Chapter Text
Seven months before the ladder truck bombing, Buck went to Haven one night. A place named for the sanctuary it represented for werewolves. He didn’t keep a regular schedule. It was more a necessity, an urge to run, to feel like he was part of a pack even though he knew that wasn’t true.
Despite the dozens of wolves playing and resting nearby, Buck always felt lonely. Making friends in this form wasn’t easy. He wondered if bitten wolves across the board had trouble connecting, or if he was alone in this.
But that night, two beautiful wolves approached him. He expected them to pick a fight, like so many others often did. Instead, they were curious. Playful. It confused him so much he left the area, intending to get away from their weirdness, only to realize they were tracking him.
Annoyed, he stopped in the middle of the trail, turned, and plopped down to wait them out.
It didn’t take long before one emerged. His coat was a mosaic of storm-gray, bone-white, and streaks of black—a coloring Buck had never seen before. Glacial blue eyes peered at him, watching. Waiting.
Buck huffed. Apparently, that was all the wolf needed.
He padded forward, tail neutral but posture open, friendly. Still, Buck stayed on edge. Where was the other wolf?
Mosaic, as Buck came to call him, stopped in front of him, his scent hitting Buck like a freight train.
Buck closed his eyes and inhaled as deeply as his lungs would allow. The scent was clean, with a metallic edge. Like rain hitting pavement after a dry spell. Beneath that was a grounding warmth. Cedar, maybe. Something old and steady. It reminded Buck of a protective shelter during a thunderstorm.
His eyes shot open at the soft press of a muzzle against his own. Mosaic’s eyes were closed, as if inhaling Buck’s scent just as greedily.
Then, the second wolf appeared on the trail behind Mosaic, silent and graceful. His coat was a soft wash of silver and gray. Pale, like snow at sunrise. A ghost under moonlight.
He came to stand beside Mosaic, who pulled away from Buck just enough to sit next to him, still close.
Ghost, as Buck named the second wolf, carried a warmer, richer scent. Textured. Sunlit fabric or an old book cracked open in summer. Comfort with an edge. Buck envisioned someone sharp-tongued, maybe a little angry, but intensely loyal.
I want to be his. Both of theirs.
A wild thought, intrusive and strange. He ignored it. Unable to decipher it.
During the following months, the trio grew to resemble a friendship.
They did not exchange identities. Haven’s rules were strict. Shifters entered and left in wolf form. It kept the place safe from outsiders not welcome.
To meet beyond Haven, wolves scented each other’s braided token and left it with the guards. If both wolves did the same, Haven’s secure system matched their scent signatures to their encrypted usernames, which granted them the option to connect online.
Buck never shared his, and neither did they. He wasn’t sure why, but perhaps Haven was the only place he could feel wanted by them. If they met outside, in the “real world,” it would complicate things. Maybe they’d realize he wasn’t worth knowing and disappear from his life.
Before he could spiral over the matter, the truck bombing occurred, and it seemed like his life had crumbled. Being trapped under that truck, body trying to heal but unable to because of the crushing weight, Buck experienced a new kind of violation.
Healing had always been automatic. Something he had never felt before. But this time, he had. His body fought to knit itself back together but failed to do so again and again, causing more pain the longer he lay under that truck.
He questioned whether the long recovery was because of the sheer size of his injury, or the repeated, agonizing sensation of his body failing to heal itself. Afraid it might hinder the healing process, he hadn’t shifted at all since before then.
Then came his recertification, which he passed with flying colors. His return to work on the horizon. But the blood clot delayed everything.
The doctors said his survival was a miracle. Maddie warned him to take it easy. She asked how he hadn’t known something was wrong and he almost told her the truth. He thought about his time in Montana, the bite, and what he had become. He hadn’t known something was wrong because his body had felt wrong since the bombing. But fear stopped him. He feared she’d see the bite as just another reckless mistake.
So he continued to keep his secret from everyone he loved, unable to trust that they would still love him.
Then the tsunami hit. Bobby wouldn’t let him back. And Buck, desperate and spiraling, filed a lawsuit against the department.
It was hell.
But he endured.
When he finally returned to the 118, he planned to make things right. To belong again. He tried to mend things, to show them he didn’t mean for the lawsuit to get out of hand, that he only wanted to return to the one place he ever felt like he belonged.
All he received were cold shoulders.
After two weeks of that, he couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to shift. Needed to be in a form that felt lighter. If his wolves were there? Even better.
By the time Buck reached Haven, the sun had long since set. He passed through the disguised checkpoint, entered his access code at the panel, and waited for the gate to open.
The dirt road beyond led to a second, much taller gate—at least twenty feet—connected to a wall just as high. The keypad beside it reminded Buck of the kind found outside LA’s wealthiest homes. He punched in his code again and waited for the red light to blink green, then drove into an enclosed underground garage.
