In a Cottage in the Woods There Lived a Witch

On the Run

Billy had been walking for a long time. Longer than he'd walked before. And before that, he'd been running. Pounding his legs against the earth and stone so hard he thought he'd snap the bones from the force of his strides. His heart had long since ceased being a pressing issue, the muscle instead resigning itself to thrashing against his ribcage until it inevitably gave out. His lungs and muscles had done the same with their burning. Drool was streaming in thick, opaque ropes from his mouth as it hung open, panting to keep himself cool in place of sweating.

The wounds he sustained stung. Gashes to his legs and sides, blood long since dried on his fur and skin. It had been days with no real care, and he could smell the infection in them, which... of course they were. The only first aid he'd been able to do was a cursory dunk in a river, and that was only to muddy his scent. Beyond that, he'd rubbed the new injuries on bark and moss and stone as he ran in initial circles. An attempt to confuse their pursuers and he had no idea if it had even worked to do anything except exacerbate the injuries.

But none of that mattered.

All that mattered was the little weight on the back of his neck, clinging to the blonde fur with tiny clawed feet and the taloned thumb of one wing, the other broken and curled in close to his body. Every once in a while, that tiny weight would let out a small chirp or squeak. Only loud enough to let Billy know that he was, at the very least, alive. Even if the weakness of his heartbeat and the scent of his blood sent pangs of anxiety through Billy's body.

Being a wolf was a double-edged sword. Eddie's body broadcast his injuries to his hyperactive senses, but with that came the curse of knowing. Every time Eddie's breathing stammered or he heard a wound ripping back open, Billy could practically taste the cortisol flood his system.

But in times of crisis, Billy would always choose to be a wolf. He was stronger as a wolf. Faster. Sharper. He could keep a better eye on the little vampire that way. He could monitor his vitals with better senses and at least try and clean his wounds with saliva meant to heal minor injuries and disinfect just enough to keep someone stable. The vampire in question was only kept alive by those efforts and his leathers.

And the promise that he'd made Billy before they escaped.

Once we get out... once we get out I'm going to marry you.

The tingle of the hurried kiss still lingered on Billy's lips, even folded into his furs as he was. He could still feel the cool of Eddie's hands on his cheeks. The hard press of his body as they hid in the alcove of his maker's house, seconds before all hell had broken loose.

Was he hungry? Thirsty? Honestly, Billy couldn't tell. Eating and drinking were perfunctory and done only after Eddie had done so. They slept during the day, fitful and shallow though it was. Always curled uncomfortably into the tiniest spaces, buried in earth as much as possible, and always always wrapped around the tiny bat as he wheezed and shivered.

You're not allowed to die on me, Munson, Billy had chided across the line one day as he cleaned the gash across Eddie's little face with as delicate a tongue as he could. Eddie had only laughed into the connection, his own tiny little tongue slipping out to meet Billy's to try and heal the cut across his nose. Billy allowed it, even if Eddie didn't have the vitality to spare to heal him. He allowed the hooks of Eddie's little claws to bring his nose closer and huffed into the cleaning.

Tender moments were fleeting now, and Billy knew well enough to revel in them while he could, uncertain of when or if they'd have peace enough to love one another properly.

So... he was walking. Walking because his legs had finally stumbled and he'd nearly crushed Eddie in his fall. Walking because when he rose again, those same legs refused to coordinate for anything faster than a trot. Even that was... it was dicey after a handful of strides.