Chapter Text
Gordon likes to think he's gotten pretty good at determining, while deeply asleep, which stimuli are worth waking up about. The subtle crinkle of snack packs? Yes, wake up immediately, Joshie's found Gordon's secret stash of almonds and cashews and, despite the kid's literally fatal nut allergy, is about to cram as many of them into his gob as he possibly can. Coworkers murmuring about rolling Gordon down a ladder like a barrel at the asscrack of dawn on Day Two of the Goddamned Alien Apocalypse? Ehhh, maybe open an eye about it, but no need to panic until you're actually in the air. Muscles in overtaxed agony, bones aching, stomach cramping with hunger and something else, the smells of sweat and pain in the air?
Nope. No way, not worth it, remain as unconscious as possible for as long as possible.
So that's Gordon's plan— sleep through whatever the fuck's happened to him and hope the universe takes pity and somehow delivers him some ibuprofen and an egg-and-bacon— except for the fact that amongst all the burning, aching, nerve-fried pain that is his current existence, there's also a sensation that feels, well… nice.
Someone is running their fingers through his hair.
Whoever it is seems like they're trying to be methodical (keyword being "trying"). Blunt nails scrape along Gordon's scalp, trace his ear, and stroke slowly through his hair until they locate a tangle, whereupon whoever this is spends anywhere from five seconds to five minutes carefully finger-combing it out. They're quiet the whole time, breathing evenly, never tugging anywhere close to as hard Gordon does when he brushes his own hair. Only once their thick fingers can run smoothly through that section do they return to gently carding the rest of Gordon's hair, slow, attentive, until they find another snarl that needs their care.
Gordon doesn't… He can't even remember the last time anyone did anything like this for him.
Above him, this mystery person shifts very slightly, revealing that the plush thing Gordon's head is resting on is their leg. Just curious, following an impulse from somewhere deep and a little unfamiliar, Gordon breathes in deep— and is knocked over the head by the scent of them: masculine-ish, just a touch chemical-sweet, and so familiar that any leftover tension in his aching body ebbs away.
SAFE, say a set of surprisingly strong instincts he doesn't have the bandwidth to question right now. PACK.
Reassured, Gordon drifts back towards sleep, nuzzling into the care of his person's hand.
Only for them to freeze.
Gordon doesn't whine, exactly, but he does maybe make a manly, adult noise of complaint. Can't he have one nice thing for once? The rest of his body feels it got run over by a tank, can't whoever-this-is just—
"hey. you," says a familiar voice, and in an instant every molecule of restfulness in Gordon's body evaporates. "you're finally awake."
"NO," is how it starts, but as Gordon launches himself across the room (blurry without his glasses but clearly concrete, mildew-scented, flickering bare bulb-lit, where the fuck is he) the word develops into a horrified scream, because—
"WHERE are my CLOTHES," Gordon yelps, scrambling to cover himself with some blanket or something that had apparently been draped across him and smells like PACK MEMBER SAFE which is a weird, WEIRD thought that is obviously, just, completely wrong, a mental glitch of the highest degree, because the only thing this fabric smells like is the inhuman cosmic error sitting across the room from him. Who, by the way, Gordon had absolutely not just been cuddling with, and who is now giving Gordon a look that reads, stupidly, as hurt.
"aw, man," Benrey pouts, slumping even further into his position criss-cross applesauce on the floor. "you didn't let me finish it…"
"Finish— what?" Gordon shakes his head— no, do not listen to Benrey, stay focused— and finally manages to fully cover his bits with what he realizes is an unzipped hoodie. "No, where are my clothes, why am I— What is going on, WHAT is happening, where the fuck even are we??"
"uh, Tommy's?" Benrey says, like it's obvious, and Gordon glances out one of the small windows along the ceiling and finds that that, at least, is true: outside it is utterly pitch black, with faint white lights shooting through it like an old-fashioned screensaver, and when Gordon breathes in there's that subtle unnatural non-scent that always hangs around Tommy after working with his Employers…
Gordon frowns. He's… He's pretty sure he doesn't usually pick up on the absence of a smell. Does he? Is that weird?
"Why am I—" Actually, no, asking fucking Benrey the question "Why am I smelling everything so much" is too much, even for his life. He shifts focus. "Why, w-why the fuck are we here? I didn't even know Tommy's place had a basement. And where are my— the hell are my glasses? And why the fuck am I—"
"you ruined your clothes."