Once the gate sealed shut behind him, he cut the engine and placed his keys on the dash. He opened the glove-box, tucked away his phone and wallet, and pulled out his token and slipped it over his head, making sure it hung loose enough for the shift.
He stepped out, stripped, and arranged his clothes in the passenger seat.
The shift hit hard and fast. Painful after months without practice. When it passed, Buck stretched, wincing as his bad leg protested but held with a minor ache.
He padded to the wall and pressed the button with his paw.
The rolling door lifted after a pause, revealing two masked guards in human form. Their gear neutralized scent and identity. One guard departed in his jeep, while the other turned and led him into the earth-packed tunnel on the other side of the garage.
Their soft steps echoed through the tunnel, which stretched for fifteen quiet minutes. The air grew denser and older as they walked, the kind of air where scents lingered. Buck detected traces of moss, earth, sweat, and old joy—memories woven into the dirt.
Finally, the tunnel opened into a wide expanse of forest, a space meant for hunting, running, and resting, whether alone or together. Buck hesitated just beyond the threshold and thought about going to their usual spot.
He scented the air but came back with nothing.
Disappointment tugged at his chest. Instead of risking it, he turned toward the main clearing.
The closer he got, the more sounds his ears picked up. Excitement thrummed under his skin even though his wolves were likely not present.
He reached the clearing, hanging near the treeline as he watched dozens of wolves. Some were playing, some resting, and others watching and taking it all in.Something settled inside him at being among his kind again.
He circled the area, scanning, searching, hoping. But no Mosaic or Ghost.
So he found a spot on the edge and laid down, content to watch but sad he could never engage. Not without putting his safety at risk.
He was bigger than most. Taller. His fur a thick black, threaded with faint silver on his chest and belly. His eyes glowed icy blue under the moonlight. Intimidating, he knew. It never helped.
Approaching others had never gone well. And when others approached him, it usually meant a challenge. The typical egotistical wolf trying to impress their friends or a potential mate. Haven did not restrict fighting. Their instincts drove them to mark and claim, which could incite conflict. But they drew the line at outright maiming.
Mosaic and Ghost had been different. Gentle. Soft. The only time Buck could remember being approached by another wolf without feeling threatened.
He missed them. Six months apart caused a sharp ache in his chest. At first, he didn’t understand it. He thought it was because he couldn’t work. But, dreams soon filled with the wolves and their scents. The ache worsened when he woke and realized he couldn’t see them.
He rested his head on his paws, trying not to feel bitter. Trying not to let his brain convince him they likely didn’t even notice his absence. That they were fine without him and the ache he felt was one-sided.
Despite Buck’s intention to stay awake, the sleepless nights since returning to the 118 had taken their toll, and he found himself drifting in and out of sleep.
A sudden and rough nudge jolted him awake some time later. His lips curled, and a growl filled his chest as he opened his eyes to see a strange wolf standing over him. Ears high, tail raised, hackles up. Behind him, another lurked in the shadows, excitement gleaming in its eyes.
Buck saw the challenge and sighed inwardly, not wanting to fight, especially not tonight. He rose slowly, his full height easily exceeding the other two, but they remained undeterred.
The lead wolf stepped sideways, corralling Buck into the open, into an easier position to attack. He laid his ears flat, snarling as harshly as he could, wanting to come off as dangerous as he looked, hoping to scare them away.
However, the gleam in their eyes revealed their determination to continue. For them, this was a game, a performance intended for the others to witness. Though surrounded by numerous wolves, no one intervened; instead, they watched intently.
It shouldn’t have hurt that no one came to his defense, but it did. He didn’t belong to anyone. Not in his human life and not here.
Buck snarled a warning, but the other wolves ignored him. The lead wolf lunged, snapping at his front paws, and Buck dodged. Then, the second wolf barreled into him, sending him skidding across the foliage-covered ground. Buck rolled and twisted at an uncomfortable angle, sending a jolt of pain down his bad leg.
He scrambled to his feet, teeth bared, his heart pounding. Anger surged through him, fueled by his isolation during recovery. He was angry at Bobby for keeping him from his job, at Maddie for treating him like her immature younger brother, at Eddie for yelling at him and now ignoring him, at Chimney for the passive-aggressive remarks, and at Hen for her silent observation of it all.
The wolves pounced, and they collided in a flash of jaws. Buck fought back, but the second wolf knocked his feet out from under him, sending him to the ground again. A yelp escaped Buck as he landed on his bad leg, the pain flaring brighter, and he worried he might have injured it further.
He struggled back to his feet, breathing heavily, his body sore and tired. The two wolves circled again, slower this time but still predatory. Outmatched, he refused to back down, to roll over and submit—not to them, not to anyone. He growled low, bracing for another attack.
