Six-eleven, two ninety...and they still call me Little Bear.

"For the last time, Dulac--"

The towering man in the too cramped office continued to pace back and forth, a slow path from one side of the six foot space to the other...

Until he cut off his superior by slamming a fist through the edge of his solid wood desk.

"...you on something, Detective?"

Ellis Dulac didn't answer. Instead, he just stood there, letting the edges of his vision turn red and the wild snarling in the back of his mind roar and snap for a while. Letting the monster just under his skin run amok wasn't the hard part--no, that was easy. He could see the giant black bear clear as day, a film of glossy fur and giant claws overlaid over his own fist (hallucination, man, you gotta keep it together), and it was easy to lift that film off him and let it go crazy. Roar, snap, snarl, growl, rip at a few throats with its spectral hands until it tired itself out. That was easy.

The hard part was making sure the stupid fucking furball did it silently. Not like this, not where people could see.

"I pissed clean for the shrink last week." he finally assured his captain once he knew he could straighten up safely, prevent that hazy vision from turning solid and real and actually ripping out his superior's guts all across the desk...desk full of paperwork and permits and permutations of the evidence--

He shut his eyes, giving himself a chance to absorb it all. It was the one advantage to the thing that had been done to him, on both ends--not the bite, the bite was bullshit. The bite was a fucking crock that could have cost him everything--no, the plus came from the other thing, the one that started last year and forced him to ask Big Brother for the magic auntie's phone number. She didn't know him from Adam, not really, but she'd been helpful. And hot, that was a plus.

Curse of the Furies, she'd called it, during his three month sabbatical after that shoot gone wrong. Vengeance against the crown of Camelot-at-Avalon, old buddy of Mab that didn't like the Lady or her King. Drip by drop, he'd lose his mind until they had to pull an Old Yeller--hell, Lance would probably have to do it his own self.

He still wasn't sure if Nimue kept her word, kept this secret from Lance or not. She'd let him go, made him promise to return if he hurt somebody--probably had him watched, too.

Then he went to Vegas for a week, went running out in the desert to burn off the voices and the visions and the bloodlust--and a goddamn dancing fucking bear thought it would be fun to Hannibal Lecter his ass. I ate his liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti...

Ellis blinked, then shook his head. He could feel his thoughts rattling around in his skull, and thank fucking God they landed in the right spot this time. He'd always had sharp eyes, it was what made him a good sniper, and good perception let him know if he could take the shot or not--but his trigger finger, he was all twitchy now. Couldn't shoot, couldn't work, but now his brain was flexible. That was the good part--it bent in ways other people's didn't, and crazy was good for that.

He hadn't gotten worse since the bite. That was five, six months ago, and not even Nimue knew (unless she was having him followed, probably having him followed, good on her for leaving him the fuck alone) so he was good. Things were solid, five by five--he made detective because he could solve cases with his bugnuts gonzo brain. Couldn't go back to SWAT, but he could play around with puzzles. Do some good.

Like the homicidal chick in their interrogation room, saying dick didley to his idiot partner. She'd killed three guys in the last year, her Maybelline prints were all over the fucking thing but no one else could see it. The one photo was three blocks away, that hot little snapshot on a traffic cam three blocks from the first killing, and of fucking course she was in town for the second one, six miles away--and the third she'd been in another state.

But he knew. He could see, something fuzzy and weird and spread out all across the situation, and it screamed supernatural.

"Cap," he began, keeping his head down so he could get the words out, and in the right order, with the right deference, "I'm tellin' you. Gimme five minutes, off the record, and not only will I get a confession? I'll bring her a fucking soda and danish, she'll look better comin' out than she did goin' in. Lookit my record, Cap. The facts, you gotta bend with 'em, y'know? I can see where others can't, I solve cases. Let me solve this one."

A beat.

"...please."

Jesus, that hurt...

Twenty minutes later, Ellis was walking into the interrogation room. For a second he just stared at the striking brunette sitting at the table--traffic cam didn't do her tits justice. She had nice eyes, too.

Glancing up, then right, then left, he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, hands jittering as he toyed with a file and approached the table.

Camera was off. Mics were dead, he could hear 'em.

He stood behind the chair across from the woman--then abruptly spun, flicked a cord, and drew the blinds on the two-way mirror behind him. Slowly, he spun on his heel until he was facing her again.

"No ears." he assured her. "No eyes...just you, me, and three dead bodies to explain. So..."

He trailed off, spreading his hands--an invitation to confess, as if now it was a given that she would.

...hey, he could get lucky.

Maybe.