"I— what?"
Benrey jerks his chin at what appears at first to be a neatly raked pile of leaves on the smooth cement floor by the wall, but upon squatting down and squinting a bit resolves itself into a collection of torn up fabric scraps. It looks like a bag of clothes someone's stupid hungry dog got into or something— that's the chewed-up end of a sweatpants string, there's what looks like half of a jacket sleeve with several big, sharp-edged tears in it, there's the remains of some t-shirt with most of its printed white graphic intact…
The hair on the back of Gordon's neck stands on end. He knows that graphic.
That's the MIT Physics Department logo, the one they only had his first year, the one he bought a ton of stupid merch with as a freshman and then felt like a sucker about after it was all outdated the next year. He's still got a bunch of gear with that logo stuffed away somewhere; the only thing he has from that year that ever sees the light of day is this one super comfy t-shirt he sometimes wears when he's low on laundry and not going anywhere important. It's full of holes, one sleeve is barely attached anymore, and it should definitely be thrown out but for whatever reason Gordon hasn't been able to bring himself to do it yet.
Not that he has to worry about that now since it's in pieces on the floor in front of him, apparently torn to shreds in the razor-sharp maw of something that looks like it might even have been bigger than Sunkist.
"What the fuck," Gordon whispers. He snags a piece of it and brings it to his nose to verify by scent— SELF, CANINE, SALIVA— before dropping it like it burned him because what, WHAT, why did he just do that? He doesn't smell stuff on instinct, that's weird, that's not him, and— and what is he doing in Tommy's vaguely-magic basement anyways, how the hell did he end up here??
Gordon's brain is useless, chasing its own tail— he knows he went to late-night/early-morning dog park with Tommy, that much he remembers, but after that it's all fuzzy. His breath comes short, his stomach cramping. He might vomit. Why doesn't he remember?
"Man, what is happening, I— How, how did— Why— Wh-when, I don't— What, do we even know what time—?"
"oh, s'probably morning now," Benrey says, lifting his arms over his head to stretch and okay, okay, that's fine, that's great, because Gordon hadn't actually noticed til just now that for some reason, Benrey's wearing only a pair of sweatpants and a worn old tank top. "no more moon, y'know?"
Even all these months later, Gordon still always expects Benrey to be wearing the security guard uniform. Not that Gordon sees him that often, really— sometimes they accidentally cross paths between NeoScience Team member visits for a few tense seconds at a time, but at least then Benrey'd always had the decency to be mostly covered up by one oversized hoodie or another. Gordon's never seen this much of Benrey's skin on display before, which makes this— weird. And bad, definitely; Gordon can feel his heart, already pounding from the stress and strangeness of this situation, start to speed up even more.
"yeah, oagh, bro, you were wild last night," Benrey says, switching to stretch out the other arm. He's surprisingly muscled under all that fat and sallow skin, way more than Gordon had imagined. There's not much hair on his arms and the dark hair in his pits is wispy, reminiscent of the sparse stubble Gordon's sometimes spied on him but way softer. Again Gordon becomes aware of his breathing, how much scent seems to be traveling. "rippin' your clothes off, makin' all these noises…"
"I— what?" Gordon says, words getting through enough to prick his ear (metaphorically, of course). "Wh, wait, you— you're not saying I ripped my clothes off, are you? No, no, that can't be right, it— And why the fuck would I—"
"aw yeahhh, you were all—" Benrey scratches at his chest, smacks his lips, and then to Gordon's horror makes a passably animalistic growl and faux-claws at the air between them. "y'know? and—"
"N. No," Gordon starts. It's cool down here, typical basement temperature, but Gordon realizes that he's sweating, his face particularly warm. "No, I don't know. You— you're not, not actually trying to say that—"
"—you sounded sooo— an' i didn't like that, sad, begging, and SO loud, so i took a lil uh, lil peeksie, cuz i'm so nice—"
"Sad?" Gordon echoes as a truly horrifying hypothesis starts to take shape in his mind. "Lou— begging? No, no, that's not— What are you even on about, I wouldn't—"
"—an' then you were alllllll over me," Benrey finishes with a smug, toothy grin, the kind that puts Gordon right back in Black Mesa, dodging bullets and aliens and stupid barbs from a stupider security guard whose only goal seemed to be to kick Gordon while he was down. God, he'd hated that stupid grin, the way he couldn't do even one little thing remotely wrong without it making an appearance, the fake shitty flirting that accompanied it, the knowledge that if Gordon even looked in Benrey's direction there that smirk would be…
Then his brain catches up to what Benrey just said, and his heart begins to well and truly hammer.
