(A few moments ago.)
Without Newbie around, things were pretty uneventful.
He'd admit it. Not out loud, but still; Dr. Cox was starting to miss the little girly shit. Tormenting all the other people didn't give him nearly the same satisfied feeling afterward. He glanced at his clock, and though he couldn't quite read it, he could still tell what time it was. Two, maybe five in the morning. Somewhere along those lines.
He didn't have any idea how he could know that, it was like some internal clock had been installed in his brain. He could just sense the, er, general time.
Of course, he was feeling to weird to really give it a across his couch, trusty bottle of scotch in hand, he watched TV, not really registering what was happening on the screen at all. His head was fuzzy-- and not just because he was buzzed. He could handle a friggin' buzz. He'd been worse off…
Vision clouded, he stood, wobbling just enough to utterly piss him off. What was wrong with him? …Was he sick? Ah hell, he hoped not. He made a sudden swerve for the bathroom, and somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered something that really had nothing to do with anything; that the window in there was still open from when he'd used it earlier-- he'd have to fix that.
Shit. He was buzzed.
Anyway. Just what he needed: Bobbo getting on his ass over something he had no control over.
Not that that would be any different than the norm, but for some reason, he was just so very irritable right now, and the thought made him see red.
…He was literally seeing red. In his reflection in the mirror. On his hands.
He jerked them up to his face in a flash, studying them. There was blood on his fingernails, which he didn't quite remember being so long. And pointy.
And was it just him, or did his hands just seem bigger, somehow? His mouth tightened in thought, and he started when sharp canines dug into his lips.
He winced in pain when his shoes suddenly became too small for his own feet. Feeling strangely numb, he yanked them off.
What in the name of hell was happening to him?
And, like a sucker punch to the gut, Pretty-Boy Keith's words came crashing back to him. Werewolf.
All thought stopped simultaneously, except for one word: No.
I am not a werewolf, I am not a werewolf, I am not a werewolf…
He wasn't a werewolf. He was just drunk. This was a dream. In the morning, he'd wake up to a grouchy-ass Jordan Sullivan who'd give him a good telling off for getting drunk just because he missed his precious Sally Sensitive.
Which was so not why he'd started drinking the scotch that night in the first place. Why should he care? Newbie would be back in the morning anyway, he was probably either already back or on his way by now. Stupid kid was too dependent on his friends to go solo for too long.
Why the hell was he thinking about Gloria at a time like this?
He bit and filed at his nails until they were stubs.
I am not a werewolf, I am not a werewolf, I am not a werewolf…
But it didn't matter. They grew right back a few seconds later.
I am not a werewolf, I am not a werewolf, I am not a werewolf…
There was just no way.
He could deal with this. He'd just ignore it and hoped it went away. Just like always.
He didn't notice how his thoughts were becoming more of a frantic, panicked mantra.
I am not a werewolf, I am not a werewolf, I am not a werewolf…
I am not a werewolf, I am not a werewolf, I am not a werewolf…
I am not a werewolf, I am not a werewolf, I am not a werewolf…
He realized he couldn't ignore it when he sprouted a tail. Right above his ass, too. If Jordan could see him now...
The thing was the same color as his human hair-- that odd but not unpleasant mix of red, blonde, and brown. He swore the fur was just as curly, too.
Fuck.
Okay.
Being a werewolf wasn't too bad.
He didn't start ripping and tearing into the first person he saw. No one had died yet and he didn't really plan on it.
He didn't even look like those Hollywood werewolves, anyway. He looked like an actual, quadruped natural wolf; albeit noticeably larger than those you saw on National Geographic and the like. Curly, red, blonde and brown fur, exactly like his hair. He still had the same blue eyes that were always haunted by his stolen childhood.
Nothing changed. He had full control of himself. He didn't look any different in his human form, either. Just sharper teeth, which Carla had commented on once.
The full moon or sunlight didn't affect him either. He could transform whenever he damn well wanted (though it was a biiit painful), be it midnight or broad daylight. The first time, on that scotch-filled night, had been two days and nights ago.
Well, three now, he corrected himself as he watched the rising sun from his bathroom window; his unofficial escape route for whenever he felt like stretching his furred legs-- which happened to be right about now.
So, all in all, this whole werewolf thing was a win-win deal. He certainly was a bit happier and definitely freer than he'd ever felt before.
He told no one why he seemed to smile more often than he used to, of course. Keith, however, obviously knew. The pretty boy had practically collapsed with relief when he'd seen the elder doctor walk through the hospital doors in one piece.
Pussy said he 'didn't want to see anyone hurt.' Pfft. He was a werewolf, who the hell would try to--
Oh right. The black wolf.
Perry hadn't seen any sign whatsoever of any other werewolves anywhere except for Pretty-Boy. He couldn't detect any familiar doggish scent, even with his newfound canine sense of smell. Couldn't hear any of those faint doglike noises that werewolves sometimes made instinctually in their human form.
There were no other werewolves. Not any he could find, and take his word for it; he searched like a mad rabbit looking for his carrot.
Oh, God. Did he actually just use that phrase? Slap him now.
And Newbie? He came back. Simple as that. No special entrance, nothing. He stepped through the doors, greeted everyone (as he'd seen his little band of friends first thing after his arrival already, no doubt), and resumed his rightful place as World's Most Annoying Doctor at Dr. Cox's side, playing his natural role as the older man's lapdog.
Nothing, nothing at all, had changed much.
Nothing at all.
Perry didn't see the wary looks Keith kept shooting at JD.
He also didn't see the way the girly man's blue eyes glittered mysteriously whenever he looked at him, nor did he see the blue highlights in the kid's wavy black hair.
He didn't see Newbie's pointed canines.
He would regret it.
A/N: Well. All I have to say is that I blame listening to too much violent rock songs, full of tales of deception and mystery. Why would JD want to kill anyone? Why would he turn them into werewolves first before killing them? Why would he want Dr. Cox dead, of all people? Why did I make JD the black wolf in the first place?
One: because I like evil!JD way too much, and two, I wanted to do something I've never seen before. Full of mystery, you make your own guesses. Which I would like to hear, by the way.
I might make some kind of a prequel/sequel to this someday. Probably, since I had so much fun with this. But for now, this is complete. I wouldn't mind to read your ideas, though.
Overall, however, this is the most epic thing I have ever written so far in my non-military career (which is nonexistent).
Bye!