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hanzobarmoustache · 7 years

Text

The Wolf’s Domain

Words: 15, 795

Everyone writes about Werewolf!McCree, and I love it, but I tried my hand at Werewolf!Hanzo. It... got a bit out of hand.

Few ever branched into the wolf's domain. It was not a place that wanderers could merely find themselves after a single missed turn or misread sign. This was the heart of the unsettled land, secluded, safe. People did not come here on their morning walks; beautiful as it was, it was simply not the place for man.

Few that wandered here possessed kind souls, not this distance from the beaten path through the forest. Those that meandered these grounds with a weapon in hand were only looking for trouble, and, most often, they would find it. The warnings posted at every entrance to the forest that bid travelers be wary were not decorations meant to be admired and forgotten. Those that freely disobeyed these warnings would come to regret their actions in time.

Their screams were typically enough to keep other troublemakers at bay for a time, yet it was never enough to rid the land of pesky humans for good. Alas, there were those with thick skins and inflated egos that would storm into the forest and try their luck at killing the notorious wolf. They would bring gunpowder and fire and destruction. They would disrupt the land, kill and maim and slaughter until they were stopped. They tasted of carrion and disappointment. They were never missed.

Yet, the forest also tempted humans that were of no threat to the wolf. Medicine women seeking herbs would not earn the wolf's scorn, but they would occasionally find the wolf watching, howling when it was getting late to send them on their way. An honest lumberjack seeking a fine tree to last the winter similarly would find themself an audience but no antagonist in the wolf, and they may be led to a better tree if they offered the wolf sweets. The monks that came to the forest wishing to test their faith always brought weapons with them, but their hands shook when the wolf would show himself, and they never brought harm to him.

On any other occasion, the wolf knew which humans were friend and which were foe; however, a new intruder had the wolf wary. He could not quite decipher the human, and it frustrated and intrigued the wolf all the same. He looked strange here among the trees in his odd garments, wools and leathers and such an abnormal hat, but he had not once raised that gunpowder weapon at his side to the harm of the wolf or his pack. Not once had that revolver even left his hip.

He had been setting traps, snares and deadfalls for rabbits and other small creatures, but each failed to catch anything. Yet the man merely shrugged when he came back to check them to find them empty, muttering about next times and setting off to hunt elsewhere in the forest. He was skilled, for he would have caught plenty had his traps not been tampered with, but he certainly had no place in the forest. He scavenged, finding edible berries and digging up roots while avoiding anything that could have even upset his stomach should he have ingested it. If he was a hunter, he was the strangest of them that the wolf had ever encountered. If he was some other sort of human, he knew odd things.

He had been there only a few days, staying with no apparent intentions of ever leaving and intentions for coming likewise unclear. The man kept to himself, avoiding the others that would make their way into the forest unless they saw him first. In such a case, he would strike up a conversation with them and talk of nothing until the other party tired of his company.

Once, when the wolf had been watching, the man had laid down his pack to help the eldest medicine woman that dared enter the forest, helping her to gather the herbs on the ground so her poor back would not be strained. Afterwards, he had escorted her out of the forest, leaving his pack behind. He had not been so unfortunate to meet the vagabonds that would occasionally enter the forest, and, as such, he had no need to fear his things being stolen.

When the two humans left his sight, the wolf nosed through the man's belongings, but there was nothing particularly noteworthy. He carried a few letters, a small sewing kit, a sealed package of candies, flint, some medical supplies, a bottle of some alcohol that was half-empty, as well as other various items a wolf had no use for. A small paperback with dog-eared pages was perhaps the most alarming with the lewd image on its cover, but the wolf had no interest in such things. There was nothing to eat in the pack -the candies smelled too strange-, so the wolf placed the items back into the satchel and took the carrying strap into his mouth, quickly padding after the humans. It would not be a challenge to catch up; the woman's strides were short and slowed with age.

They had only just made it to the path leading to the woman's village when the wolf caught up to them. The woman was thanking the man, carefully taking her basket away from him, "The wolf usually warns me when it gets late, but I'm not about to complain when a charming young man wants to help me." She leaned heavily on her cane, but the wolf had once seen her smash a bandit's head in with the stick. Her feebleness was a guise.

"Well, ma'am," the wolf's ears perked when the man spoke. It had been the first time he had properly spoken within the forest. Yes, he had muttered and grumbled and whistled and cursed when he scared off a rabbit he'd been hunting, but he hadn't spoken. His voice had an abhorrent twang to it, but it was rich and deep and the wolf found that he didn't mind the accent that marred his language. He went on, "I couldn't possibly let a pretty lady such as yourself do all that work alone."

The woman laughed, gently thwaking the man with her cane. "Flatterer," she accused.

The man only grinned dumbly, reaching up with a gloved hand to scratch at the back of his neck. "Now, uh, what was it that you said about a wolf, ma'am?"

"Ana Amari," the woman corrected.

"A mighty pretty name you got there. Now what's that you said about a wolf, Ana?"

She smiled. "We in my village call him the guardian of the forest. I usually see him when I gather herbs, but he must have been busy with something else today." The woman's voice softened as she spoke, and she glanced into the forest with worry in her eyes. "He is such a sweet thing, too."

"There's a, uh, a wolf in there?" The man's voice didn't share the same soft fondness for the animal, and the wolf's ears perked at the concern. His voice wasn't quite reaching fear, but it was telling.

"Oh, yes, of course. Multiple, in fact, but I speak specifically about the leader, the large one." Ana adjusted her grip on her basket, ignoring the man's unease altogether as she organized the herbs within the wicker. She sighed wistfully, "His eyes betray him, though. Far too smart for a wolf. Our lumberjack, bless him, says he's an angel in disguise. He argues with the blacksmith because he believes the wolf is a demon. They bicker for hours, frankly I have to come this far to get away from their ridiculous disagreement when they get heated."

The man was still caught on the revelation that he'd been sharing land with a predator, "I haven't seen no wolf in there."

"Oh? He is usually quite apparent. He will show himself in time if you stay." The woman waved her hand as she spoke, "Ah, but you have more to do than listen to an old woman, and I have to get back to my Fareeha."

"Alright. You be safe, Ana." The man tipped his hat.

The woman laughed again, "I always am." She turned her back to the man, and the wolf let the satchel fall from his mouth while she walked off. He turned and started walking back the way he had come.

The man rubbed at his scraggly beard, "A wolf, huh?"

The wolf paused to howl, to assure the woman that he was alright. He did not miss the way that the man's breath hitched in his throat, but the wolf would not stay to be caught by such a fool. He began to run as his howl was echoed by the rest of his pack. The man could be heard tripping over his bag, landing roughly before laughing aloud. "Well, I'll be damned."

The wolf watched him now, buried out of sight, as the man sat himself down with his bedroll and a bottle of strong alcohol. He made no fire, merely bundled up with a thin, ratty blanket from his pack. He treated himself to a handful of berries he'd collected throughout the day, washing them down with a swig of his alcohol. Now, when he was readying himself for rest, he took off his wide-brimmed hat and his boots, allowing his hair to fall wherever it pleased about his head.

He was quieter in the sun's dimming light, whistling softly to himself, tilting his head back and closing his shrewd brown eyes. His fingers tapped a rhythm against his thigh, and the wolf tilted his head, watching light glint off the metal fingers. The man set the bottle down for a moment, hand digging around in his pocket until he pulled out a cigarillo, lit it, and placed it in his mouth. He took a drag and breathed it out slowly.

It smelled dreadful.

The wolf couldn't stand the smoke, and he didn't need to examine this man further, so he turned about and started back to his cave. This man was a wanderer, a vagabond. He would be gone soon enough. There was no need to worry.

It had been over a week. The man had not left. The wolf was wasn't completely displeased.

The night air had always been calming to him, cool and quiet. The man sighed, looking up through the tree branches to the stars as the tender breeze ruffled his hair. But here, so far from home, the air was doing little to help him relax. Maybe it had something to do with the fact there were wolves in the forest, but he wasn't sure. He rolled over in his bedroll, glaring at his satchel for lack of something better to release his frustrations on.

It was very late. The sun had set hours ago, but he couldn't sleep. He groaned, running a hand through his hair and sitting up with a grimace. The wolves had been busy tonight, howling up a storm to the west, and he had sworn he'd heard the dying wails of a deer about an hour before, but that wasn't why he couldn't sleep.

Strange as it sounded, he felt as if he was being watched. The first few days in the forest, he'd shrugged it off thinking it was just a side effect of being in an unfamiliar place. Though, ever since he'd talked to that Ana woman, he was convinced that something was studying him, be it a wolf or an angel or a demon or whatever the hell else roamed the forest. But, unlike when it was a sniper or an assassin watching, he didn't feel threatened. He felt more like an animal in an exhibit; he was certainly starting to feel like one.

He hadn't gotten a lick of sleep.

Figuring that sitting inactive and bored wouldn't help anything, the man fished in his satchel for his novel. It wasn't the best literature he'd ever read, was more of a joke of a gift because a friend had found it and handed it off to him because he shared the name of the main character, but it was something. And he desperately needed something right at the current moment to keep his mind off of whatever had its eyes on him.

"'Now, Jesse had never been a stranger to well dressed people that took a fancy to him...'" He mumbled, dragging his finger along the page to keep his place. He scrunched his nose and wondered why it was that his friend had ever picked up this book in the first place. "'But he was at a loss for words with this fellow with his long black hair and his odd manner of speaking and his shy little smiles and his dark eyes and-' Good lord, how many 'ands' are in this sentence?" He paused a moment to flip through the book, checking the number of pages in the abomination of a printing.

A chill crept up his spine, and he threw his hand to his side where his revolver rested at the sound of a faint whimper. His head snapped from one side to the other, looking for the source of the noise before locating the silhouette of a big, furry, sitting animal. His fingers curled back, and he forced himself to relax. It was just a wolf. It probably wouldn't attack if he didn't give him a reason to. "Hey there, big guy. What're you doing over here?"

Jesse couldn't see much of the wolf as it had concealed itself well within the shadows, but he could recognize its ears folding back as if it had been ashamed to have been caught. He laughed despite himself, leaning back against the tree he'd set up next to. The wolf seemed to perk up at this, and Jesse smiled. "Guess someone has been watchin' me, huh?"

The wolf blinked, settling down and not answering the question. Jesse hadn't expected it to answer, not really.

"Ain't much of a conversationalist, are ya?" Jesse folded the corner of the page he'd been reading and set it aside in favor of watching the beast. Its eyes were golden. Jesse would have said they were glowing in the dim light if he didn't know any better.

The wolf made a small noise from the back of its throat, something that was intoned much like a question. Its eyes followed the book, and Jesse almost felt guilty.

"What? You want me to keep reading? Buddy, that story's hardly-" the wolf whimpered softly, pairing the noise with expectant eyes "-well, how can I say no when you're lookin' at me like that? But, uh, y'know, you can't blame me when this story's terrible. I didn't pick it."