"All…" Gordon swallows roughly. It's so quiet down here that it feels like he can hear everything, from the rasp of his breath to the rush of blood pounding through his veins. "I was 'all over you,' you say."
"yyyup," Benrey says, scrubbing at his scruffed up hair, messy like someone had been running their hands through it all night. Gordon stares at him, tunnel-visioned. Whose hands?
Benrey's long-lashed eyes turn away, his grin softening. He picks at his blunt nails, almost shy, as he continues. "yea… s'like, uh, like you couldn't get enough of me. whining, wouldn't let me leave, kept tryna hold me down if i tried… thought maybe you were gonna bite me or sumn but you were nice, just a lil—"
Benrey makes a face then, petulant, embarrassed, a little grossed-out. "s'lotta tongue, y'know? and then it was SOooo wet, i—"
Gordon screams.
He catches a glimpse of Benrey jerking back in surprise and then Gordon's screaming into his knees and sees only darkness— darkness, and the terrible images conjured in his mind's eye by Benrey's words:
Gordon, begging, so desperate he doesn't give a shit about tearing his clothes on the way out of them. Benrey, smirking at Gordon's neediness, taking pity on his poor pathetic "best friend." Gordon, finally giving in to what he wants, pushing Benrey down…
"Oh my god," Gordon whimpers. He didn't. He couldn't have— could he? Did he? "Ohhh, my god, no, I— Fuck, fuck, I cannot believe—"
"oh, uh, does it hurt?" Benrey's voice comes from above Gordon now, like he's shuffled over to peer down at him. "yeah y'should, uh, should stretch an' stuff, have a advil. chill a while. that helps for me when i do a lot of shif—"
Gordon screams again, blindly swiping an arm through the air like if he hits Benrey it'll make this whole bad dream dissipate.
"uh, woah," Benrey says, stumbling back.
"Good, yeah, back away! Stay the fuck away from me, man, I—" Gordon breaks off with a groan, massaging his forehead, trying to press hard enough that either the memory of last night returns or he punches through to his own brain and dies immediately. "God, I promised myself, I fucking PROMISED myself I wasn't going to do this, and look what happens. Fuck. Fuck!! God damn it, Gordon, god, damn it—!"
There was absolutely zero chance of Gordon ever, ever, EVER sleeping with Benrey.
That is, there had been zero chance— back in Black Mesa, when Benrey'd just been a pain in the ass trailing after Gordon and pointing out every time he remotely fucked up. When Benrey died for the first time and came back, when Gordon started to get that the security guard really wasn't human. When he'd gotten Gordon's hand chopped off and been extra-clingy and extra-mean, when that stupid smirk had finally faded and he'd begged them not to go to Xen, and then on Xen— when Benrey'd been inexplicably huge, spouting nonsense in an echoing blood-red cavern in an alien dimension, and had all the while looked so, so sad.
It was after that— after Gordon slept for a week and ate a truly unmentionable amount of fast food, after Bubby and Coomer showed up unannounced and made Gordon leave the house and he sobbed on their couch so hard his eyes had speckled dark bruising for days, after Tommy started asking him to take Sunkist to the dog park every few days as a "favor," after he felt well enough to take Joshie for his weeks again and after he found little Chat scavenging in their garbage and after he finally felt okay enough to start turning over his memories of the ResCas and Black Mesa and Xen…
After all that (and, to be fair, a lot of conversations of varying levels of patience with the NeoScience Team), Gordon had finally understood that from Benrey's perspective, the answer to the question "Should Benrey and Gordon kiss" had been, since the very beginning, "uh, YEAH."
Which had been confusing. And also frustrating, because could Benrey have not just been normal about it instead of— whatever the fuck he was? But also— and this was the beginning of the end for Gordon— from a certain perspective, if you squinted, and if you were as stupid as Gordon, it could have been maybe a little bit… flattering.
Gordon knew very well that he had not been at his best during that whole shitshow in Black Mesa. Even before fucking up the test he had been late, crabby and, well, himself, the kind of guy who couldn't keep even one friendship going without the pressure of classes and dorms to keep them together. Gordon's smart, okay, and he knows well enough by now that he's just not the kind of guy people look at and think "yes, more of this, please," so the fact that Benrey did, and kept meaning it even as things got worse, as Gordon got worse, it— it'd touched a pretty deep part of him, that's all.
