moon comes around? Will their relationship survive that long? Has it so far?
Socked feet padding on the cool concrete floor, Laura pauses in the doorway of her cell. The silver light of the full moon spills across her, taunting the humanity her boyfriend doesn’t currently share, and she spares one last cursory look towards his cell. He’ll survive the night in there alone. And she’s not willing to get any closer to make sure.
“I’ll come back,” she calls out, a promise she hopes not to break. Not that he’d much notice if she didn’t make it back; they’ve barely exchanged more than a few words the last few days.
Resolute in her assurance that she won’t abandon Max entirely, she lets her restless body carry her through the familiar doorway and then the halls of the abandoned station. It’s unnervingly quiet, devoid of Travis for the first night in days — she had figured he’d be here until later. Still, the deafening silence that fills whatever presence he left behind is deafening, and for now, Laura’s the sole entity here, her footfalls disturbing what little peace remains.
She heads, once again, for his desk and the computer he keeps there. An out-of-date, ageing thing she’s surprised he knows how to use, based on what little she knows about him.
Her memory succeeds in filling in his password, her steady hand reading considerably through the emails he hasn’t yet found time to check himself. One about her and Max, another one about the podcast Travis and Chris insisted on shutting down. Old news for someone who’s already read them. And, boring enough to have Laura closing the tabs she opened and pushing herself clear of the table.
Enough, she tells herself. There has got to be a way out of here.
The last time she got out of her cell, she toiled away her time. Hesitant to leave Max, with a gaping hole where her eye used to be, and the promise of the Sheriff’s return. But, she knows enough now to know he’s hardly ever here past dusk, and never on the night of a full moon; he’s out there, hunting whatever it was that bit Max, upended their plans, and fucked up the last few months of their lives.
So, that asshole Travis is probably not here, likely with the only keys to the doors attached to his belt. And worse, there’s no more snooping or hunting around for clues to be done. There’s nothing here, frustratingly so. Dragging her tired feet out of his podunk office, she heads for the upper level. The only thing Laura can find out of sorts is the blanket draped across the couch upstairs and the cold cup of coffee on the table opposite, and that’s from a cursory glance about the place.
“It looks like he’s been sleeping here,” she says to herself, muttering under her breath. “What a freak.”
She picks up the abandoned mug and sniffs it, recoiling at the bitter wave of nausea it drives into her gut. How long has it been since she’s had a proper meal, that wasn’t served up on a tray, and wasn’t held in the hands of a guy holding her captive against her will?
Answer: Too long. Seriously, too long.
Up here, away from the clutter of deserted supplies and thick walls, the windows are a welcome sight. The pool of bright moonlight that falls across the floor and illuminates the dark grey of her pant legs is a blessing in itself, a reminder that there’s a whole world outside of this station, the werewolf she calls her boyfriend that’s captive downstairs, and the sole face she sees besides him, Travis Hackett.
A fierce crash shatters the quiet, and Laura nearly startles out of her skin. She hisses a, “Holy fuck!” that has her heading to peer over the staircase, moments before a disembodied howl from what could be miles away ricochets through her ears. This time, decidedly not Max. Someone— something— else.
Her senses fail her, and noise is the sole one she has. Enough to hear a cacophony of bullets strike the floor downstairs, and Travis’ gravelly voice as he begins to bark things to himself. Things and words she can't decipher, ears strained in his direction and fingers gripping the railing tight enough to hurt. What nails she hasn't chewed down dig painfully into her lower palms, and she ignores the ache as she presses to the right, narrowly navigating her way towards the stairs. Not once taking her eyes off of Travis, who has come into skewed view of her one eye, and whose hands are covered in blood, clutching a shotgun.
He looks up, and then down. Startled by her now noticed presence, his eyes flick up again.
“How in the hell did you get out of your cell?”
“Do you care?” she asks, daring. “It’s not like I left.”
Travis’ glare pins her arms to her side, and it’s an effort to force her cold hands into the pockets of her sweats. So much for an easygoing, breezy night, where she can snoop about to her heart’s content and try to make sense of this— of him, really, she thinks, and leans over the railing to get a proper look at him.
Her perception is skewed by the bandage over her injured, slash-missing eye, but there’s more than just the blood on his hands. It’s splashed across his front, dried in flakes to the skin of his face. Each dark, ironed seam of his police uniform looks like it’s soaked through, and Laura lets her eyes drag over it, aware of the smell of iron permeating the air and the bloodied prints his boots have left pressed onto the floor.
It’s all building evidence of a crime she doubts he’ll admit to. And a distant, heart-worrying part of her wonders if this is his game; if this all goes beyond the werewolf curse, and there’s something larger, scarier, deadly at play. It would be her luck if there were.
“What the fuck?” she exclaims. “Did you kill someone?”
“Watch your mouth,” Travis replies, as if more by habit than anything. His hands, slickened with blood, drop a shotgun shell he was hurrying to load into the gun that’s weighing steadily in his grip. Sighing— audibly and visibly fed up with this, her, and pretty much everything– he adds, “I--it’s not any of your goddamn business, now, is it? Get back to your damn cell.”
Laura descends the stairs, trying to ignore the pacing of her heart. It’s sickening in a way that she’s thrilled by the idea of excitement, that this is the closest she’s come to something new and fresh in months. If she doesn’t count the fact that her boyfriend, maybe, has turned into a werewolf multiple times, and took her eye out the first time because this guy sat her too close to Max’s cell.
Still…
“A shotgun’s too messy,” she says. There’s a gaping, bleeding mess on Travis’ throat. Laura sees it as she nears the bottom of the staircase, still able to smell the bitter coffee she inhaled earlier, now mingling with the unmistakable breath of death. “In case you’re, y’know, planning on…”
“I’m not gonna shoot myself,” Travis spits. “This ain’t for me.”
“I thought, maybe—” Laura shrugs, and her one remaining eye traces the motion of his hand on his shotgun. He’s practised and dependable with it, almost as if it’s a second limb in his aged, experienced hands, moored to the security of his palm. “You’re bit. So, you’re gonna become like Max, aren’t you?”
His lip sneers, eyes narrowing towards her. “That’s none of your business, Kearney.”
“I can lock you up in one of the cells, if you want. It seems to work for Max just fine.”
Travis manages to wipe the blood off his hands onto his pants and load the wet shell into the shotgun before placing it on the nearest abandoned desk as though it weighs nothing. He’s in front of her in a few long strides, a pair of handcuffs going from jingling on his belt to solid and threatening in his grasp, and his spare hand reaches for one of her arms, wrenching it out of her pocket.
“Watch your hands,” Laura grits out, realising she’s being cuffed.
“Playtime’s over,” is the single, bitten reply she receives.
Travis has done this before, plenty of times. She’s been on the other side of it more than she can count the last few months, but this time is different, leaning less on the side of caution than usual. She complies readily, though she puts up a fight for show, if just to test him; it’s not like she has anywhere she could go, and she’s not exactly thrilled about being covered in his blood, either.
His grip tightens almost painful, though he’s as gentle with her as ever. Even when she’s a colossal pain in his side. “Would you stop?” he commands, exhaustion ghosting his words. “This’ll be a whole lot smoother if you accept your fate, Laura.”
“Do you not get sick of this?” Laura asks, genuinely inquiring. “I can walk back to my cell just fine. We don’t need to do all of this… this.”
“Y’know, contrary to popular belief, I don’t enjoy this side of the job.”
Pulled towards him and guided past the shotgun that could’ve changed everything for her and Max, had she been willing to use it, all Laura says is, “Could’ve fooled me.”