The wolf very nearly barked, encouraging the man to get on with it already.

"Alright, alright, patience would do you some good, ya big fleabag." Jesse picked the book back up, flipping back to his page and clearing his throat. "Now, where was I? Eh, dinner party... mingling... ah, here we are. 'He'd never met someone like this before, someone that stole his breath away so easily. He was tempted to sweep the stranger off his feet right then and there, but he wasn't the type to ruin a soiree so quickly without even an ounce of liquor in him.' Huh, really does sound like me."

A slight trill brought Jesse back to looking at the wolf. It had leaned forward a bit, allowing Jesse to make out the beginning of a dark snout. It raised its eyes, curious as to why the man had stopped reading.

"Hmm... 'However, he was also not the kind to make excellent first impressions with those that he found attractive. He ushered over a server to grab a flute of champagne, managing to knock into the next server that passed and spill not only his drink but the seven drinks on the tray over the front of his brand new tailcoat. His face grew red, and he excused himself while the most angelic laughter he'd ever heard graced his ears. It was that handsome stranger. Of course it was...'"

The wolf stretched himself out, enjoying the lingering warmth that had seeped into a rock during the daylight hours as his pack made their way out of the cave in varying states of fatigue. The two littermates leaned against each other to stay upright. The youngest bounced about, energetic as ever, nearly bowling into the elder of the pack and earning a quick smack for her inattentiveness.

It was small, unorthodox, but it was a pack all the same. The youngest had been found half-starved in an empty den by the large wolf the previous winter, likely having lost both parents to poachers or a particularly unlucky hunt. The littermates had stumbled through this forest during a snowstorm and made their way to the cave with its enticing stench of fresh kill. Though old enough and capable enough to go join another pack, they had decided to stay for a time. The oldest wolf was the newest addition to the pack, wandering into the forest after being thrown out of his last pack. Upon meeting the large wolf, the elder had lowered himself to the ground, fully expecting to be killed for trespassing and not to be accepted into the family.

The wolf would have it no other way.

He yawned and pushed himself to his feet, shaking the last vestiges of sleep from his bones. That strange man hadn't quite earned the wolf's trust, but he was useful. His presence had been keeping troublemakers out of the forest. It appeared most didn't wish to deal with his revolver and sharp tongue. As such, the wolf had gotten more rest in the past few days than he had in months. But now was no time for rest. The wolf craned his neck to the sky, beginning a howl from deep in his being. His pack slowly followed suit.

Now was indeed no time for rest, not with the westward wind and cloud-mottled sky on their side.

It was time to hunt.

He growled softly, as if to say, "Don't touch that."

The young wolf stared at him for a moment, tail wagging with her paw poised in the air. She was panting, having run off after the pack had brought down their first deer since summer. Currently, she stood just to the side of a snoring Jesse that had somehow slept through her crashing into his campsite. She blinked, turning her head back to the man where her paw hovered over his face.

The other wolf growled again, taking a step forward as he bore his teeth to his subordinate. She yipped gently, defiantly, and let her dark paw drop.

As expected, the man did not react well to a wolf waking him up with her snout still covered in blood from her last meal. In fact, his scream was quite amusing and far higher in pitch than either wolf had expected. Watching the youngling fall over herself while the man struggled with scrambling out of his bedroll was also quite the sight.

"What in tarn- ah, shit!" The cowboy had almost freed himself from his bedroll, but he'd tripped and fallen flat on his ass at the last moment. The wolves took their opportunity to run. (By this, the wolf dug his teeth into the youngling's scruff and hauled her off.) The man groaned in pain and confusion, reaching up to push back the hair that had fallen in his face to see exactly what it was that had awoken him. He squinted, watching a tail disappear into the trees. He reached up a hand to wipe away the dirt the youngling had left on his nose.

"First for everything, I guess."

He slept in trees for a few days after that.

Jesse hadn't seen a single one of the wolves fully. They didn't seem to be exceptionally afraid of him - that one had booped him on the nose in his sleep and that other one had sought him out to listen to him read- but they were keeping their distance. He guessed that was just to be expected, wild animals and all, but the man felt such a curious itch at his skull to see that one wolf that Amari lady had talked to him about, and he just couldn't help tracking them back to their cave.

It hadn't been particularly hard. That young one left a trail like a twister.

The man whistled low, pressing his hand to a tree and looking up from the ground. That stupid mutt also didn't have half a mind to get somewhere fast; he'd been spun around so many times following that damn trail that he felt like he was gonna vomit. At least he'd finally come to the end of it. Jesse smiled triumphantly, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops and allowing himself to get an eyeful of the...

Hell, this place was gorgeous.

To the right, the land rose sharply, creating a nearly sheer face of rock mottled with bird nests and a cave opening. To his left, the trees cut away at the cliffside, opening up the perfect slice of ground from which to admire the land below. The sun was just rising, rays of heavenly light peeking up over the mountains to crest over the villages and forest in the valley. Jesse lost himself for a moment, shuffling over to the drop and sitting himself down with his legs dangling over the edge.

He dug a cigarillo out of his pocket, lighting it, and sucking down a lungful of nicotine before letting it out in a breath to join the morning clouds.

The views back home were nothing like this.

He was shocked out of his blissful sightseeing by a growl behind him. He tilted his head back, hat flopping off, to see a pair of bright eyes in the entrance of the cave in the rocky mountainside. He was on his feet with the hat back on his head in less time than it took to snuff out his cigarillo. He brought up his hands in surrender, sidestepping away from the steep drop as he spoke quietly, "Hey, there, buddy. It's off-limits, I gotcha. I won't come any closer."

The wolf blinked, accepting this and laying down to dismiss the man, but he did not leave. Why would he? It wasn't as if it was clear that he was not wanted here. This man was an excellent tracker, but his common sense was lacking.

Jesse tucked his thumbs into his belt loops, rocking gently on his heels as he tried to peer into the dark cave. He chewed at the end of his cigarillo. "You wanna come out 'ere? Into the light t' let me get a better look at ya?"

The wolf blinked, crossed his forelegs, kept the man's eyes. He would not walk out there for a human's amusement. His tail beat against the ground, agitated.

"No? Right, o' course. Not like you understand a word I'm sayin'. I, uh, I'll be on my way."

The wolf rested his head on its paws, shaking his head gently as he watched Jesse walk off. The man crossed his arms and grumbled as he walked away, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're laughin' at me."

The wolf's golden eyes flicked open, and his ears swiveled to face the east. Something had awoken the beast; he glanced to the interior of his cave, watching as three of its packmates yipped and growled fitfully in their sleep, curled against each other. The wolf scrambled to his feet, scenting the air as panic rose in his blood.

Where was the youngling?

His head snapped to the east when it heard a gunshot followed by faint, whiny wails of the missing packmate. Unlike the rest of his pack, the wolf broke into a sprint toward the gunshot. It was quick, booming, echoing. Strong, but not quite as strong as a rifle. It was a handgun, a revolver.

He should not have trusted that stupid man! He should not have permitted that foppishly dressed stranger to wander his forest! He had been a fool to let the man stay!

The whining grew louder, but the wolf took little comfort in his packmate's prolonged suffering. He smelled blood and fear and gunpowder. He pushed himself harder, claws digging into the dirt as he propelled himself forward until he broke into a clearing with a growl.

His packmate, the smallest and youngest wolf, had one foreleg caught in a bear trap, and she had been fighting against the steel until the metal teeth had torn flesh and sinew to bone. Beside the trap was a man, a poacher, with a hole in his head and a shattered wrist. A pistol, loaded, cocked but unfired, lay next to his motionless hand. Then there was that odd man trying his damndest to get close to the bear trap's release latch. He held his revolver, still smoking from the last shot, in one hand. It was doing him no good to calm the trapped wolf.

Upon seeing her alpha, the youngling released a small, nearly apologetic, keen, wiggling just a bit less. The man took this as a cue to move, but a thick growl behind him made him pause before he could step closer to the trap. He glanced over his shoulder and cursed upon locking eyes with the biggest wolf he'd ever seen.

"Nice wolfy. Calm down, boy. I ain't - shit, goddamn-" he began backing away, nearly tripping over the smaller wolf "-ain't gonna hurt 'im. Jus' wanted to let 'im outta the trap. Some mean old fella was setting up these things all over. Guess your pal found one of 'em 'fore I managed to spring it with a stick. I-I don't know why I keep talkin'. It ain't like you understand a lick of what I'm sayin'."

The wolf quieted a moment, and the man felt those golden eyes watching him. Far too smart for a wolf, Ana's words echoed in his head. Such a big wolf, too, not anything unbelievable but certainly larger than any other wolf he'd seen but - oh, god he was gonna get eaten, wasn't he? His heart pounded in his ears as the wolf's gaze flickered from his gun to his face, over and over, a suggestion. A warning.

He came back to his senses, lowering the gun and flinching when the wolf bared its teeth. He slipped the gun into its holster, and the wolf's hackles lowered. "Yeah, we're all friends here. Now, I really - shit - I really do want to help your friend there, but you've gotta trust me. Alright?"

The wolf in the trap had stopped scrabbling against the metal altogether, dazed or unconscious Jesse couldn't quite tell. The large wolf padded over to his packmate, laying down next to her.

"Jesse McCree, you're talkin' to animals. Y' ain't some sort of Disney princess. The wolf don't-."

The wolf nosed the release latch of the trap and made a small noise in the back of its throat, looking up at the man expectantly. "Or maybe y' are. Okay, buddy. I'm gonna come forward now." The wolf rested his head on his paws, huffing as if he didn't need such theatrics. "Alright, alright, I'm workin' on it!" Jesse kneeled before the wolves, taking the trap in hand gently to avoid upsetting either wolf. It took him a moment and a bit of forcing it, but he got the trap to snap open. He eased it away from the injured wolf, letting it slam shut on the open air.

The wolf lapped at the youngling's wound, pushing himself to his feet and staring again at Jesse. He was smiling, melancholy amidst the normally joyful expression. It did not suit him; the wolf nudged his shoulder with his muzzle.

"Oh, yeah. Uh, you're welcome. Sorry I couldn't get to 'im sooner."

The wolf licked his cheek, accepting his kindness before turning back to his wounded packmate.

"It's... it's real bad, ain't gonna lie. Your pal likely ain't gonna make it."

The wolf knew, but he growled softly anyway. He grabbed the scruff of the other wolf's neck to drag her back to the cave. It wasn't a journey that the wolf looked forward to, a fair distance that he couldn't cover quickly.

The wolf was alarmed when the weight was lifted, momentarily biting down harder until the man spoke in his oddly calming way. "Now, you're worried for your friend 'nd all, but you're getting 'im nowhere fast. Let me help you out."