That, combined with the freedom from having to potentially do anything about having a few Feelings for and about a guy who was definitely super-dead (seriously, Gordon'd landed the killing blow himself), had freed Gordon up to… consider it, a little. Him and Benrey.
Which, to his horror, had rapidly slid into genuinely wanting it. Bad! Bad, excruciating, mortifying, miserable, but manageable so long as no one caught on and Benrey stayed dead, which of course he was well-known for doing.
Naturally, as soon as Gordon figured out his feelings and determined he'd be taking them to his grave, Benrey showed up again.
Gordon whimpers into his hands just remembering it— the thrill of recognition at the figure by the house, his gleeful disbelief, Tommy's too-little-too-late attempt to slow Gordon as he bounded over, heart singing, no plan but arms open and a stupidly earnest face on his face—
Only for Benrey to jerk away from him, eyes wide and wary, smirk nowhere in sight.
Gordon has no memory of what they said to each other that day. What he does remember is the way Benrey shuffled behind Tommy, how he wouldn't look at Gordon for more than a fraction of a second, and Gordon's slow, toes-to-heart chill of comprehension that whatever possibilities had existed between them before, whatever idiotic fantasies Gordon had gotten in his head— none of it was possible now.
Which is fine. Gordon didn't care before, and he was sure he could get to that place again— so long as he stayed far, far away from Benrey, just as Benrey clearly wanted as well.
And it had been working! …Sort of! Yeah, Gordon still had dreams about the way Benrey's lips would twist into that smirk, and sure, sometimes he'd get distracted and find himself minutes-deep in a fantasy about shoving Benrey into a wall and kissing him til he shut the fuck up, and yeah, okay, sometimes Gordon stopped by Tommy's or Bubby and Coomer's early, his heart pounding, barely breathing at the possibility that he might catch a glimpse of Benrey leaving… But that was fine! That's just a normal part of the process, he's sure.
Point is, Gordon had been doing a great job at keeping the answer to the question of "Should Gordon and Benrey make out and then get a little handsy and haha then…" at a firm "no."
So of course it figures that he'd fuck it all up the first chance he got.
"oh, uh, you— uh, you maybe. freakin' out? lil bit? br–uh, G— f— bro?"
In the small space between his face and knees, Gordon takes a slow, deep breath, in and out, trying to focus on how bad his morning breath is rather than the fact that he and Benrey definitely— that they, together, they— that last night, Gordon—
"Yes," Gordon manages to get out. "Yes, yeah, Benrey, I— yes, I think maybe I'm. I'm maybe 'freaking out.' 'A little.'" He paws at his hair, fingers tangling in the half that Benrey hadn't gotten around to combing out yet. Oh god. "I, why— why aren't you freaking out or, or I dunno, I, I would've thought—"
"huh? oh. s'not that big a deal," Benrey says, calm as can be.
Gordon hears this, processes it, and looks up.
Benrey is sitting cross-legged on the floor again, just out of reach, his focus on the nail polish he's trying to pick off his thumb. Besides being half-dressed and rather rumpled he really does look unaffected by any of what's happened in the past twenty-four hours, like it really was…
"Not a big deal," Gordon repeats.
"oh, yeah, for me, yeah, nah. i do that kinda stuff all the time," Benrey says mildly. "was a lil weird, being on the other end, but. was okay."
"You, it— 'okay'? Just o—!?" Gordon snaps his mouth shut, does some quick calculations on his chill versus the growing desire to GROWL RIP BITE, and makes a decision. "Yeah, okay, no. Get out."
Benrey snorts softly, like Gordon's made a joke, and buffs his nails against his shirt. "yeah, so i was thinking we could get some uhhh. Mickie Deez, but iunno if—"
"No. Nope. Get out."
Benrey looks up, frowning minutely. "huh?"
"I said. Get out," Gordon repeats, getting to his feet unsteadily, growling when his body protests. "Get the fuck out of here, Benrey, I am for real so sick of you—"
"wh? buh, no," Benrey says, still sitting. He's pressed his hands to the floor now, arms starting to tense, and Gordon watches his adam's apple bob. "no, cuz we, i thought that cuz of— you know, so that meant we were friends again—"
"NO the FUCK WE ARE NOT," Gordon barks, stalking forward. "We are not friends, we were never friends, this changes nothing, so just— Get OUT, dude, get the FUCK OUT—"
Benrey scrambles to his feet, stiff but quick, nothing like the easy, comfortable looseness he used to have (had just had). That should probably be gratifying but instead the growl in Gordon's chest grows, becoming audible.
