Bigby and Johnny, this evening

[om_pyro]

Bigby finds out he has a half-wolf form the hard way when some punks start mouthing off. Cops get involved. Bigby loses. John blows things up.

Warnings: Law enforcement, violence, racism, homophobic slurs.

So, Bigby had passed the private investigator exam. He’d honestly been...kinda surprised. As much as he’d studied and worked towards it, he hadn’t thought it would work so well. So much of his life lately seemed to be finally coming together, going somewhere in a way he never thought it would, that there were times he caught himself waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But, Bigby wasn’t thinking about that right now. Right now, he was thinking about John’s hand in his and an evening out celebrating the passed exam. He smiled at the thought and gave John’s hand a squeeze. Then, thinking better of it, he leaned up to give his cheek a quick kiss. “Thanks for coming out with me.”

"Nowhere I'd rather be," John practically chirped, tightening the fingers laced through Bigby's and well pleased with the open display of affection. He knew it was a good day when those started happening--not that they weren't usually affectionate, but PDAs were another thing.

Bigby chuckled, “Nowhere, huh?” The thought made him feel warm, and he tugged on John’s hand to pull him just a little bit closer.

"Mmm-mmm." John shook his head and squeezed Bigb'y hand. "Nowhere in the world."

The street was crowded, but not pushy, like it sometimes got--anyhow John could see over most peoples' heads easily. Including Bigby's, which was adorable. Big bad little wolf. He had a little smile on his face when someone bumped into his shoulder. "Whoop, sorry mate."

The someone--a college-aged boy, blonde-haired and blue-eyed and wearing a starch collared pink shirt--glared at them. “Watch it, fag.”

Bigby went stiff shouldered. He couldn’t tell you what made him angrier, the slur or the threat directed at John. Looking back, he saw the college boy directing a smirking sneer right at them. He growled.

John loved that sound--even more than he loved fucking with idiots for the sheer fun of it. He paused and stared pink-shirt down. "Or else what, little guy? Hate for your friends to see you get your arse handed to you by a fag. Which, by the way, you're not allowed to say. I mean, I am, but you're not. Unless you're queer. Are you queer? If so, you're a disgrace."

The boy looked surprised that they’d said anything back, then angry. He stepped in closer, posture threatening. “You’re the disgrace. Holding hands with fucking Bin Laden.”

Bigby rolled his eyes. Like he hadn’t heard that gem before. This one was a real beacon of originality, wasn’t he? “Fuck off.”

"Homophobic and racist!" John still smiled, but his fingers were twitching in the general direction of his pocket. Where he kept his lighter. "Well, don't you just tick all the douchebag boxes!"

“I’ll show you a douchebag,” the boy said, and drew back a fist.

All Bigby saw was the first go back, and white-hot anger rolled over him in a rush. He reacted instantly, snarling as put himself between the boy and John. He felt himself start to force shift, the crack of bones, the sprouting of fur, and he tried to grab ahold of it, tried to pull it back. But it kept coming, feeling this time though, feeling nothing like it had ever before.

Didn't look like it, either. John had seen Bigby's wolf over and over--he was fond of using him as a pillow, for Christ's sake. This was--not the wolf. This was something halfway, a man who had one wolf parent, a wolf who'd somehow become bipedal. Bigby's arms, instead of cracking and shifting into front legs, grew longer, stringier, claws at the end of them, hair sprouting all over. His eyes flashed that hot amber color, almost the exact opposite of his usual silver-blue cool shade.

Bigby had become, quite literally, the wolf-man.

John had just been doing his usual, mouthing off to get a reaction, fully expecting to get hit--or at least threatened with it. He had failed utterly to take into account his protective, wolfy boyfriend, however. Lighter forgotten, he grabbed for Bigby's arm and said, "Whooaaaa there, big bad wolf. S'okay."

Which was when he noticed Douchebag stumbling back into his friends. "Holy shit man! Holy shit, you fucking freak! Dude! Run!"

Bigby’s ears flicked back toward John at his voice, but he didn’t move from watching the boys runaway. At another press of John’s fingers, he finally looked over at him, then down at his hands. They were clawed, and covered in fur. How the hell...? What the hell? This had never happened before. “I’m sorry, I tried to stop it,” he said. The words came out of his mouth sounding gruffer than usual in the mess of fanged teeth.

The people all around them were talking about them, loudly, not even trying to hide it. Bigby could hear some of them backing away, shoes stumbling on concrete.

John ignored everyone else--because fuck them--and took Bigby's half-wolfy hands. "You did stop it," he pointed out. "Just--right in the middle. How...?"

“I don’t know. It’s never happened before.” Bigby was relieved though. Better this than a wolf. Even with all the training he’d done, being forced to shift still made the wolf instincts hard to control. Being out in public, around John, when he turned into an angry, hungry wolf was not an ideal.

Bigby glanced at his hands in John’s. “I just need a second.” He needed to focus. He needed to relax.

John had never seen Bigby like this, confused or uncertain, and it made him feel... things. Angry at those boys, angry enough to blow things up and send them running. Not so much scared, but--concerned, maybe, for Bigby. And for the moment, that overrode the rest. John kept his hold and said, "S'okay, Bigby. Take it. Ignore 'em and do what you gotta do."

Bigby nodded. He drew in and let out a slow breath. It was easier to clamp down the anger that had forced him to shift with John’s voice a reassuring murmur, with his hands in his own. He felt himself shifting back, bones twisting back, claws retracting, and fur melting away. He looked down at his hands when it had finished, and then back to John.

“You okay?”

"Fine." John waved it off. "But you? I mean, did that--hurt?"