Slowly, the wolf released his maw, allowing the man to wrangle the runt into his arms. He managed the weight with little more than a grunt. "Alright, where to?"

With Jesse's assistance, they returned to the cave in under half an hour. The injured wolf had been twitching fitfully, whining but not lucid. The wolf demanded the man put his packmate down. Jesse didn't think it wise, but the alpha was boss and he really wasn't wanting to make such a big thing mad at him.

The wolf dragged his packmate back into the cave. Jesse tipped his hat to the animals, turned, and went back to clean up the poacher's mess. "Poor thing."

Later, the wolf followed the stench of heated metal to find Jesse. The man had collected the bear traps and tossed them all into a fire pit, willing them to buckle in the heat. He whacked at the glowing metal with a dense stick, further warping their shape until they wouldn't be so dangerous. The wolf padded along, grumbling softly to announce his presence.

"Hey there." Jesse set the stick aside for a moment to look through the poacher's bag. He pocketed some bullets, but the poacher didn't have much else to interest the cowboy. His hand closed on a handful of letters, and he pulled them out, flipping through them peacefully. "Your friend alright?"

The wolf released a quiet boof, and the man nodded in response.

"I'll take that as a good sign."

The wolf seemed to nod, sitting and staring at the glowing heap of metal with thoughtful eyes.

"Figured..." Jesse dropped the letters for a moment, carefully extending his hand to the wolf. The wolf sniffed his palm before pressing his forehead into it. "Heh, figured that I'd break 'em. These're the worst." The wolf nodded his approval, eyes drooping shut and tail lightly thumping against the ground as Jesse scratched behind his ear.

The man chuckled, continuing to let himself pet the wolf as his attention turned back to the letters. He skimmed over them carefully, but they were all about some 'Shimada Hanzo' that he'd never heard about and not him. His eyebrow perked at the final letter, dated just a few days prior. "So, y're the guardian of the forest, huh?"

The wolf whined at the lack of a hand patting at him, but he seemed to nod anyway. That is what he was called, at least.

"Seems like someone wants you dead, buddy. Monetary reward and everything."

The wolf stared at the letters for a moment, sniffing at the paper. He recoiled from the stench of wolfsbane on the letters, but he did carefully snatch them away from Jesse and pad away before Jesse could read much more.

The cowboy leaned his head on his knee, watching the wolf walk off, "Be careful, bud." He watched the fire a while longer, absently wondering if he could sell the metal to the blacksmith in the village. He could do with a little bit of money to his name, maybe enough to buy another bottle of whiskey or some crackers.

Jesse saw the injured wolf a few days later, fumbling and falling and making a helluva lot of racket. He approached, and the reason was clear; she only had three legs. His prosthetic hand curled into a fist.

The wolf turned, spotting him, yipping and singing Jesse's praises as she hobbled toward him. She jumped up on her back legs, slinging her foreleg over Jesse's shoulder to lick at his face. "Well, hey there. You, uh, huh..." The leg was gone, but the stub wasn't infected or jaggedly cut. It was shaved, stitched, medically sound. Jesse briefly glanced up as if the culprit would show themself.

He only saw the large wolf watching them. "Don't suppose you did this, huh?"

The wolf's eyes twinkled, amused. It slipped back through the trees with a small bork, encouraging the young wolf to follow after giving Jesse's cheek a final swipe with her tongue.

"Right, 'course not." The cowboy grinned, wiping the saliva away from his face with the back of his glove.

Jesse thanked Ana for her fast work later as he helped her collect some herbs before they went out of season. She gave him a strange look before she laughed, explaining that she hadn't been in the forest for some time. She wiped a tear away from her eye, sighing gently with a smile, "It was the guardian."

"Now how in the hell could a wolf-?"

"He has his ways, Jesse. Could you be more careful picking these flowers? You are crushing their leaves."

"Oh, sorry, Ana."

Jesse was not convinced.

He'd named the wolves after just a week. The three-legged wolf was Belle Starr. Then there were the littermates with matching pelts; they were Bonnie and Clyde even though they both responded to either. Then, that mangy old one was Billy the Kid.

Now, the wolf didn't have a name. Jesse had tried several times, but the wolf only graced each new moniker with a growl. To avoid the wolf's scorn, Jesse decided to stop trying after 'Jesse Jr.' had nearly convinced the wolf to rip his prosthetic arm off. It wasn't as if he could call for the wolf anyways. It showed up when it pleased, but it did respond well to various pet-names, so Jesse didn't find any reason to give it a proper name. Oddly enough, the wolf reacted most often to names Jesse would use for a lover, but he tried not to think too much about calling a wolf 'darling.'

Jesse had, thoughtlessly, started hanging around the wolves. He just couldn't help it. Belle was cute as a button, Bonnie and Clyde were a hoot to watch fight, Billy was -well- there, and the big one was just a spectacle to behold. He should've known something like this was going to happen.

He'd already torn off his belt, wound it around his upper arm tight to staunch the bleeding. He grit his teeth, holding his flesh arm close as he fumbled around in his pack for his whiskey. He had to have some left, right? Metallic fingers scratched against the glass of the whiskey bottle. He yanked the cork out of the bottle with his teeth and splashed the alcohol over his arm. His prosthetic hand clenched, and he released a hearty shout as the bottle crumpled in his hand. The shards of the bottle fell to the ground and crunched beneath his boots, but he couldn't care about that at the moment.

"Shouldn't've -fuck- teased the damn wolf!" He shook off his metal hand to prevent the glass from sticking around in his joints, screwing his eyes shut as he tried to steady his breathing.

He didn't want to look at it. He saw the blood on the ground, and he knew how bad it hurt. He really didn't want to look at it. He grabbed for the sewing kit in his pack, eyes dropping to his arm for only a moment. The sensation of vomit rising in his throat was a momentary distraction from the wound.

He was lucky it wasn't on the inside of his arm. It ran from his wrist to his elbow, following his bone. Was that his bone? He thought that was his bone.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit - shit."

He was about to heave again when he heard the brush shuffling, thoughts running to the wolves. That big one had given the youngling what-for for slashing up Jesse's arm, but the others could have smelled his blood or tasted it and followed and - Jesse couldn't breathe.

The footsteps weren't those of a wolf come to tear off Jesse's other arm. It was Ana, the medicine lady. Her eyes flew wide with worry and she stepped forward with a small bag, one hand moving to the belt around Jesse's arm to adjust it while the other went to Jesse's wrist to elongate his arm and assess the damage. "Shh, be calm. Be calm. I am here now. You will be fine."

"If you're gonna ask, just augh-sk. Don't be staring at me like that to guilt me into sayin' something." Jesse tucked his head into his elbow, metal fingers curling into his hair and pulling hard enough to yank a few strands out.

"What happened?" Ana asked, carefully turning Jesse's arm and leading her needle through his skin.

"The, uh, the guardian's got a posse. The youngest one and I were havin' a - shhhoot - a go at it, and she scratched up my arm something fiercce." He hissed at the pain, Ana soothing him as best she could with small assurances in a language he wasn't up to pinpointing at the moment.

"You were grappling with a wolf?"

"She's got so much energy it drives the old one bonkers. Figured I'd play with her a bit, give 'er a better outlet for it. Augh, shit." He clenched his jaw, pushing his head farther into the crook of his elbow.

"You are not a very smart man."

"I've got my mo-owww-ments. Could you save the lecture until after you've stitched me up?"

"Why? So you can run from it?"

"That's the general idea, yeah."

"No. Now be quiet and let me work."

"Why're you here anyway? Not that I ain't thankfuuu-ll, don't get me wrong." Jesse glanced down at the stitches. Ana knew what she was doing; he'd definitely never had cleaner stitches from some old medicine woman before.

"The wolf. He brought me here."

"He wha-aahht now?"

"The wolf is smart, Jesse. I was at home. He retrieved me." She finished the sutures, cutting off the excess material. "Do not underestimate him. Your wounds may worsen."

"But then how'd you get here so fast?"

"The wolf has his ways." Ana released his arm, hands going into her bag to retrieve some bandages, gingerly wrapping them around Jesse's arm once she had located them. She dug in her bag once more, pulling out a small bottle of antiseptic and a bar of homemade soap, both of which she handed to Jesse. "Keep it clean and get some rest. There shouldn't be much permanent damage, but it will scar. Come find me immediately if you have even the slightest suspicion that it may be infected."

"Sounds great, Miss Amari. Thanks."

"In the future," Ana spoke as she collected her things, "refrain from wrestling with the wolves. A game of fetch would likely be fine, however."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Jesse hadn't changed his clothes since he'd arrived in the forest. The stench that followed him was more than enough evidence that he'd not bathed either. At least it made it easier to track the man down.

The wolf pulled his nose from the ground, ears turning forward to listen in on the whistling he heard. It was an unfamiliar tune, but the whistling itself was memorable: Jesse. The wolf continued on, finding himself next to the river soon enough. It wasn't a wide thing after so little rainfall in the past few weeks, but it still flowed persistently.

Jesse stood a bit downstream, stark naked aside from his hat, whistling and gently shaking his hips as he pulled his shirt out of the river, wringing it out above the water. He had a single bar of soap - it smelled like Ana's - that he'd scrubbed into the shirt.

The bloodstain was still prominent where the right arm had been shredded.

He hung it on a drooping tree branch and grabbed the next article of clothing to wash. The wound on his forearm, from wrist to elbow - had Belle really hurt him that badly? - was healing nicely. The wolf walked forward, disturbing a bit of the underbrush as it moved.

Jesse dropped his pants, one hand grabbing his hat and pulling it down to cover himself as he spun around to face the sound. His face cheeks darkened, and he started to stutter, eyes wider than an owl's, "N-now I didn't know..." He stopped himself, laughing gently when he found that his audience was none other than the wolf. "Sugar, don't come up so fast like that. You'll scare a man outta his pants."

The wolf tilted his head.

"Er... if he's wearin' 'em." With a quick motion, Jesse's hat was back on his head and he was leaning down to grab his aforementioned pants. "Ya wanna stop starin'? Y're makin' a man nervous."

The wolf blinked and walked toward Jesse, stopping short when the man glared at him.

"Honey, I mean it. Go on, git. Let a man wash up in peace."

The wolf seemed to roll his eyes, padding past Jesse to look up at the shirt hanging up on the tree branch. He glanced between Jesse and the shirt a few times, earning the raise of one of McCree's eyebrows. "What're you-?"

The wolf bounced up, taking the shirt in his mouth and running off with it.

"Aw, god damnit." Jesse's shoulders drooped, but he didn't chase after the wolf. He didn't have another top, but he also didn't feel like braving the forest in his birthday suit. Dejected and shirtless, he finished up his laundry and followed it with a quick bath.