"but no, bro no, we're— you were being so nice, thought maybe we could—"
"Well that doesn't matter, does it?" Gordon snarls. "Last night was 'no big deal,' wasn't it? So just get the fuck—"
"OH," Benrey says, so suddenly that it stops Gordon in his tracks. "wait, this is— i know this! uh, right, hold on, it's…"
Benrey scrunches up his face, stupidly, like he's thinking harder than he's ever thought before, or possibly taking a huge dump right now in the middle of Tommy's previously-secret basement.
Gordon throws a hand in the air. "The fuck're you—"
"no, sh! okay, it's like…" Benrey's dark eyes flutter open and he looks right into Gordon's own, more serious and earnest than Gordon's ever seen him before, and Gordon realizes this is the most Benrey has even looked at him since Black Mesa. His stomach, already gurgling like he ate something awful, flips. "it— for me, it wasn't a big deal, cuz i'm always doing shit like that. like, alllllll the time. y'know? but i…" He smacks his lips, searching for the word. "i understand why it would be a uhh, a big deal for you, so—"
Gordon howls in fury. He takes a swing at Benrey who, pretty eyes wide, ducks back halfway through the wall just in time to avoid getting a fist through his face.
"wh— nooo-uh, bro i'm being understanding, we're supposed to—"
"Shut UP," Gordon snaps, face hot, swinging again, "you PIECE," swff of a near miss, swing again, "of SHIT—"
At last, Benrey scowls— dark, pissed, like Gordon's personally disappointed him, just the same look he'd had after getting Gordon's fucking hand hacked off. It makes Gordon want to rip his throat out with his teeth.
"ugh, ok, whatever. you got shitty dog breath anyways," Benrey says, stepping backwards and vanishing completely through the wall— only for his face to reappear a second later partway through the ceiling, still glowering. "gordon wolfman, more like gordon STUPIDwolf. man," he spits, and disappears.
"WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN," Gordon shouts after him, pounding the wall with a fist until the torque of his sore shoulders remind him that his whole body feels like it's been pulled and stretched and twisted into shapes it was never meant to be.
"Augh, god dammit that hurts, what the fuck did I even do last night— uh, ha." Mostly naked except for Benrey's sweatshirt pressed to his body, Gordon scrubs at his face, darkly amused. "Besides Benrey, apparently—"
"Dr. Freeman?"
Gordon whips around, realizes his borrowed hoodie has slipped significantly, and hastily recovers himself. "Uh, y-yeah? Hello? Wait, is that…?"
In the corner of the musty basement is a worn wooden staircase that he hadn't noticed before. Gordon pads over, peeking up, and spots a closed door at the top. From behind it, muffled, comes a familiar voice.
"Dr. Freeman, are you, uhmm… Are you feeling like yourself again?"
"Holy shit, Darnold? Oh, man, am I glad to hear you!" In his relief to talk to someone normal Gordon hops up the first few steps and immediately regrets it, his muscles groaning and stomach protesting— jesus, what the fuck did he eat last night? "Auogh, christ— So hey, Darnold, hi, you would not believe the kind of shit morning I'm having, dude—"
"Mm, well. Be that as it may, I think—"
"Like, hoh, my god, where to start, I— At first I didn't even know where we— I, I mean, where I was, and— Hey, so this is Tommy's place, right? It's just I had no idea he had a basement, and I…"
Gordon continues up the stairs, squinting as a vague memory overlays his vision. "Wait… did I know?"
"Umm. Dr. Freeman, I'm really not sure this is—"
"Yeah, I— Actually, I think I might've… been here before?" His brow furrows as he climbs— it's fuzzy, almost dream-like, but he remembers walking up this staircase once before. No, not walking— running?
There's a thump from above, hurried footsteps approach, and Darnold quietly says, "Oh, thank goodness."
Running isn't the right word either but Gordon does remember going up these stairs as fast as he could, because he was… scared? Hurt? Alone? All three?
Tommy's voice from behind the door now, breathless: "Is, I, Ben, uh, he said he's— that, that he…"
But that was okay because at the top of the stairs there had been PACK, and PACK would make everything better. He remembers he'd been relieved and anxious all at once, leaping several steps at a time.
