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In Wolf's Clothing

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This was, frankly, embarrassing. Downright embarrassing. He got caught as if he was still in his first century. Holy water, of all things. Steve would have a laugh.

He was locked down in a cell now, cuffed, left alone for now. He wasn't sure why they kept him alive, and he wasn't planning on staying long enough to find out. He eyed the handcuffs with irritation. His wrists hurt—the cuffs were laced with silver, so maybe it wasn't amateurs he was dealing with—but then, just laced wasn't enough to really stop him. Hurt and annoy, yes, and they succeeded at that. The lock in the door was digital, though. As if they didn't know just whom they caught.

Well. All the better for him.

Tony hated hunters.

He steeled himself for the pain, and pulled his hands away from each other, as fast and strong as he could. His wrists hurt where the cuffs bit further into them, but the chain between them broke. Good enough, for now. He would have a headache, but at least he had his mobility back. The digital lock was child's play and not a second later he was free.

As free as he might be in the middle of a hunters' den, at least. Even such lousy ones.

He squinted against the bright light in the corridor. He preferred the darkness of the cell. He was hungry; it must've been over a day since he last drank. Not good, but something he could fix the moment he saw one of these hunters.

He turned sharply to the left when he heard yells. Might as well start there.

He walked slowly. He wasn't sure who or what made the people there scream; it was possible he didn't want to meet that creature.

He was almost at door from where the yelling came when everything went almost deadly silent. He cautiously peeked inside, and saw the back of a giant white wolf.

Tony froze.

(Later, he'd be furious at himself; because if there was an angry werewolf nearby, and you were as weak as Tony was at that moment, you ran.)

The wolf—the werewolf—growled. Tony couldn't move. There was blood everywhere—the wolf clearly didn't agree with the hunters either—and Tony desired it, he needed it, he—

There was nothing stopping the werewolf from killing Tony too. Tony should bloody—bad choice of words—move already. But he knew it was too late anyway.

The werewolf turned in Tony's direction. Tony tilted his head. He could stare it in the eyes, at least, not cower in fear. Except . . . Blue eyes. Weirdly familiar. Before Tony could process this thought, the werewolf jumped at him, and Tony only remembered to cover his face before his back hit the floor, hard.

In the next moment, he thought he was hallucinating, because it felt like the werewolf was nuzzling at him, licking at his face and snuffling his arms, as if checking for injuries.

Tony frowned and put two and two together.

“. . . Steve?” he asked, a bit tentatively. He'd never seen Steve's wolf form—Steve was older than him, used to keeping it private, and Tony, well, Tony never really asked, afraid of the answer. He should have asked, he thought now. It's possible Steve would've refused, but—Tony should've asked.

The wolf growled again, but it sounded amused this time. There was a sudden shift, and then Steve stood there, naked and strong and glorious. He pulled Tony to his feet effortlessly.

“You didn't recognize me? Really?” he asked. “I'm not sure if I should feel insulted or never stop laughing.”

Tony pouted. “It's the first time.”

“No sense of smell? No, hm, my boyfriend is a werewolf, and now there's a werewolf killing the hunters that kidnapped me, funny accident, that . . .

“You're terrible,” Tony decided. “And first things first. Do you have keys to these?”

Steve frowned as Tony raised his hands, still in the silver cuffs, but quickly searched the hunters. He smiled, just a bit feral, as he raised a pair of keys. He quickly opened the cuffs, and Tony rubbed at his wrists immediately. The burns would disappear once he got some blood, and while he was on that topic . . . “Also, I haven't drunk in a day. Forgive me if my observational skills aren't up to the task right now.”

Steve's expression momentarily shifted to worried. “They kept you dry?” He cursed. “How are you still standing?”

“I'm pretty resilient. Couldn't let my boyfriend worry, could I.” But his hands hurt, his head hurt even worse, and the room was moving around them in a way Tony knew couldn't be real.

The blood, the dead blood on the floor was dangerously tempting. He shook his head to clear it.

Steve unceremoniously put his wrist to Tony's mouth.

“No,” Tony said.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“It'll hurt you!” Werewolves hated being bitten. It meant more for them than for humans. Most of them would rather die than let a vampire bite them. Tony couldn't—

“You'll fall down in about five seconds,” Steve said. “Drink.”

He could hear Steve's heartbeat, steady and strong. He could feel the blood in his veins; foreign, not quite human—but human enough, hot, giving life—

He bit him, his teeth easily ripping Steve's flesh; made sure to drink every drop he spilt. It was heady, almost intoxicating.

He forced himself to move away soon—too soon, really—but for all that he loved the blood, that it was helping, he couldn't push away the knowledge that he was hurting Steve.

“Thank you,” he muttered, not looking at him.

“You're welcome.” Steve didn't sound bothered. He stepped to Tony and hugged him tight, as if to keep him safe. “Sorry for scaring you,” Steve said, but Tony could say he was grinning. “Not sorry for coming to get you.”

Tony nodded against his chest. Steve always ran hot. Even naked as he was now, he was warmer than Tony, and Tony enjoyed it; his own body cold as ice.

“Let's get you out of here,” Steve said after a while. He lifted Tony in his arms before Tony could react, but—it was nice. Warm. Tony's senses were still trying to catch up to the blood he'd just ingested. Walking would be hard.

“Okay,” Tony allowed. “Just this once.”

Steve pressed a kiss to the top of Tony's head and started walking.