Everything stopped abruptly when a deep, furious, commanding howl cut through the night, silencing every wolf in the clearing, even the nightlife.
Another howl answered. Higher, shaper. Just as furious.
Wolves flattened themselves on the ground, making themselves smaller. The two attacking Buck, dropped their ears, searching for the source of the howls.
He didn’t know what was happening, didn’t quite understand the reactions of the others because to him, the howls were like a song pulling at him, soothing him, letting him know he wasn’t alone.
From the corner of his eye, two blurs of motion emerged from the treeline.
Mosaic slammed into one attacker, dragging him away into the brush by a hind leg with a snarl that made the entire clearing tremble.
Ghost flattened the other, the lead wolf, who’d rolled onto his back in full submission under Ghost’s snarl. Buck watched, confused but in awe. His wolves had come.
One last warning growl and snap in the lead wolf’s face sent him scurrying off, past Mosaic, who’d re-emerged from the treeline, smug with his tail and head held high as he trotted over.
Ghost’s fur was still bristling, tension coiled tight in his shoulders, but when those bright eyes filled with fury landed on Buck, his whole body softened.
Mosaic reached Buck first, rubbing his scent along Buck’s jaw. He didn’t even question the gesture as he closed his eyes and nuzzled back, feeling whole for the first time in months. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know Ghost had joined them, flanking Buck’s other side, keeping him protected between them and rubbing his scent on Buck as well.
They were marking him. Claiming him. He belonged to them. And their notion told every single wolf in the clearing that if they were ever to mess with Buck again, there’d be hell to pay.
He breathed a sigh of relief, something settling in him as he greedily took in their scents again.
When they pulled back, Mosaic tilted his head in question. Let’s go, he seemed to say. Buck stepped forward and then faltered, his leg giving out on him. Mosaic steadied him. Ghost’s eyes studied Buck, looking for the problem, and zeroed in on how Buck’s back leg hovered above the ground. He snarled, his eyes darting to the treeline where the wolves disappeared. He stepped forward, but Buck ducked under Ghost’s chin, pressing close, showing he didn’t want them to leave.
The tension in Ghost’s body evaporated and a contented sound filled his chest as he sagged against Buck.
The two wolves flanked Buck as they walked towards their spot, their shoulders bumping and their muzzles occasionally brushing against his. This proximity and support brought him a happiness he hadn’t felt in months.
Far from the noise and bustle of the other woods, their little oasis offered a stark contrast. This significantly smaller clearing featured a pond and exceptionally soft grass, which led Buck to believe he’d be comfortable even in human form. Exhausted from the fight and the other stresses in his life, Buck quickly settled down.
Mosaic, equally eager for rest, soon lay beside him, drawing close.
Ghost circled the area, making sure they were safe and alone before he joined. He didn’t lie down right away; instead, inspected Buck’s leg. It was fine. Maybe a little sore, and he’d probably have to take it easy the next few days, but overall it was fine. Ghost whined softly when he saw the long white scar climbing up Buck’s leg and nosed gently at it. It wasn’t like Buck could really explain, so he nipped playfully at Ghost’s tail. He looked at Buck with an unimpressed stare but conceded and finally laid down.
Mosaic nosed at Buck’s face, conveying a question he couldn’t quite articulate. Willing to give him whatever he desired, Buck closed his eyes and leaned in, hoping this was the answer.
A moment later, Mosaic began to groom him. It might have seemed strange, as another wolf had never groomed Buck before, nor had he ever experienced such care. However, the action was soothing, and the tension in his body ebbed away. When Ghost rested his head between Buck’s shoulder blades, Buck lowered his own. For the first time in months, he felt safe and wanted.
As the night passed, and the sun began to rise, they understood it was time to depart. Buck, however, had one final task: he needed to make a request, even if it was likely to be denied.
He nudged the tokens hanging around their necks with his nose. The wolves then exchanged a look that conveyed the depth of their shared history. This display of familiarity sparked a pang of jealousy in Buck, a feeling he swiftly concealed as they turned their attention back to him.
Ghost lifted his head in invitation, and Buck’s tail wagged as he rubbed his sent onto the token. He lifted his head in return as Ghost did the same. Then, he and Mosaic repeated the gesture.
They walked back to the tunnel together, and a guard led Buck back through it and to the carport where his jeep was brought in. He shifted back, dressed, and then placed the token in a box that the guard would check after he left and do whatever it was to send a scent ping to the other two wolves through the website. Then he headed home.
Having momentarily forgotten the harsh realities of the 118, he now found the joy of the night evaporating, replaced by a familiar melancholy. He was returning to an empty apartment, where his phone would remain silent. The next morning would bring the silent treatment or the subtle jabs disguised as jokes at work.
The only solace he could find was the prospect of scent-matching with Mosaic and Ghost. He clung to this hope throughout the drive home, wishing for a future that included them more prominently.