When he stepped out of the river and pulled his hair back to dry, there was a new shirt on the rocks next to his boots. He picked it up, wondering where it came from before deciding that it didn't really matter. It was just a bit smaller than he was accustomed to, smelled like incense and bow oil, and was creased from lack of wear, but it was better than what was left of his old shirt.

He shrugged it on, leaving the top button open to keep the thing from ripping at the seams.

"What in the hell...?" He certainly hadn't been looking for this when he'd started walking this way. He'd heard some voices early in the morning while he was packing up camp and readying himself to head out for the day, a couple of men hooting and hollering and making a whole ruckus. They'd been speaking English which was the first telltale sign that they had to've had a reason to be there.

Jesse had hurried up packing and hightailed it out of there, quietly. He'd heard them talking about a bounty and what they'd do with the money, but he wasn't sticking around to see what unlucky fellow they were hunting. He'd retreated further into the woods, closer to the wolves' cave, in an attempt to keep some distance between himself and the bounty-hunters.

He hadn't heard another peep from them all day. He was guessing that this was why. Jesse had stepped onto the scene of a slaying.

Those men, the six of them that he'd heard that morning, were all dead. Three of them were slumped over bottles of beer, arrows through their backs, caught off-guard before they could react. The other three were scattered around, having moved to attempt to defend themselves against the archer. One had his hand pinned to a tree with an arrow, pistol dropped to the ground, another arrow had pierced his neck; his chest was covered with blood. Another was thrown against the ground, head slightly concave from a blow to his temple.

A trail of blood led out of the clearing, but Jesse didn't need to follow it with anything other than his eyes to find the body at the end of it. He took a step forward, craning his neck to see a bit better. The last man had been backed up into a tree, arrows sinking through both shoulders to keep him still. His stomach had been cut, intestines spilling out to drag at the ground.

Jesse ran a thumb along his revolver's grip, kneeling next to the three men that had died over their drinks. He reached out, pressing his thumb to the blood that had trickled out of the wound; it was tacky but not yet dry. They'd died not too long ago, but it'd been long enough for whoever had killed them to beat it.

He grabbed one of them by the neck, pulling the body up to look at its face. He didn't recognize them, not that he had expected to. Maybe these men were here for that Shimada Hanzo fella. Jesse decided to believe that the men had nothing to do with him, linking them back to that poacher instead. He knew it was unwise, but he was in absolute denial that someone might've figured out that he was holed up here in the boondocks of someplace, Japan.

His instincts were telling him to scram.

He ignored them and kept looking around.

Jesse pocketed a couple bullets for his revolver, scavenging what little food the men had with them. They'd been carrying little in the way of munitions or rations, likely thinking that their quarry would be easy prey. Jesse had to laugh, a small thing that came out of his nose in a snort. Nothing in this forest went down without a fight.

He searched the pockets of the men, turning up little in the way of identifying their prey or themselves until he pulled a thick square of paper out of the shirt pocket of the one pinned to a tree. He pulled it open, flicking at a bloodied corner while he examined the worn paper.

Sighing, clenching his jaw and nearly tearing the wanted poster bearing his likeness with his metal fingers, he folded it back up and shoved it into his pocket.

He spared a glance around, looking for the person that had killed these bounty hunters. Jesse was feeling like he should probably be extending that someone a 'thank you.' His hair stood on end, and he took a deep breath. Someone was watching him.

He carefully took his hand away from his revolver, curling his toes in his boots. With a clearing of his throat, he spoke, "Thank ya, archer."

He didn't earn a response. Instead, he caught the sound of someone dropping down onto the ground from a perch in a tree. He spun around fast enough to catch golden eyes staring at him before the owner of those eyes bolted.

"Hey, I don't-!" Jesse made the move to follow the archer before he paused. He played with the brim of his hat, deciding to clean up the mess the archer had made instead. He collected the arrows that hadn't broken - nice little things - and stacked them up on a rock. He busied himself with disposing of the bodies, and, when he returned for the last man, the arrows were gone. The archer had scratched some kanji into the rock. It read, "Thank you."

Jesse chuckled, "Y're welcome," and threw the last body over his shoulder to dispose of.

Jesse was a fool to think that he could hit a rabbit with a revolver. He could've, but not on an empty stomach and certainly not when he'd spooked the rabbit before he could pop off the shot. The bullet sunk into the ground, and the rabbit bounced off in a hurry. Jesse cursed, curling a fist in front of his aching stomach. Winter was approaching, and, even if the snow had not hit yet, animals were getting scarcely active. Jesse hadn't had a decent meal in three days.

He kicked at the dirt, holstering his revolver and glancing at the sky. He huffed, ran a hand through his hair, and decided not to upset the wildlife any further that day. He could go to bed hungry; he'd been through worse.

His bag wasn't far, took all of a minute to get back to. He'd slung it up on a tree branch for safekeeping while he was hunting - or at least trying to hunt. Jesse collected the satchel, threw it over his shoulder, and began looking for a decent place to sleep. It just kept getting colder, of course it did that was how seasons worked, but he really wasn't wanting to start a fire in the middle of a forest if he didn't have to. He didn't like letting people know where he was. An overhang, someplace that could keep the wind off him at least, would do just as well. He wasn't having any luck locating something of the sort, though.

Jesse ended up plopping down somewhere near the wolves' cave, a respectable distance away from the entrance of course. The wolf might be a bit irritated by his being there, but the wall of rock kept the breeze off his back so he couldn't be bothered to care. He set out his bedroll and sat down, ruffling through his satchel in search of anything he might have missed shoved into an odd corner. A piece of candy. A bit of dried fruit. Something. Today, there was no such luck. He grumbled and leaned back with his book to keep his mind off his grumbling stomach.

He couldn't quite concentrate. After he'd read the first line of the chapter about nine times, he set the book aside and pulled his serape close, trying to ignore the way his breath puffed into little clouds in the frosty air. Even though he knew sleep would not come easily on an empty stomach, he forced himself to screw his eyes shut and at least attempt to doze off. The night was quiet; those wolves had hunted last night. He'd seen the deer carcass that morning, so he suspected that they'd go back to it when the moon rose. An owl hooted and flew off, startled. Jesse ignored it until a gentle boof sounded from the forest.

"Belle?" He didn't feel like opening his eyes when he was half-certain that he'd not heard anything in the first place. No response. "Bonnie? Clyde? Billy?" Not a sound. He wasn't surprised that none of those wolves had showed up; they had no reason to. Still, there was a bit of noise, a shift from one foot to another. He cracked his eyes open, and the wolf was waiting patiently among the trees to be addressed. "Oh, it's you. What're you up to, sugar? Want me to read you somethin'?" He'd grown fond of the wolves, this one especially with its calming aura and striking eyes.

The wolf made its way out of the trees, a rabbit hanging out of his mouth. He approached the man slowly, head low as he dropped the rodent before him. He pushed it forward with his bloodied snout, sitting back on his haunches and whining when Jesse's stomach growled.

"Heh." Jesse reached forward, a bit wary to take fresh meat away from a predator, but the wolf didn't move as he brought the rabbit closer to examine it. If he wasn't mistaken, it was the rabbit he'd tried to shoot earlier, but all those rabbits looked alike with their white winter coats so he was probably wrong. "Worried about lil' ol' me, darlin'? Ya really don't have to, y'know."

The wolf straightened up, eyes boring into Jesse as if to say, "Be thankful, you stupid human."

"Oh, s'pose I should say thanks. Any case, I'll be needing a fire. You mind me being so close to your home?"

The wolf yawned.

"I'll take that as a no, then." Jesse tied the rabbit's legs around his belt loop, leaving for just a moment to gather some wood. That old lumberjack, Reinhardt or something, was a good man, left some firewood at every tree he cut for those that were too poor to afford it and too prideful to beg. Jesse found enough for a small fire quickly, just enough to get the rabbit cooked and nothing more.

He expected the wolf to be gone when he returned, but he still rested next to Jesse's bedroll, nose shoved into the man's pack.

"What're you doin' in there?" Jesse teased, digging out a shallow pit with the heel of his boot.

The wolf's head popped out, and that terrible book was trapped between his teeth. He dropped the book on Jesse's bedroll and blinked a few times.

"Alright, fine. Let me set up the spit first and then I'll read you a bit."

The wolf didn't respond, merely leaning closer to the fire as Jesse worked. His eyes followed Jesse's hands as he stacked up the wood, lit some kindling, skinned and skewered the rabbit, set it up to cook. The wolf whined when Jesse finally settled back onto his bedroll, shivering despite the scrawny fire. "Oh, don't you worry. A little cold isn't gonna take down Jesse McCree."

Regardless, the wolf scooted closer, resting his head on Jesse's lap.

"You're a real lovable guy, you know that?" Jesse absently scratched beneath the wolf's chin as he bent open his book and looked for where he'd left off. The wolf's tail thumped against the ground as Jesse began reading, content.

Winter had been slowly creeping over the forest, but Jesse felt as if the season had just arrived in its entirety. The night before, he'd slept peacefully with a fire blazing and a wolf laying over his lap. Not ten minutes before he'd been hacking at the icy river to get at a fish that had been frozen beneath the ice. Now, the sky was spouting snow faster than Jesse could spit curses, and he really wasn't appreciating that. It didn't help that the snow was making it incredibly difficult to see - Jesse'd already slammed into two separate trees. He was certain that he was going to lose the rest of his fingers and toes if he was out in the elements much longer.

He would have hoofed it back to the village, that Amari lady seemed nice enough to not let him freeze, but he hadn't even the slightest clue where he was. Once more, he squinted into the snow for any indication that he was traveling in the right direction.

"Jesse McCree, outlaw and wolf-whisperer, done in by a freak snowstorm. Wonder if I'll be a popsicle by the time someone finds me."

He trudged along, one hand outstretched to keep from bashing into another tree. "I'm gettin' nowhere," he grumbled to himself, continuing onward until his legs threatened to buckle beneath him. He slid his back against the trunk of a tree, curling up at the base in an effort to conserve any body heat he could.

Rrorf!

Jesse laughed. If he wasn't mistaken, he'd just heard one of the wolves. But that was absolutely ridiculous. Those dogs were too smart to-.

Borf!

A cold nose pushed at Jesse's shoulder. The man's brow knit when he looked up to see the large wolf pressing at his side. "What're you doing out here?" His question was lost to the wind's howling. He earned a shove from the wolf. "Stop that."

The wolf huffed, an aggravated noise to match the way his tail flicked from side to side. Ggrrg!

"Don't you growl at me!"

The wolf stared at the man for a moment, eyes catching on his shiny metal arm. He leaned forward, taking the prosthetic hand in his mouth and tugging with a whine.

"What d'ya want, darlin'?" Jesse's lips were blue, his teeth chattering as he spoke.

The wolf pushed again at Jesse, but the man kept still, eyes unfocused. Then the wolf nipped at him, and the man bolted upright. The wolf yipped and jumped slightly, taking Jesse's metal hand in his mouth once more and beginning to walk off. Jesse had no choice but to follow.