"Um," Darnold says.
But he'd been too loud, or too excited, too something (too everything?), because by the time he got to the top his PACK had disappeared back behind the door and he was scared-hurt-alone again.
"He, he, he isn't— He's not gonna bite you," Tommy says, low and hurt.
So he'd curled up as small as he could on the top step that he didn't fit on, pawing at the door and whining, howling some, until at last something had come back through.
"Oh, no, I— this? Ouhh, this is… for lab safety, because I—"
It had been just a wrist, at first, stuck impossibly through the wood a bare inch at an uncomfortable-looking angle, but he'd been so happy and excited and careful, this time, trying not to be too much, giving kisses as big as he dared, until eventually the rest of the hand had appeared through the wooden door.
"But that— You weren't— We don't even—! …Um, okay, that— That, that's fine, Darnold. I'm… m'gonna open the door now."
Gordon remembers he'd barely known what to do with himself for joy but the hand had taken care of that for him, cautiously rubbing behind his ears and giving him scratches under his chin, until eventually a second hand came through, and then slowly the whole person.
"Gordon? Did you hear what I said? I'm, it, the door— the door swings in, so you need to stand far back, a little. Okay?"
He hadn't been able to help himself. He'd reared up on his back legs, using his front paws to shove his person, his PACK, his [oh, no, that's not— Gordon must be mistranslating that word, that can not be right] against the door and licking their face until they laughed out a series of high-pitched bubbles that tasted of strawberries and blue Powerade.
"Okay," Tommy calls, and opens the door right into Gordon's face.
Between his two hands, Gordon has three options: hold onto the railing so he doesn't fall, throw an arm out to counterbalance himself so he doesn't fall, and keep a ratty sweatshirt pressed to his nude body. Naturally, the brain that got Gordon through MIT with a doctorate in theoretical physics decides that keeping a hand on a stable surface is not really all that important at this time.
"Ofuck," Gordon breathes, swaying backwards, left arm wheeling, sure he's about to go over back-asswards and hit every stair on the way down, but a thin hand whips out and grabs him by the wrist just in time. "Oh, fuck, Tommy, thanks, I almost—"
Gordon loses his words. He's not had any reason to pay attention to his left arm since waking up in this nightmare earlier today— yeah, around his right wrist is a ring of thick scar tissue that he wouldn't exactly say he's used to yet, but that he couldn't imagine himself without anymore, but his left arm— last he remembered it, anyways— had no particularly noticeable markings, just a smattering of freckles and miscellaneous nicks of no real significance.
Now, however, the majority of his left forearm is taken up by an enormous, vicious-looking animal bite.
Gordon can see clearly where inch-thick canines punctured his arm on both sides, where the edge of razor-sharp molars dug in, where incisors gained purchase and were then dragged off. An echo of pain sings through it but the sensation is just barely a memory, hardly worse than the all-over ache of his muscles.
No— what's most significant about this bite is not just its existence, nor Gordon's very vague recollection of dew-wet dead leaves at his back, the full moon sitting fat on the horizon in pre-dawn skies, and staring up into the jaws of some thing that was larger than himself and howling mad— what's most significant is that for as awful as the wound must have been, it's fully scarred over.
Despite being barely a day old, it's completely healed.
"Gordon?"
Gordon tears his gaze away from the impossibility of the bite to look up at his P— at his friends.
Tommy's in a Minions t-shirt and matching pajama pants, his hair sleep-mussed, his arm outstretched to steady Gordon. His eyes have heavy bags under them and are wide with concern, his lips tense, and way back by the opposite wall Darnold looks much the same— but with an added dose of wariness and, also, a full-body Hazmat suit.
"Um!! Good morning, Gordon," Tommy says, and then before Gordon can reply, "We think you, uhh, the, the thing that bit you, uhm— yeah. So we think you're a werewolf, now." He winces. "Sorry. :/"
Gordon opens his mouth, and remembers standing on his back two paws on this same top step last night while Benrey, still snorting out Sweet Voice, gently pushed him back down to all fours. Benrey had been reassuring about it, kind, scritching under Gordon's chin and not just smirking but grinning, grinning, with the kind of obvious joy that had sent Gordon's— his— the wolf's tail wagging madly as Benrey murmured:
"oh, so you are a good boy, huh, feetman?"
At the top of the stairs, Tommy steps back just in time for Gordon, finally, to throw up all over the floor.