M warning for likely discussion of sensitive themes.

Wednesday, 21 May 2008
8:21 AM
Three weeks after Remembering Day
Leaky Cauldron
London

The veterans of the Werewolf Capture Unit had made up most of the breakfast crowd at the Leaky Cauldron that morning, gathered at their usual table for a mooncap and debriefing after the full moon the night before.  This particular morning, the mood at their table had been largely subdued.  One of their longtime teammates, Shufen Chen, had gone down during the hunt, falling victim to a werewolf that had been too unpredictable in the end. 

They'd managed to drive the beast away from Chen before it had fatally injured her, but no one at the table held any illusion about what their colleague's future now held.  A bite from a transformed werewolf resulted in only one fate.  Chen had been with them since just after the war, but her name would now be added to the annals of former WCU members: one more casualty of the monthly hunt.

The last two stragglers, Bellingham and Harfooey, were just saying their goodbyes to Bruce as Kurby returned from the bar with one last round in hand.  He slid the glass of wine across the table to his boss, wrinkling his nose at it on principle, and set a glass of Firewhiskey down in front of his own seat.

Kurby shielded a yawn as he settled back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table.  It had been a long night.  After full moons like this one, the morning ritual at the Leaky Cauldron was an important part of the team's decompression, a chance to reflect and mourn and drink some of their troubles away.  Now that it was over, though, it was time to think about getting back to work. 

"Reckon I'm goin' to head home and catch a couple hours of sleep, and then I can head back in to the office this afternoon to wrap up the report," he remarked, kicking his boots up on the empty chair across from him. "You need anything else from me?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at her.  "Everything at St. Mungo's is handled, aye?"

Bruce was knackered. This morning, the exhaustion was emotional as well as physical. They’d lost one of their own and she’d sent a couple of her team to St Mungo’s with her. She’d been bitten, and that meant one thing. The rest of her life had been ripped to shreds because of an error in judgement one night of her life. She’d lost in the gamble that they all made every full moon and she would be reminded of it every full moon until she died.

If she made it through alive.

Kurby found Bruce still sat back in her chair having waved off the last 2 lingering behind. Her boots were up on the chair across from her. Her legs, as usual, were covered in knee length khaki shorts with at least 7 pockets, and countless scrapes and bruises. Her wild curly hair had been scraped back into a scruffy bun, and her eyes were closed.

“Nah, you’re good. Don’t rush. Get some sleep.” Bruce was quieter than normal. A mixture, no doubt, of the tiredness, emotional stress and the best part of a bottle of white wine. She opened her eyes and clocked her next glass on the small table in front of them. It was just them left now, everyone having gone home. It normally ended with these two, sharing in their own post full moon debrief.

“I’ll swing by in a few hours and check on her.” She reached forward and grabbed the glass before sitting back again, slouching comfortably. “Merlin’s balls, did we do the right thing, Kurb?” She meant saving Chen. Should they have left the wolf to finish the job after the first bite? No one wanted to turn. A fate, to any of her team no doubt, worse than death.

This was easily the hardest part of the Werewolf Capture Unit's work: once the adrenaline of the hunt wore off, and they were all forced face-to-face with mortality again.  Kurby had found years ago that the best way to deal with it was simply to focus on what needed to be done.  A few hours' worth of sleep first, and then finish up the routine tasks, one after the other.  Coupled with a drink or two or three to help him sleep again, and he could make it through several days without having to think about what had happened.

He lifted his chin towards Bruce in acknowledgement, taking a moment to relax in the chair as he sipped on the Firewhiskey.  It burned all the way down his throat, hot and searing and alive. 

Usually, when they lost someone, it was one of the young ones, a recent recruit to the Capture Unit who did something stupid and ended up dead as a result.  Having Chen go down hurt.  She'd been a colleague for almost a decade, a vibrant part of the team culture.  Replacing her would be hard.

Bruce seemed to be stuck on that idea, too.  "Merlin's balls, did we do the right thing, Kurb?"

He blinked his eyes open, brows furrowing as he regarded her silently.

That was the million galleon question, wasn't it?  Kurby pressed his mouth tightly shut, and then glanced away, studying the floor for a moment.  All of them knew the risks when they went into this line of work, but that didn't mean that they were all willing to live with the consequences.  In many ways, becoming a werewolf, changing irrevocably and never quite being yourself again, was worse than simply dying.  But it wasn't something they talked about, not really. 