That didn't stop him from cursing the wolf the entire time it led him through the forest, though. He screwed his eyes shut, recognizing a change in scenery only by the sound of nails and spurs clacking against stone instead of crunching through snow. He blinked as he looked up, finding himself in the mouth of the cave with the storm screaming on outside. "Thought you didn't want me in here."

The wolf gave the man's arm a final tug, releasing him and continuing deeper into the cave. Jesse fumbled for his lighter, flicking on the flame before following the wolf. "Quite the place you've got here."

The cave ran deep, built into the earth at a slight incline. Good in a flood. Jesse found himself thinking, listening to the clacking of the wolf's nails against the stone.

Jesse was confused as he slipped further into the cave. He'd fully expected it to get darker and warmer, but he found that only the latter was true. It was getting brighter as well.

He stopped walking once the cave widened to a full room. A fire burned in the middle of the cave; the wolf sat next to it, watching Jesse and waiting for something. Jesse couldn't help the small laugh bubbling up from his throat, confusion overtaking his logical thought. The wolf made a small noise, something between frustration and acceptance.

Jesse stamped his boots to get the snow off of them, making his way to the fire. He took off his boots, setting them near the fire to dry. He extended his hand to the wolf, carefully scratching beneath the wolf's chin. "Naw, honey, I don't mean it like that. 'S nice... how'd'ya make a fire?"

The wolf rested his head against Jesse's knee. He huffed gently; Jesse could feel his breath on his wrist.

"No, guess it don't matter." His eyes wandered.

The other wolves were sleeping in a heap together on the far end of the cave, grumbling and kicking out from their dreams. Jesse wondered if they were afraid of the fire, and if so, why the wolf at his side wasn't wary of the flames. It wasn't scared of people either now that he was thinking about it. Maybe it was some sort of hybrid. Maybe it had a human master at one point. Jesse supposed it didn't really matter much now.

At the other side of the cave was a bed made of furs from different animals: a few deer, a couple rabbitskins stitched together, a wolf. A few pots and pans were hung up on the rock jutting out of the wall. Books aplenty were collected on a ridge of the cave wall. A couple articles of clothing were folded up nicely to the side of the bed, sitting atop a gorgeous little chest all painted with bright colors. Dried and canned foods were shut up in a cabinet that would've been hell to drag into the cave. A bow and its quiver rested on the fur bed.

Wolves had no use for these things, but Jesse hadn't seen anyone in the forest since the river started to freeze.

Jesse pushed himself to his feet, much to the displeasure of the wolf, and made his way over to the belongings with the wolf's eyes boring into his back. There was no dust on anything. "Ya'll have a tenant, then." He murmured, leafing through the collection of books at the side of the bed. They were in Japanese, but the majority of the covers led Jesse to believe that they were trashy romance novels.

He kept snooping. He didn't open anything, just looked. The cabinet had a barred front, and Jesse could have reached through the wooden bars of the doors to grab something if he was a helluva lot smaller. It held teas, cans, crackers, dog treats, all sorts of things. There were claw rakings in the wood, and Jesse suspected that was why there was a thick lock on the handles. "Belle?"

The large one answered with a puff.

"Yeah, she would." Jesse murmured as he moved on, earning a cautious growl from the wolf when his hand inched toward the bow. "Just lookin', sweetpea."

The wolf brought himself to his feet, shaking off some melted snow before tapping over to the bed. He closed his mouth around the bow, sticking his head through the carrying strap of the quiver to move them. Jesse felt a bit cheated that he'd never had a dog before if they were so smart. Would've been fine company back in New Mexico.

With the weapon stored somewhere - Jesse hadn't seen where - the wolf leapt up onto the pile of furs and looked at Jesse like he expected the man to follow.

"Naw, darlin', I'm not about to sleep in someone else's bed. I ain't no Goldilocks... now, don't you be giving me those puppy-dog eyes. Those ain't gonna work this time... Ah, hell, fine." Jesse shucked off his wet clothes, setting them to dry alongside his boots before crawling up into the furs with the wolf. "But if your master... wolf-person... archer comes around, this is your fault." Jesse jabbed a finger toward the wolf.

In response, the wolf pressed himself close to Jesse, whining with those puppy-dog eyes until Jesse began to scratch him beneath the jaw. His tail whapped against the bed, and Jesse smiled.

"Eh, don't guess we gotta worry about that yet, though. I'm warm and I've still got all ten of my toes. That's gotta count for somethin'."

The wolf licked Jesse's cheek.

Jesse rolled over, curling his toes into his blankets as he began to wake. Gosh, something smelled real nice. He took a deep breath, rolling over in the bed of fur and allowing himself to open his eyes a bit. His boots and jacket -everything he'd taken off, actually- had been folded nicely and set at the end of the bed, waiting for him. His revolver and hat lay atop his jacket, hat overturned with the gun in it. He didn't remember doing that, and he sure as hell didn't think a wolf could've done it. His jaw clenched in worry, and he continued his visual investigation.

A pot was hoisted over the fire -stoked or new he had no clue- with a little metal contraption, and he suspected that was the source of the sinfully delightful smell in the air. A teapot hung beside it, steam rising steadily out of the spout.

Jesse tensed at the next thing he saw, but he found that he wasn't exactly surprised.

There was a man crouched by the fire, reaching out to take the teapot away from the flames, setting it down on the stone floor. He was turned halfway between Jesse and the pile of wolves at the other end of the cave, enough to keep both in his peripherals. He would have seen McCree roll over, but Jesse reckoned that he might not have known he was awake yet. Regardless, he watched the man as closely as he dared, not wanting to alert him to his being conscious.

He wore some real funny clothes, something like traditional samurai wear Jesse'd seen in old movies paired with an honest to god wolf pelt draped over his head and shoulders. His sleeves were scrunched up to his elbows, and there was some red ink or paint running up his left arm - too far away to tell what it was, though. His chin was adorned with a trim beard, trimmer than expected from someone wearing a dead animal hide anyway. There was red painted beneath his eyes, dramatizing the fine cut of his cheekbones. The wolf hide's head hid his eyes from Jesse's, and the cowboy couldn't help but be a bit curious.

But there was no time for that. The man's head turned slightly; Jesse shut his eyes. There was some shuffling, some tap tap tap-ing followed, approaching the bed. It dipped in front of Jesse's hips as the other man sat down.

When a gentle hand pressed against his hair, Jesse had to focus on keeping his breathing steady and light like it was when he was asleep. The man played with the strands for a moment, petting Jesse with a soft touch like he was afraid of waking the other man. He leaned forward, using his hand to tuck some stray hairs behind Jesse's ear, and pressed his lips to Jesse's forehead, thumb brushing along Jesse's jaw.

Jesse's stomach flip-flopped at how damn affectionate that was coming from a total stranger.

He just didn't know what to think about how sincere the action was, and it was probably best not to dwell on it anyway. He wasn't meant to know it happened. He was asleep, after all.

The man stood from the bed, murmuring fondly in English, "You sleep like a dead man." He walked away for a moment, and Jesse heard the telltale sound of porcelain clanking. He was getting plates or bowls of some description; Jesse cracked his eyes open just enough to see the stranger spoon a serving from the pot into two bowls before pivoting on his heel and coming back to the bed. He set one bowl down to free his hand, sitting himself on the bed. He pressed his hand to Jesse's shoulder, digging his thumb into the divot of his collar bone. It hurt. "Wake up."

"Immawake." Jesse garbled, pushing the man's hand off himself as he sat up. On hand rubbed the sleep from his eyes and one rubbed where he was certain he was going to bruise.

"Here." The man shoved the bowl at Jesse, and the cowboy took it to keep it from spilling down his chest.

"Uh, thank ya." He looked at it, trying to figure out what it was but coming up empty except for recognizing that it was noodles and vegetables.

"You will have time for questions later. Eat, you must be hungry." The man bent to grab his own serving from the floor, but he didn't move from the bed.

"Mighty kind of you, stranger." Jesse reached up to tip his hat, but he wasn't wearing it. He could've sworn he'd slept with it on. The stranger's lips pulled up slightly into a reserved grin. Shit, he was pretty.

"Eat." The man picked up his own chopsticks, testing his fingers a few times before pulling up some noodles.

"Yessir." Jesse used the chopsticks in the bowl to shovel some of the food into his mouth. The vegetables were canned, but he didn't care. The noodles smacked against his chin, saturating his beard with the soup.

The stranger turned away from Jesse to hide his smirk. "Do you require a fork, cowboy?"

"No." Jesse slurped up some noodles indignantly.

The stranger allowed the meal to pass in peace. Rather, he bade Jesse to shut his trap when he tried to say anything, going so far as to silence the cowboy with another helping of the noodles. When he took the bowl away to rinse it out in a pot of water, the cowboy took his chance.

"Gochisosama." Jesse prickled when the stranger's eyebrow shot up, likely because he mispronounced his thanks. "Look, it ain't my first language, I'm doin' my best!"

"...You are very welcome." The stranger dried the bowls with a rag and placed them back in the cupboard.

Jesse didn't much know what to do with himself. He reached over to grab his folded shirt and pull it on, leaving it unbuttoned while he rolled the sleeves up. "Do I get to ask some questions now?"

"You have been patient thusfar. Surely you could wait a bit longer." The stranger grabbed two cups and some tea before moving back to the fire.

"Don't really feel like it." Jesse pulled his hair back, tying it off with a thin piece of leather cord he wore around his wrist. He watched the man carefully, wondering who he was and why he was being so cordial.

"Very well," the man prepared two cups of tea, "you may ask them. But please, come to the fire. I do not want you to spill tea on my bed."

Jesse laughed and stepped out of the bed, hair on his legs prickling at the sudden change in temperature. He floundered for his pants, tugging them on quickly. The stranger released a small chuckle, just a tiny one, and Jesse swore he'd heard it or something like it before. "Y'know, even though I know I ain't never seen you before, you're awfully familiar." He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but he had, and there was no taking it back.

"One may be surprised." The stranger poured the tea.

"Ooh, cryptic." Jesse went over to the fire, sitting down cross-legged a respectable distance away from the stranger.

"You are curious and confused. Please," the man presented Jesse with a cup of warm tea, sitting down on his knees with his own, "ask anything of me." He took a sip from his cup, unable to keep Jesse's eyes for long.

"Huh, well, alright." Jesse watched the wolves at the other side of the cave, still sleeping but with the occasional flicking of an ear as the two men spoke. "You know where the big one went?"

"He is fine. There is no need for concern."

"Aw, good. Meant to thank 'im for last night, but guess I didn't get much of a chance... you live here with 'em?"

"Yes, but do not be misunderstanding our arrangement. I do not own them."

"Ah, alright. You must've the one that patched up Belle."

