John's body does not want to maintain this human shape. He is confined by the rigidity of human knees and ankles, the clumsy marionette movements of human feet. He wants to coil across the grass, sweep forward weightless in his splendor—
He can't. He won't. These are Arthur's legs, and he loves them. John turns his focus instead to the wolf.
"Jack, it's me. John Doe." He splays his hands the way he has seen Arthur do, that peaceful gesture of open palms. He is breathless and dazed by moonlight, his voice urgent and low. "I... I don't know if you can understand me. But I am a friend. You should not be out here alone—"
He catches a raw glimpse of the carnage behind the wolf, and his voice falters. His hands flinch into dark claws, and John does not know how to turn them back. But he steadies his voice, and tries again:
no subject
He can't. He won't. These are Arthur's legs, and he loves them. John turns his focus instead to the wolf.
"Jack, it's me. John Doe." He splays his hands the way he has seen Arthur do, that peaceful gesture of open palms. He is breathless and dazed by moonlight, his voice urgent and low. "I... I don't know if you can understand me. But I am a friend. You should not be out here alone—"
He catches a raw glimpse of the carnage behind the wolf, and his voice falters. His hands flinch into dark claws, and John does not know how to turn them back. But he steadies his voice, and tries again:
"Come back with me."