[There's a disconnect between the human and the wolf side of him that, even now, he doesn't fully understand. At his best, his mind is his own. He knows what he's doing and why. Is able to think like the human hidden beneath the fur. And at his worst- Well, anybody who'd been paying any attention to him on their return to the manor would know how that goes.
But most of the time, it's this. It's a hybrid of the two. A wild animal held back by the bonds he's formed. It's his pack, each and every member of it being the key to grounding the remains of his humanity, despite the form he's in. The safety net he needs to let himself shift when he chooses to. Or, when he wakes up with the memories of death and violence, he needs to.
When the door is opened, Bob's words are largely lost on him. The tone though, the lack of fear, is all the prompting he needs to pad into the room and claim the space by Bob's side instead. His loose posture, his tail flicks lazily, and if it wasn't for his size, he could easily be mistaken for a dog in moments like this. Points in time where his full focus is left on a single person, waiting for a sign that they're comfortable enough with his presence not to see him as a threat. When he'll be free to move around without concern.
Surely the slobbery lick he ends up giving Bob's hand will work in his favor too?]
[ bucky slips past him, and bob drags fingers through his fur as he goes. makes a sound of disgust and delight, at the licking. how strange, to think neither werewolf nor vampire frightens him with their sharp teeth and claws. not so different from a boy shaped in shadow. and it was always the mundane that hurt him before, anyway. his dad, the car accident, the drip drip drip of the iv. no fairytale monsters featured in his nightmares — at least until he become one himself.
he pads after the wolf that seems familiar in a way that goes beyond instinct. maybe it’s molecular, down to some essential level that he can now feel in his fingertips, even when he doesn’t consciously reach for it. ]
I would’ve cleaned if I knew you were coming over, man.
[ ‘cause walker and barnes are military guys. tidy as hell. bob is more at home in mess, though adrian keeps it from getting out of hand. he picks his sweater off the floor, anyway, and throws it over his desk chair.
the room itself is an incomplete thing, more the house’s space than bob’s, apart from the widow seat that has a blanket and some books. the side table, too, holds the clutter that speaks to bob’s presence: his phone, a folded letter, armand’s calling card, and an open pack of cigarettes. flopping on his unmade bed, bob pats the covers beside him. probably not allowed, but who cares? ]
Never had a dog, y’know.
[ which he knows is for the best, considering how his dad treated him, but he always wanted one, anyway. a dog. a sibling. a friend he could invite back to the house without worrying what they’d see. ]
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But most of the time, it's this. It's a hybrid of the two. A wild animal held back by the bonds he's formed. It's his pack, each and every member of it being the key to grounding the remains of his humanity, despite the form he's in. The safety net he needs to let himself shift when he chooses to. Or, when he wakes up with the memories of death and violence, he needs to.
When the door is opened, Bob's words are largely lost on him. The tone though, the lack of fear, is all the prompting he needs to pad into the room and claim the space by Bob's side instead. His loose posture, his tail flicks lazily, and if it wasn't for his size, he could easily be mistaken for a dog in moments like this. Points in time where his full focus is left on a single person, waiting for a sign that they're comfortable enough with his presence not to see him as a threat. When he'll be free to move around without concern.
Surely the slobbery lick he ends up giving Bob's hand will work in his favor too?]
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he pads after the wolf that seems familiar in a way that goes beyond instinct. maybe it’s molecular, down to some essential level that he can now feel in his fingertips, even when he doesn’t consciously reach for it. ]
I would’ve cleaned if I knew you were coming over, man.
[ ‘cause walker and barnes are military guys. tidy as hell. bob is more at home in mess, though adrian keeps it from getting out of hand. he picks his sweater off the floor, anyway, and throws it over his desk chair.
the room itself is an incomplete thing, more the house’s space than bob’s, apart from the widow seat that has a blanket and some books. the side table, too, holds the clutter that speaks to bob’s presence: his phone, a folded letter, armand’s calling card, and an open pack of cigarettes. flopping on his unmade bed, bob pats the covers beside him. probably not allowed, but who cares? ]
Never had a dog, y’know.
[ which he knows is for the best, considering how his dad treated him, but he always wanted one, anyway. a dog. a sibling. a friend he could invite back to the house without worrying what they’d see. ]