"Yes. I wanted to save the leg, but to do so would have put her life in further jeopardy."

"Eh, one missing leg won't hurt her." Jesse waggled the fingers of his metal arm. "You have trouble with poachers before?"

"She has been adjusting well without it. To answer your question, yes. Wolf pelts fetch a fine price, but most poachers do not manage to leave the forest. I had thought they would be too frightened to trespass." The stranger stared at his tea momentarily, speaking again before Jesse could say something. "I believe she would be dead if not for you. My thanks... for saving her and destroying the traps."

"Heh, guilty as charged." Jesse watched his tea, twirling the cup and watching the leaves spin in the liquid.

"How is your arm?"

"Fine. Ain't killed me yet, and that's always a good sign."

"I suppose so... You have more questions."

"I just... confused, is all. Where've you been this whole time? How come I ain't seen you before?"

"I am a recluse. I will not typically be seen unless I want to be; however, you have seen me once before."

"Oh, right, those bounty hunters. Nice work."

"You say this merely because they were hunting you, Jesse."

Jesse was glad he wasn't holding onto the cup with his prosthetic or it'd be in pieces. The stranger said it so easily that Jesse was on edge. He said it like he meant something else.

Jesse's gun was just a few feet away. This stranger wasn't visibly armed - that bow was still nowhere to be seen. This wasn't to say that he couldn't fight without a weapon; Jesse never had been one to underestimate human opponents in a fight. He was enamored with his tea; it'd take him a moment to react.

Fuck it. Jesse dropped the tea and rolled to get his revolver, hand closing around it and easily leveling it with the stranger's chest. "Now, I don't rightly claim to know what you want with me, but-."

The man huffed, continuing to sip at his tea. Did he often have guns pointed at him? Why the hell was he so calm? Jesse clenched the grip of his revolver tighter as the man spoke, "Would you please put that down? Someone may get hurt if you continue to wave it around like that."

"I think I'll keep it in hand if it's all the same to you, pardner."

"Very well, but you will not be shooting me. I believe you are too interested in your own self-preservation to do so."

"No one said I'm a real smart man, now." Jesse tried to threaten the man, but he merely earned a smile.

"If you had wished to kill me, you would have done so already. Four wolves be damned, I could be dead at this moment, but you will not shoot me. You know that I have no interest in killing you for you would not have awoken on this day had I wanted you dead. Please, you are stressed. Drink your tea and let us talk like adults."

Jesse's lips twitched. "I'm keeping Peacekeeper on me if it's all the same to you."

"That is fine. Your tea is going to get cold."

"I ain't-." Jesse ran a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp as he holstered his revolver. "Sorry, alright?"

"You are forgiven. It is not easy to wake and find yourself suddenly in the company of a strange man you have seen only once in passing."

Jesse scooted over to the fire, feeling something like a kicked dog. "It too late for a courteous introduction?"

"No, I do not believe so." The man sat his cup down, meeting Jesse's eyes.

"Alright." Jesse extended his hand, "Jesse McCree, outlaw, charmer, gunslinger, and recently wolf-whisperer."

"Shimada Hanzo, archer, recluse, alpha. It is nice to meet you, Jesse." Hanzo's grip was firm, but he had nothing to prove. Jesse recognized the name from those letters, but he wasn't about to say that.

"Likewise." Jesse stared at his tea, taking a swig of it and burning his tongue. "Why d'ya live up here in these mountains?"

"I would be killed if I lived elsewhere. Like you, I am a wanted man." Hanzo placed his hands on his knees, closing his eyes a moment and taking a cleansing breath. "Now, may I ask why you are here?"

"Guess I owe you that much. The, uh, scenery's nice. Don't have views like this back home, and the company ain't half bad when I don't point my gun at 'em."

"Who else has been at the business end of your revolver? Surely not the poor old medicine woman."

"I would never-!"

"A good thing, I suppose. Ana is not nearly as patient as I. But you have not answered my question. Why are you here?"

"Outlaw's gotta hide somewhere."

"And why is it that you are an outlaw?"

Jesse shoved a hand into his pocket, pulling out the folded square of paper he'd pilfered from one of the bounty hunters. "Let's see here... I've been accused of arson, vandalism, a couple hundred counts of murder, more vandalism, extortion, forgery, draft evasion, burglary, robbery, possession, kidnapping, obstructing justice, impersonating an officer..." He read off the poster, a finger keeping his place in the list of crimes.

"Modest."

Jesse tucked the poster back into his pocket with a grin. "I'm only guilty of a few counts of battery, robbery, and murder outside my job. A whole lot of that other crap's just things my old gang piled up on me when they've been detained."

"Your work?"

"Government."

"Ah. And what is your bounty, cowboy?"

"Inching to a million, but I'll bet this poster's a bit old. It's probably still racking up even when I'm all the way out here." Jesse gestured vaguely as he spoke.

"Impressive. It seems you are quite the catch."

"He jokes! I'm not too worried about you turning me in, not a whole lotta good a million Washingtons is gonna do a wolf man."

"Hmm... I suppose not."

"So, what'd you do? 'S gotta be interesting if you're living with wolves after it."

"Nothing as gallivanting as you, I'm afraid..." Hanzo took a deep breath, speaking with his eyes on the fire. "Fratricide."

"Damn, I'm sorry."

"Let us speak of other things."

"Right, right, of course." Jesse rubbed the back of his neck and let his eyes wander as he thought up something to talk about. "Oh, you've got some mighty interesting reading over there, Hanzo."

"There is no place for your judgment. You have an equally embarrassing taste in literature."

"I ain't judging! Wait, you went through my things?"

"I merely made an observation. It fell out of your bag."

"Look, it ain't Shakespeare or Hemingway or Twain or, hell, Tolkien, but it's fun. What's the harm in a bit of fun every once in a while?"

"There is none. You needn't justify this to me."

"It isn't just romance, though. It's about life 'nd death, breaking away from tradition, adventure, the struggle of good and ill, but the romance ain't hurtin' nothing either."

Hanzo smiled, pouring himself a bit more tea. "Are you an avid reader, Jesse?"

"Might surprise some, but yes I am."

"What is your favorite genre?"

"Shucks, I'm a sucker for a good love story."

"It is always nice to see the hero get the damsel, no?"

"Aw, those're horseshit. Ain't no girl that's so pretty and smart is gonna get kidnapped or this that and the other without escaping herself by the time the 'hero' gets word of her capture."

"You have your point. What stories suit your fancy, cowboy?"

"Romances, yeah, but they've... It's gotta be real. They've gotta be people, not just pretty dolls in a story for the sake of getting together."

"Do you want to settle down with a pretty maid one day, Jesse?"

"Naw, I ain't the... the lady type. Ain't the settlin' type neither. Probably won't live that long anyway."

The day passed quickly. The two men chatted about nothing, finding a strange comfort in the other's presence. The wolves slept, the snow lulling them into a near hibernatory state. They awoke long enough to notice Jesse in their territory, long enough for Hanzo to growl at them and convince them to leave Jesse alone.

That big one was nowhere to be seen.

"You sure he's okay?" Jesse asked as he flicked at the edge of his book, looking over from the bed to Hanzo.

"Yes, Jesse. He is fine. Stop worrying so, and put your book down. You'll never get to sleep like this." Hanzo was busying himself with laying a fur on the cave's floor - he'd spent the last few minutes arguing that sleeping on the floor wouldn't kill him and that Jesse could have the bed, please just go to bed for the love of-.

"He's just been gone all day. And it's been snowing enough to freeze hell over."

"Jesse, please." Something flickered in Hanzo's eyes, something soft, concerned, primal and-.

"Holy shit." The book tumbled out of Jesse's hand, plopping against the stone floor.

"What? What is wrong?" Hanzo knelt at the bedside, trying to catch Jesse's gaze.

"You're him! Holy shit, you're a werewolf!"

"What? Jesse, no, please-."

"Oh, it makes so much sense! Why you were all smart and embarassed- and how you knew how to make me read to you - and Belle's leg - and how you got Ana here - and you saw me naked, but I guess that don't really matter so much, thanks for the shirt by the way - and how you-."

"Jesse, breathe. You are getting blue." Hanzo grasped Jesse's hands, bringing him back to himself as he prattled on.

"Shoot, I called you honey and darlin' and- I'm so sorry. Holy shit, werewolves are real!"

"What possibly leads you to believe-?"

"My boss, a real mean old fucker, and I mean old 'cuz he's a vampire, he's-."

Hanzo clasped a hand over Jesse's mouth, growling, "Shut. Up."

Jesse laughed nervously behind Hanzo's hand, sighing a bit once the other man dropped his hand. "Sorry, darlin'- uh, Hanzo. It's just-. I never-. I got a bit excited."

"You are forgiven... Do you need a moment?"

"Nah, I'm good. Ana know?"

"Yes, of course. Her daughter- no. That is a story for another time. Yes, she knows."

Jesse smiled, letting his hands drop from Hanzo's. He pulled his legs up, hugging them close and propping his chin on his knees. "Shoot... ya coulda told me earlier."

"Answer this truthfully, then, cowboy. If I had approached you as I am before now, would you have shot me?"

Jesse looked away for a moment, shrinking slightly away from the question, highly aware that his revolver was still just a few feet away. "Maybe before the whole bounty hunter thing."

"And if I had approached you during the storm, would you have followed me?"

"When you look like an angel, a man's a fool not to." Hanzo's steady stare was enough to pull a real answer from Jesse, "No, I s'pose not."

"I approached you as a wolf as I had no intentions of scaring you further into a snowstorm, Jesse." Hanzo smoothed the fur on the ground, settling on his side and looking up at Jesse.

The cowboy also finally settled in for bed, "Oh, now that's no fair. I never make a fool of myself in front of mysterious, attractive men sporting the skin of a dead animal."

"Is that so? The Jesse in your book says otherwise." Hanzo teased, resting his head on his arm and closing his eyes.

"Shit, you remember that?"

"Every word, including the tangent you went on stating that the brooding stranger was a far better love interest than the stoic prince."

"Now how was I s'posed to know they were the same?"

"Hmm. Go to sleep, McCree. We will talk more in the morning."

"Night, Hanzo."

"You may stay here for the winter if you wish."

"That's mighty kind of you, Hanzo, but are you sure?"

"I am not about to turn you out into the cold, Jesse, but this is merely an offer and you should feel no obligation to stay. It must be difficult to be here with four wolves and... me."

Jesse pulled on his boots and his hat, leaning over his knees and watching Hanzo open up three cans of dog food for the wolves. "Honey, d'ya think I'm scared of you?"

"You would certainly be a fool if not."

"Eh, we all know I ain't the smartest man. Y're a goddamn force of nature, but you ain't gonna kill me."

"You have too much faith in a stranger, gunslinger." Hanzo murmured, shaking the contents of the cans into two deep dishes.