"I dunno," he said after a beat, looking back at her.  "Hard to ask someone in the heat of the moment, though."

A cold, worn out laugh came from the witch who shook her head. It was true; in that sort of situation, you were never going to stop and ask what their team mate wanted. The procedure was to preserve life. Perhaps it should have been to fill in a form upon joining. They were all at risk of it; all having a chance of being bitten. Bruce had been part of the Werewolf Capture Unit for almost 22 years now, and she’d seen countless colleagues fall. Some had been killed in a spectacle of gore and screaming. Some had been ripped apart. Some had been unfortunate enough to be bitten and remember the event forever.

The WCU head took a long gulp of wine, uncrossed her ankles and crossed them back the opposite way. She was tired, but she was fidgety. Bruce was always fidgety.

“Ugh,” She finally let out through gritted teeth, frustrated. “She has a husband and two kids.” Her wine glass was put down, and Bruce started to fiddle with the cuff of the baggy shirt she wore. “I forget that, you know, when we go out on a full moon. I forget that some of us have a hell of a lot to lose.” But was it worse to turn and put your family through that? “We both started this job fresh out of school. Like a lot of the team. I’m not sure I saw myself here 20 years later having seen so many taken down.”

This was the reason that he liked to keep a distance between himself and the rest of his teammates.  There was something to be said about not getting personal in your off-hours when your work involved hunting down werewolves once a month.  It kept things professional; kept him from having to make decisions based on what someone might be leaving behind, or feeling too guilty afterwards when he had to make the call anyway.

But even so, even when he tried to play the loner and keep everyone at an arm's length, it was impossible to work with the same group of people for over ten years and not learn a little bit about them, get a glimpse into their private worlds.  He knew Chen's husband and kids.  He'd met Ballentyne's wife.  Bellingham had a family, too; so did several of their other colleagues.  Kurby might not have to worry about having anything to lose, but plenty of the others did.

"Didn't reckon I'd still be here over ten years later." He smirked flatly, no humor in the expression. He'd never really expected to hit thirty, never expected to go from being the young, brash kid in the Capture Unit to one of the old hands who came together for these monthly gatherings at the Leaky Cauldron. But here they were, and he was neither dead nor part-canine.

"It's not like the fuzzballs give us a choice at whom we feed to them each month, though," he pointed out, shrugging his shoulders.   "You want to take anyone with a home life out of the field, you'd be pullin' yourself out of it too, Bruce."

Bruce frowned down into her wine as Kurby made a point that she tried to avoid. It wasn’t that she hadn’t considered it herself. The thoughts had come up when her and Zo had adopted Waverly. She’d taken time out to look after the baby, and had seriously questioned whether to return. As it turned out, the draw and the adrenaline had proven enough to drag her back to the job she loved. The camaraderie was unbeatable, and the fact that they were helping. The work that the WCU did saved lives and stopped others from being destroyed.

“The only way, Mr Bagnold, that I’m being dragged from fieldwork, is when I get chewed out and start howling at the moon. Or I don’t even get the opportunity to howl.” She pulled a face and took a large gulp of wine. “I’m not sure what’s preferable.”

This had gotten too serious. Far too serious. Bruce uncrossed her ankles and crossed them the opposite way on the chair before glancing sideways at Kurby with an amused smirk.
“Anyway, I’ve been told that werewolves have a great sex life. All that pent-up fury and those wild urges have to be directed somewhere, don’t they?” She laughed, dropping a hand to slap Kurby’s thigh. “Maybe that’s what you’re missing, Kurb.”

Kurby rolled his eyes, with a look on his face that suggested that he wasn’t going to be so discerning about who he jammed his silver knife into if the conversation continued down its current path.  He promptly threw back the rest of the Firewhiskey in one gulp, grimacing as it burned on its way down.

“Yeah, no thanks,” he retorted, coughing to clear his throat as he shot a look over his shoulder at the bar.  He’d decided that the last round was going to be his final drink of the morning, but if this was the direction that Bruce wanted to take the conversation, he was clearly going to need another.  “I’ve seen what becomin’ one of those monsters does to you.  I’d rather be dead first.”