“Nah,” Bigby answered with a shake of his head and gave John’s hands a reassuring squeeze. “No more than it usually does. It was just surprising. You think you’ve got a handle on your mutation...”

"Hate for that to happen with mine," John said with a giggle, still holding Bigby's hands. That had freaked him right now, thinking it might hurt or put Bigby in danger, and though he was getting used to being concerned for someone else, it was still, well, stressful.

He opened his mouth to say something else when footsteps came pounding around the corner. "You two! Mutants! Hands in the air!"

Bigby turned and immediately stepped in front of John. Two polices officers stood only a few feet away, their guns drawn and pointed. Behind them, were the group of boys. One of the officers, bald and broad-shouldered, glanced back at them.

“Which one was it, son?”

“The short one!” The boy who had started this whole fucking thing pointed right at Bigby. “He turned into a monster, and tried to attack us!”

The police officer redirected his gun, aiming at Bigby, and barked, “You! Put your hands up!”

"Hey, now, we didn't do anything!" John squared his shoulders and set his jaw. He could feel it already, that tiny flare-up inside him that wanted out. Not good, he knew it was not good, but he couldn't want it gone, either. That was power, and they were gonna need some power. Fascist pigs. "These were the assholes who started a fight! We avoided it!"

The police officer didn’t even acknowledge that John had spoken. “I said--Put your hands up!” The other officer, a near identical for the first, added, “We’re warning you!”

Bigby slowly put his hands up. He could smell anger on them, and fear, and he didn’t trust them. Whatever they might do, he’d probably be able to walk away from it, but John might not. He glanced back at his boyfriend, expression what he hoped looked more reassuring than grim. “It’s alright.”

“Step forward!” the first officer shouted. “Keep your hands in the air!”

John was practically spitting, he was so angry. "Hey, watch where you're pointing that gun! Why just him, why not me?"

"This kid do anything?" The second officer asked.

Shoulder-bump slur-slinging kid said, "He--"

"Bumped into your shoulder and apologized? Yeah, wow, what the fuck," John said. He was on the balls of his feet, wanting to follow after Bigby, wanting to blow something up. If they touched him, if they laid a single fucking hand on him...

The boy didn’t argue that, but he begrudgingly didn’t acknowledge it was true either. That should have been a red flag for anyone, but it was apparently good enough for the cop though, who motioned for his partner and then said to John, “You’re free to go, kid.”

Bigby’s eyes followed the second officer as he took out his cuffs and came forward. How the fuck had everything gone to hell so fast? Minutes ago they’d been celebrating. He wasn’t sure how he was going to get out of this one. An Arab boy that had shapeshifted into a monster in the middle of New York? He’d be lucky if they didn’t label him as terrorist and throw him in prison. Fuck. At least John was alright...

The officer sneered at him. “You have the right to remain silent,” he started, jerking his hands behind his back. A foot hooked around his ankle, pulling his feet out from under him. He landed on his knees and was roughly shoved down face-first onto the concrete. He tasted blood in his mouth. “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you.” The muzzle of a gun pressed hard between his shoulder blades as the cuffs clicked too-tight into place. “Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”

John was practically vibrating by the time Bigby opened his mouth to answer. His head was spinning with images from recent news, people of color and American cops, and this was Bigby, goddammit. "Hey," he barked. "Hey, you can't do that. He didn't even resist. What the fuck?!"

"Go," the second cop said hand on his own gun. "You won't be free to for much longer."

"Hey, piggie, why don't you--"

“John,” Bigby interrupted, and the officer shoved at him in response. Fucking asshole. “I’m alright. Get help.” Alright was maybe an overstatement. He was scared, and angry. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this scared and angry and it was taking everything in him to clamp it down, to not let it overtake him. If he forced shifted now...

The officer hauled Bigby to his feet by the handcuffs. He grimaced in pain, the metal cutting into his wrists. A crowd had gathered. People were watching, staring. Most of them looked satisfied. A few didn’t. A few looked angry. They were shouting. One was filming on their cellphone.

John glanced from Bigby, blood dripping from his mouth, getting jerked around by these violent assholes in uniform. He wanted to blow everything up, but Bigby's voice, Bigby's request, was impossible to ignore. He nodded, jaw twitching as he gritted his teeth against his own nature, his own fire. "I'll get Lehnsherr," he promised. He felt sick with fear and rage. The fire was coming on so hot in him now...

"I'll call. He'll come," he said. But he didn't want to call in front of them, so he started to back away, into the crowd that was collecting.

Bigby opened his mouth to tell John he loved him, but that sounded too much like goodbye, so instead, he offered him a small smile as the officer yanked him away, and said, “I’ll see you soon.” And then he lost sight of him as he was forced around and shoved toward a waiting police car.

When he lost sight of him, John kept his head down, pushing through the onlookers without seeing any of them, not really. His hands were shaking when he got around the corner, so he stopped to light a cigarette before trying to call the school. He wasn't sure he could get his voice to work. His whole head felt hot, like his eyeballs were on fire--which was not as awesome as it sounded.

He took two steps after getting his cigarette lit... then saw the police car across the street. Not the same one, another one, NYPD, just sitting there empty. No one around it. Totally clear.

In a flash of thoughtlessness, just pure red rage in his brain, John flicked his lighter again. Almost simultaneously, the hood of the cop car exploded in an inferno that would've blown back John's hair, if he'd had any long enough. Someone shouted from a nearby apartment, footsteps started pounding, but John just stood there for a few long seconds, watching the fire dance and consume, feeding it oxygen until it burned too hot and fast for anything to be done.

When the first uniforms appeared, he finally turned and kept walking, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Now he felt calm enough to speak. "Mr. Lehnsherr? Bigby needs help."