"Nah, you can't pull that now. Y'ain't no stranger. You're a friend, a bonafide pal."

"You are ridiculous."

"Maybe, but that didn't deter you before." Jesse frowned as Hanzo laid the dishes on the ground, porcelain clanking against the stone floor. "You alright, Hanzo?"

Hanzo was quiet for a moment, biting at his bottom lip. "You would not have this opinion of me if you knew what I have done."

"You might be surprised. I've got some friends done some mighty questionable things." Jesse stood, rolling his shoulders and popping his back. He walked over to Hanzo, placing a hand on his shoulder. When Hanzo did not shove him away, Jesse led the other man to the bed, and they sat down. Jesse took one of Hanzo's hands in his, "Look, I'm no expert in these things, but talking about it might help."

"I suppose it cannot hurt. I can kill you if I must."

"Yeah, ya could."

"It was a joke."

"Sorry I didn't laugh."

"It was not funny, I suppose. My apologies."

"Ya don't gotta say sorry."

"I have already said it." Hanzo snorted at the ridiculousness of his situation. "I have... been here on this mountain for years, but I cannot remember how many. I did not keep track for some time. I am here because I disgraced my clan. The wolves have been in our family for generations, further back in our history than we can recount. They are exceptionally powerful, but it goes unsaid that their power is also dangerous. The wolves claw at our skin, our hearts, our minds. Lesser people find it easy to lose themselves to the beasts... I was young, foolish, reckless. I thought myself invincible, the wolves merely a tool to use as I pleased... I remember little but my brother's screams and the taste of his blood."

Jesse said not a word. He slung an arm around Hanzo's shoulders, pulling him close as tears prickled at his eyes. The werewolf sniffled, but he continued his story.

"I do not know why, but I killed him. Slowly. I killed others, but I do not remember how many. I know I killed him last. I-I destroyed him. I remember the sensation of his flesh tearing beneath my claws, his garbled pleas as he drowned in his own blood, how his hands beat at my chest slower and slower, weaker and weaker, until they stopped. He did not... He did not have a strong wolf. He could not defend himself.

"I ran. I was dead if I stayed. For years I convinced myself that I should have stayed to face my death, but I came here instead, and I convinced myself that I could lose myself completely to the beast, forget, become a mere animal of instinct and the natural order." Hanzo's tears bled through Jesse's shirt. The cowboy rubbed circles into Hanzo's back, but he said nothing. "I could not do so.

"This cave once belonged to bandits, foul men. The blacksmith lost his hand to them; Ana toiled for days to save his life and help him find some sort of replacement for his limb. He and his lumberjack friend were going to come into the forest and get revenge, but the bandits were dead when they arrived. The blacksmith wanted to kill me when he saw the blood on my muzzle, swearing and calling me a demon for stealing away his chance of revenge."

"Makes sense why Reinhardt calls you an angel, then."

"The blacksmith would have died had he tried to fight them, yes... The bandits were the first I killed here, and I simply did not stop. They call me the guardian of the forest, but it is a misnomer. I protect nothing. I am merely able to destroy anything which opposes me."

"I'm gonna argue that."

"Excuse me?"

Jesse bunched up the sleeve of his arm, exposing the scar that Belle had caused. "Don't suppose you made Belle knock it off when she got too rough. Don't suppose you ran off to get the doctor to patch me up either."

"That is something else entirely." Hanzo reached up, wiping away his tears to narrow his eyes at Jesse.

"Don't suppose you killed those bounty hunters just because they were annoying you."

"You misunderstand-."

"Don't suppose you came to me a few nights back with a rabbit in your maw 'cuz I'd missed a few meals and you were worried. Don't suppose you sidled right on up next to me when the cold air nipped through my bedroll to share all that furry warmth of yours."

"You are-."

"Don't suppose you sought me out in the middle of a blizzard to bring me back here so I wouldn't die of exposure."

"You speak too much."

"Hanzo, you're too hard on yourself. Yeah, ya did wrong, but that wasn't all your fault. You're doing your own way of right now, so... it counts for something. It's gotta." Hanzo suspected Jesse was speaking to the both of them.

"I apologize. You did not need to hear this."

"No, I did. And you're gonna listen to me. I ain't some seraph that came here just to destroy bear traps and help little old ladies with their herbs. So there ain't gonna be any of that sanctimonious bullshittery here. I was young, talking like early teens here, and I joined up with this gang all interested in witchcraft because I thought I was hot shit.

"Ended up killing, robbing, stealing, cheating, lying, wasting a good couple years with things that I really shouldn't've been doing. Had a demon imprint on me, got cursed, whole load of stuff. Well, we had a job going down that sounded easy as anything. We go on, whole thing seems fine until some vampire with two shotguns starts tearing up the joint. He killed the whole crew 'cept for me, something about me being a good shot and actually hitting him, and he gave me a deal. I either worked for him in the... less legal branch of that government thing or I went to spend the rest of my days in prison.

"So I just... you ain't alone. Alright?"

"I have not spoken to someone like this in years." Hanzo confessed, having wrapped his arms around Jesse while he was sharing his own tale.

"It help any?"

"Yes. Thank you, Jesse."

Hanzo wasn't sure when he and McCree started to hold hands. Which one of them had first laced their fingers together while they read side by side on the bed? He paused, momentarily distracted from his reading while examining their hands, their arms, the contrast of flawless, tattooed ivory and scarred, hairy acacia.

"Everything alright, Hanzo?" Jesse spoke, easily flipping pages with just his one hand, eyes never drifting from his book as if nothing was happening.

"Yes. Why?" Hanzo answered too quickly, unable to keep himself from clenching his hand around Jesse's.

"You ain't flipped pages in a while."

"It is a difficult chapter to read," he lied.

"Love confession or somethin'?"

"Or something."

"I'm here if you'd like to talk about it. Ain't gonna read it myself, so I ain't afraid of you spoiling nothin'."

"A gracious offer, but another time, perhaps." Hanzo couldn't focus. "In truth," he fibbed, "I am still curious about how your book ends."

"Oh. It's in my bag." Jesse released Hanzo's hand long enough for the werewolf to grab the book. Hanzo handed it over and settled close, resting his head on Jesse's shoulder. Jesse reached up, carding his fingers through Hanzo's dark hair. He cleared his throat and began to read.

"'To tell the truth, Jesse didn't think he deserved to be so lucky, shacked up with the prince, the worries that came with a bounty all washed away with honorary titles and other law mumbo jumbo he didn't much care about.'"

"Shacked up?"

"Colloquialism for sayin' they're lovers, livin' together and the like."

"It's utterly abhorrent... continue."

"You got it, darlin'. 'He buried his face into the prince's hair, smiling into the inky tresses as the prince stirred in his sleep. Damn, he was lucky. Lucky that he'd managed so much with his skill alone while it seemed like everyone around him was blessed by gods. Lucky that he'd snagged such good friends. Lucky that the prince was a big enough fool to think a relationship with an outlaw would end any type of well. It was a nice sentiment in any case, but the time for worry was far in the future. Now, he needed only to relax in his bed, sleepy arms around his lover, to know that his future was bright and the troubles he may face would be faced with the most powerful people in the kingdom at his side.'" Jesse flipped the page, confusion breaking into his voice. "What? That was it? What about the war with that spider bitch? What about the prince's missing brother? What about that stupid prophecy in chapter nine?"

"I thought it was fine." Hanzo murmured, smiling against Jesse's shoulder.

"They wasted the dragons... should've been in there longer."

"You would be disappointed by that, but you enjoyed the romance."

"They're a good couple!"

"Hmm..." Hanzo's eyes drooped.

"Hey, Hanzo?" Jesse's voice was soft, the hand in Hanzo's hair pausing in its caresses.

"Yes?"

"You... you know you're falling asleep on me, right?"

"Do you care?"

"No, guess I don't."

"Wonderful. Goodnight, Jesse."

"Sweet dreams, honeybee." Jesse pressed a kiss to the crown of Hanzo's head, laying back on the bed slowly, maneuvering them both into a more comfortable position. He tucked some of Hanzo's hair behind his ear, heart fluttering in his chest at the way Hanzo unconsciously followed his hand. "Shit, I'm the lucky one."

Hanzo awoke, his legs tangled around Jesse's, a strong arm wrapped around his back and pressing him closer, his face full of Jesse's chest. He did not mind the warmth, and it was nice to be close to another after so long. He allowed himself to stay for a moment, laying his cheek to Jesse's chest and listening to his heart beating. He was still tired, but he couldn't remember the last time he had gotten so much sleep.

It was almost enough to lull him back to sleep until the heartbeat stuttered and Hanzo's pillow shifted; Jesse was awake.

He slurred a sleepy, "Prettier th'n sin," rubbing circles into Hanzo's back with his thumb.

Hanzo fluttered his eyelids, feigning as if he had only just woken up. "Mmm... Jesse."

"What is it, darlin'?" Jesse yawned, groggily blinking to bring the world into focus.

Hanzo was unsure why he hadn't noticed before, but Jesse was quite handsome. What with his warm brown eyes and his shaggy hair and his purposefully unkempt beard and his easy little smiles and his-

"Hanzo, sweetpea? Somethin' wrong?"

Hanzo cupped Jesse's face, leading him gently into a kiss. If he pulled away, the archer would blame it on his fatigue. If he pulled away, Hanzo could make an excuse. If he pulled away, that was as clear an indication as any that Jesse was just a natural flirt.

He didn't pull away.

Instead, the hand that wasn't rubbing at Hanzo's back lifted enough to slide to the back of his head, grasp at his hair. His lips pressed back slowly, nervously, wondering if it was okay, hoping it was okay.

Hanzo parted them, and they shared a breath. "Let us sleep in today."

"Sounds good to me, sweetheart."

#jesse mccree #hanzo shimada #werewolf!hanzo #mchanzo #overwatch #my writing #CAN YOU TELL WHERE I GOT LAZY?#because I got very lazy #I really needed to work on schoolwork #but screw that mchanzo #fluff #i guess #some angst #idk how to tag anything #I had more ideas #but I really need to stop and work on school things now #also this is completely unedited #if you could not tell >.>

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nancygduarteus · 5 years

Text

If Legal Marijuana Leads to Murder, What’s Up in the Netherlands?

In 1971’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, a mescaline-infused Hunter S. Thompson and his benzedrine-addicted attorney infiltrate a police conference, where they are amused and appalled by the naiveté of the people charged with enforcing drug laws.

Thompson captures the tone with a fictionalized bulletin, “Know Your Dope Fiend,” that warns officers:

The Dope Fiend fears nothing. He will attack, for no reason, with every weapon at his command—including yours. Beware. Any officer apprehending a suspected marijuana addict should use all necessary force immediately. One stitch in time (on him) will usually save nine on you. Good luck.