This time of the month, thoughts of his family’s home in Wicklow were never far from his mind.  There was no goddamned way he’d ever let himself be turned, no way he’d ever put Rosheen or anyone else through what their father had. 

“Could always tag it on to our next team meeting.”  Kurby flashed Bruce a fierce smile as he swung his feet down and pushed himself up from the table.  “Ask for a show of hands as to who doesn’t mind turnin’ furry, and who would rather be put down.  You want another or you done?” he asked, as he started back to the bar.

Doubtlessly the easiest way to poke fun at Kurby Bagnold was through his terrible luck in his love life. Bagnold was one of those sorts that liked to grumble about just about anything. He seemed like he would never settle down and never truly be happy. Bruce had always, quite mercilessly jabbed at Kurby’s choice in lifestyle. From Dolly St.James to the witch he’d picked up and slept with twice from the Three Broomsticks, Kurby had bad taste in women and made bad choices as a result. Bruce didn’t really get the reluctance to settle. She knew there were the worries about being killed in the field and leaving people behind, but was that enough reason to segregate yourself from happiness?

“Noted.” Bruce also drained her drink. It was intriguing that Kurby was so set on is position. Death first, werewolf after. Bit it was a simple choice to make for someone like him. Bruce and her wife had discussed the possibilities before. Facing mortality was hardly a strange concept for an auror and a werewolf hunter. They were pragmatic about it. At least when they spoke. Bruce knew that if something happened to Zora, she would break. It was easy to be strong when you had a strong person by your side. Less so when that person was ripped from your clutches.

In answer to his offer, Bruce handed her glass over and returned to having her eyes closed while he got them refills.

When he returned, Bruce took her drink without opening her eyes. Her head was back against the brick wall, messy red curls flying out in all sorts of directions. “I’m not asking people that, Kurby. We all knew the risks when we signed up. I’m not asking if someone wants to be put down.”

"Then I reckon we've got plenty of mornings in our future sittin' here and wonderin' whether we did the right thing," Kurby retorted cynically.  He resumed his prior position as he eased himself to sit again, slouching in his own seat and kicking his boots back up on the opposite chair.

The niceties that Bruce sometimes insisted on were the part of this job that he'd never understand.  Considering the nightmares that they all came face-to-face with each and every month, he didn't see the point in shying away from difficult discussions.  Everyone probably knew where he stood on the question, but he couldn't say the same for all of his teammates.  At least if Bruce asked, they'd get their answer once and for all.

He sipped at the new glass of Firewhiskey, which still left a burning hot trail down his throat as he swallowed. 

"So which'll it be, then?" he asked his boss, arching an eyebrow at her.  "Rabid werewolf sex?  Or would you rather call it quits if it means turnin' into a monster?"

Bruce quite literally groaned in mild frustration when Kurby didn’t drop it. It was easier to not make a decision and she’d never wanted to face it. She’d always been rather ‘what will be will be’. If fate willed her to be a werewolf, there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it. If fate willed it was her time to go, then adios world! It was pointless to state intentions regarding death in the field. Protocol was obviously in favour of preserving life. Regardless of the consequences of a werewolf bite, Bruce was never going to just leave someone to die.

“Can I flip a coin?” Bruce asked, opening her eyes. She fixed her friend with a strange look, biting the inside of her cheek. Her hand went up to her hair, brushing it back from her face, but only serving to make it messier, more unkempt. “I don’t want to make that decision. I’ll quit before I’m slow enough to be caught.” Easy to say, wasn’t it? Anything could happen when they were out on a full moon.

Once more, the witch shut her eyes and took another sip of wine. She let a silence linger between the two for a while.

“Rabid werewolf sex.”

The younger werewolf hunter grinned, raising his glass and tipping it towards his boss as if giving a mock toast.

”Sláinte mhaith,” he said cheerfully.  “You’ll have to let me know how that goes, then.  Maybe if the stories turn out excitin’ enough, you’ll change my mind.”

He settled back in the chair, sipping at the Firewhiskey.  Bruce Ballentyne would never quit; they both knew that.  She’d be dragged out of the Capture Unit howling and snarling before she’d ever consider retirement.  With any luck, though, she’d outlive him by a decade and he wouldn’t have to be the one to break the news to her that turning into a werewolf usually precluded one from being able to hunt them.