At one point, Thompson convinces an oblivious district attorney from Georgia that when Dope Fiends attack, the only recourse is to chop off their heads. “Nobody’s safe. And sure as hell not in the South. They like the warm weather.”

“Jesus God almighty,” the officer responds. “What the hell’s goin’ on in this country?”

Today, the idea of marijuana causing a murderous rampage still sounds absurd to many users of small amounts of the drug. Drug abuse and addiction has slowly moved from being treated with disdain and punishment, and toward rehabilitation, harm reduction, and prevention. The medical establishment has moved, if glacially, toward embracing potential therapeutic properties of cannabis. There is less fear, less loathing—though still most doctors do not prescribe the drug, and most researchers are prohibited from studying it.

Which is why it was jolting to read echoes of these old tropes this week in The New Yorker, where the journalist Malcolm Gladwell makes the case that marijuana is not as safe as “we think.” The primary source of his criticism is a new book by the novelist and former New York Times reporter Alex Berenson, Tell Your Children: The truth about marijuana, mental illness, and violence.

The book is, by Berenson’s account in the prologue, “not balanced.” It is an argument—an accumulation of evidence to support a thesis and convince a reader of something. “Marijuana causes paranoia and psychosis. That fact is now beyond dispute,” Berenson writes. “Paranoia and psychosis cause violence. Overwhelming evidence links psychotic disorders and violence, especially murder.”

Berenson is forthcoming about his bias at the outset: “If you want to read about the way marijuana legalization will provide jobs, or anecdotes from people who believe that smoking cured their celiac disease, or discussions of the relative merits of indica and sativa strains, this book will disappoint you. Maybe I’m too cynical, but I believe most people smoke marijuana for the same reason they drink alcohol or use any other drug: because they like to get high.”

Gladwell distills the argument still further, and the end result is paragraphs like this:

Berenson looks, too, at the early results from the state of Washington, which, in 2014, became the first U.S. jurisdiction to legalize recreational marijuana. Between 2013 and 2017, the state’s murder and aggravated-assault rates rose forty per cent—twice the national homicide increase and four times the national aggravated-assault increase. We don’t know that an increase in cannabis use was responsible for that surge in violence. Berenson, though, finds it strange that, at a time when Washington may have exposed its population to higher levels of what is widely assumed to be a calming substance, its citizens began turning on one another with increased aggression.

We don’t know—that’s true. Science can’t prove a negative. But this is innuendo, the public-intellectual equivalent of just sayin’. Innumerable factors go into homicide rates. One of the strongest predictors is income inequality, for example, which was increasing in Washington during that period; the state now has the 10th biggest gap in the country. If marijuana legalization accounted for increased murder rates, Amsterdam wouldn’t be among the be a much deadlier place to live. As it is, the homicide rate in the Netherlands is one fifth as high as it is in the U.S.

The article sparked backlash against Gladwell for, among other issues, the implication of causation from correlation and the apparent inconsideration of the political context into which the argument is introduced—one of mass incarceration, where millions of American lives have been upended not by consuming marijuana but by having some in their pocket.

Berenson does acknowledge the role of racism in drug legislation and enforcement. He covered the pharmaceutical industry while at the Times, then left a decade ago to write fantasy novels. But he threw his hat back into the ring with this book, which he says is the result of crawling down a rabbit hole of evidence after a conversation with his wife, a psychiatrist, who told him accurately that it’s well known that marijuana can cause psychosis.

I read the book this week. It argues that we are in the midst of a dangerous cannabis-driven psychosis epidemic: “The epidemic isn’t coming. It’s here.” Berenson describes murders, in detail, committed by people with schizophrenia or acute psychosis. He went to Colorado and combed through homicide records looking for evidence of marijuana involvement. In one case, he visited Bent County Correctional Facility and spoke to a teary inmate named Richard Kirk, who murdered his wife and claims that it was because he’d just eaten “a nibble” of an edible called Karma Kandy Orange Ginger. After the nibble, Kirk drove home, opened his safe, took out his pistol, and shot her.

Berenson takes Kirk’s account pretty much at face value, concluding that the man “existed at the center of the Venn diagram of three great American maladies—opiate abuse, financial stress, and easy access to firearms. But he’d lived there for years and never been violent, not until he ate a bite of Kandy Karma Orange Ginger.”

Vivid as the anecdotes are, the strongest part of Berenson’s argument is a 2017 review by the National Academy of Medicine, “The Health Effects of Cannabis and Cannabinoids,” which Gladwell also references. These reviews tend to be the “gold standard” for getting everyone in the medical field on the same page about how research should translate into practice. They bring together groups of experts and go through all the evidence they can, and distill it for doctors who can’t possibly keep up. In this case thousands of studies that became a nearly 500-page report.

In the good-news category, Berenson notes, there was no clear association between marijuana and lung cancer. (He does not mention the “conclusive or substantial evidence that cannabis or cannabinoids are effective for the treatment of chronic pain, chemotherapy-induced nausea and vomiting, and multiple sclerosis spasticity symptoms” or the “moderate evidence” that the they are effective for improving sleep in people with sleep apnea syndrome, fibromyalgia, and chronic pain.)

Berenson focuses on the report’s finding that there is “substantial evidence of a statistical association between cannabis use and the development of schizophrenia or other psychoses.” Though, again, it also found “a statistical association between cannabis use and better cognitive performance among individuals with psychotic disorders,” and “moderate evidence of no statistical association between cannabis use and worsening of negative symptoms of schizophrenia.”

The report does not discuss violent behavior specifically, which requires another leap. Berenson argues that if marijuana can cause psychotic breaks from reality, and psychotic people are more inclined to violence, marijuana is a cause of violence.

This is where he and Gladwell lose and upset some experts. Berenson specifically takes issue with the National Alliance on Mental Illness’s famous assertion that people with mental illness are more likely to be the victims than perpetrators of violence. “Those statements are deeply misleading,” he writes, claiming that the subset of mentally ill people with schizophrenia are much more likely than average to be violent.

Yasmin Hurd, the director of the Addiction Institute at Mount Sinai School of Medicine, works on figuring out who is prone to addiction and why. She is among the small number of U.S. scientists who have authorization to study marijuana. “There is nothing to support that marijuana legalization has increased murder rates,” she told me. “The association between schizophrenia and marijuana use is nothing new. Early use of THC, especially in high concentrations, is associated with psychosis and schizophrenia. That has been studied a lot. But schizophrenic people are not the ones committing murders. Trying to put a mental-health disorder as the explanation for murder rates—that is incorrect and should not have a platform.”

Hurd also emphasizes, contrary to Berenson, that marijuana remains a promising alternative to minimize opioid use and dependence. “I’ve studied cannabidiol and found that it does have beneficial effects in reducing opioid use,” she says.

The consensus is that, yes, for most people, there is such thing as too much marijuana. In some cases, using too much can have severe consequences that many people could benefit from taking more seriously. There are documented instances in which people have been driven to violence by marijuana, though what Berenson describes mostly seem to be cases where marijuana use is heavy over the course of many years—which could itself be a result rather than a cause of a psychosocial problem.

In these and the other cases in which an occasional user ended up in a psychotic episode or violent fit, it seems mostly that the marijuana does the final unleashing. As with any drug that lowers inhibitions, marijuana is much less likely to bring forth an entirely new person than it is to expose the nature of a person formed over a lifetime of input and environmental exposures and genetic proclivities. Violence is always a multifactorial end-point.

Gladwell makes the same basic point: “The experience of most users is relatively benign and predictable; the experience of a few, at the margins, is not. Products or behaviors that have that kind of muddled risk profile are confusing, because it is very difficult for those in the benign middle to appreciate the experiences of those at the statistical tails.” Those outliers, if you will, are where the headlines are made. They are the focus of both writers’ arguments. But they’re also the heart of the problem these arguments face in the first place: The question of exactly how muddled that risk profile actually is makes it impossible to say whether marijuana is “more dangerous than we believe.”

That’s also the straw man in the room: the assumption that most people believe marijuana just makes you laugh and gives you munchies. Berenson goes as far as writing, “no one disputes that occasional use of marijuana by people over 25 is generally safe.” In fact, the U.S. government still treats cannabis as extremely dangerous, among the most dangerous drugs. It is one of only a few schedule one substances—the most forbidden category, along with heroin and LSD, “for which there is no accepted medical use.” Meanwhile cocaine, Dilaudid, and methamphetamine are down in schedule two.

The punishment for possession has long reflected this idea of danger, in which the criminal justice system has treated marijuana similarly to carrying a bomb. Hundreds of thousands of Americans are still arrested every year for marijuana possession, and the penalty can mean a loss of livelihood, housing, and basic freedom. This is not yet a substance that society takes lightly, despite state-level moves toward decriminalization and legalization.

The feeling of being lashed back and forth by this book and the outcry over the Gladwell piece reminds me that science and medicine are rarely well served by writing in argument form. To do so well is compelling, and reading contrarianism is addictive. But an arguments’ job is to undermine, downplay, or ignore contradicting evidence. Gladwell and Berenson offer no stories of anyone who has a positive relationship to the drug. By the end, I found myself questioning even my own experiences, in which I’ve mostly just laughed with friends about nothing. Though there was one night in Colorado when I ate a brownie and went back to my hotel room and became convinced that someone had followed me and was hovering just outside my door. I kept the lights out, and I sat on the floor next to the bed, and I ate an entire jar of almond butter.

I wasn’t deeply scared; some part of me knew it wasn’t real. If I had been another person, though—one more given to paranoia, who hadn’t been raised in a safe home by loving parents, and who was in possession of many firearms and had many sworn enemies, would I have opened fire through the door? I suppose it’s possible.

If there is anything on which there is unanimous agreement about marijuana, it is that we need to study it more. This did not happen for decades because it was regarded by regulatory agencies as an irrefutable evil, a dangerous vice that, if you were found possessing it, should ruin your career and rob you of your freedom. One stitch in time (on him) will usually save nine on you. This is the narrative that such articles and books feed.

The pendulum has been swinging away from that, and even Berenson believes decriminalization is the way to go. But whether it is legalized or decriminalized, if it’s going to be used medically, as a drug, it should go through the same process of clinical trials as other drugs: looking for side effects and attempting to discern proper dosages and delivery mechanisms, populations in which it is most likely to be effective and most likely to have drawbacks, and so forth. All of this information is severely limited by the fact that studying marijuana has been illegal for most researchers and remains heavily restricted.

The fear-and-loathing narrative conflating marijuana and murder, Hurd worries, does nothing to stem abuse. Nor is it good for promoting further research: “It makes a huge difference. Many people who are making the decisions about funding going to NIH and other organization will now say we should have a moratorium on a drug that increases murder. Why would we want to do that and put people’s lives at risk? That’s why it’s dangerous to make these broad, unsubstantiated, and factually incorrect statements.”

from Health News And Updates https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2019/01/marijuana-murder-gladwell/579949/?utm_source=feed

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