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He meant to hold out longer. He really did.

Back home, he could go weeks to months without feeding. The new hunger, no matter how strong, was easier ignored in a dead city. There may have been the occasional feral street dog or unfortunate pigeon to help sate it, but they were just a crutch. Something to help ease the churn and ache that came from something that knotted up in his throat and head and demanded he appease it.

Darrow wasn't a dead city.

There were living everywhere. Even alone on an empty street, he wasn't alone. Every building had humans behind its walls, the air itself was saturated with the smell of living pounding him between the eyes. It made the hunger rear and demand he do something. It made his teeth bare and clench.

He didn't want to hurt anyone. He'd promised. He'd promised himself and the people he'd met that he wouldn't.

But the new hunger demanded.

He was sitting at his open window when he smelled blood. Fresh, alive, cloyingly metallic. It made him dizzy, and even without making a decision for it, his feet turned to follow the smell out the door and out the building. It wasn't human, he knew that, but the smell of feral pain and fear was bright and hot, and he couldn't help it. It called him and he was so, so, hungry.

When he found it in the alley, he mostly just thought: That's really sad.

The cat had clearly been hit by a car. It's back leg was mangled, it's pelvis at an odd angle. There were drag marks on the ground from where it'd tried to take itself to safety.

It was in pain, and pitiful, and there was no way it would survive anyway.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't help you. But I can make it stop.

He made it quick. He owed it that much for the pain it was in, and for what he was about to do.

It didn't taste right. Not the way the new hunger wanted. But with blood slick lips and a mouth full of flesh and fur, at least the smell of living was easier to ignore.

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Being shushed was new, but instead of questioning it, R just cocked his head and followed. His steps weren't as quiet and trained as Bull's; he wasn't stomping, but soft purposeful steps didn't exactly come easily to a loosely staggering corpse. Thankfully, he wasn't too loud, because not a moment later his nostrils flared with the smell of living, and meat, and wild.

The deer didn't smell much better than the cat. Still wrong, not the right kind of living, but he could overlook that. The sickly dying smell wasn't sticking to them the way it had to his last meal, and he watched them from slightly behind Bull with wide unblinking eyes.

"I'm gonna wound one," he said, voice low and lips barely moving. "The rest is up to you, kid."

Bull pulled a knife from his boot - it was long and designed to be thrown. He moved closer to the herd, scanning for any that might make a better target than the others. If worst came, he could track something that was bleeding.

He picked a likely target - closer to them than the others, somewhat smaller. He adjusted his hold on the knife, and in a smooth, quick motion, he threw it. It embedded in the young stag's neck.

No pressure, R thought with something close to panic. Up until the herd being right there this hunting trip had seemed more like a bonding stroll than actual hunting. But suddenly he has performance anxiety, and it's too late to say anything because Iron Bull is pulling out a knife that looks roughly the length of R's forearm and he's throwing it...

And oh. R smells blood, and raw animal fear, and the new hunger hits him between the eyes like a sucker punch.

After that it's a bit of blur. His lips peel back in a snarl, he's bending his knees, and really he has no idea where the speed comes from but one second he's behind Bull and the next he's throwing his full weight into the side of a terrified deer.

Bull couldn't help it. When R just tackled a panicked, young stag to the ground, he threw his arms in the air with a triumphant, approving, "Yes!"

He got closer; the animal was struggling, but it was also bleeding hard. Avoiding kicking hooves and short antlers, Bull leaned in to jerk his knife free, making the stag bleed faster. He watched R and stayed close to see if he needed help killing it.

Holding down a deer wasn't as easy as holding down a human. Humans might have knives and fists, but deer had sharp hooves and blunter knives on their heads. Despite the red haze of hunger, R was mindful enough not to gnash his teeth at Bull when he recovered his knife, but his nails were digging into a blood slick pelt and there were a lot of limbs to pay attention to.

With a growl he managed to pin the animal, only taking one kick to the ribs that was still hard enough for something inside to make a dull cracking sound. After that, he found the tear in the stag's neck and bit down. This is insane. Totally insane, but I can't stop.

It might not taste right, but he was hungry enough that the new hunger didn't seem to mind. Maybe it was Bull's living smell so close, or just the blood in his mouth, but something unsettling was satisfied by ripping out the beast's throat with his teeth.

Bull stayed out of the way but also remained vigilant; this was a learning experience for R as much as anything else. Finally the kid ripped into the stag's neck; Bull moved to avoid the arterial spray. There, now it would bleed out quickly.

He averted his gaze politely when it sounded like R had started eating, but he stayed protectively close. Geralt often patrolled these woods, and he didn't want the witcher thinking he'd found some mindless monster.

I don't think his handkerchief will be able to clean up this mess. All things considered, Bull was actually a pretty good meal companion. He didn't stare, which R really should take a lesson in manners from, and he kept an eye out. What he was looking for R wasn't sure, and with a mouthful of deer he didn't really care.

The deer might be dead, but the whole body didn't know that yet. There were still little spasms in the muscles making them twitch, the blood was thick and bright with life, and the meat was dense and heavy on his tongue.

Not as good as human, but so much better than cat.

After taking the time to eat his fill, R finally set about ripping open the belly. His nails were short and broken, but sharp, and it took a few minutes, but he finally managed to dig through the skin and muscle into the body cavity. Digging around, he grunted when he yanked out the liver, slimy and gleaming in the low light.

Standing, he shuffled a few steps towards Bull and held it out. I hope he's not a vegetarian...

Bull looked over when he realized R was shuffling up to him with-- Well, that was a liver. His eyebrow slid up, and he looked at the blood-covered and yet some how very earnest looking kid holding out a fresh organ to him.

Damn, he couldn't say no to that face.

He accepted the liver with a quiet laugh and, without any hesitation or qualms, Bull took a bite out of it. More chewy when it was raw, but it was not the first raw organ he'd ever eaten.

"Good job, kid," he said after he'd swallowed. "You done with it?" he asked as he gestured at the carcass.

... I kinda thought maybe he could take it home and cook it. Eyes wide, R stared at the blood on Bull's chin in fascination. Did humans eat raw meat? But wait, Bull wasn't a human. Did the Qu- (Quail? No, Quin. Quiznos? Shit.) - whatever eat raw meat?

Whatever it was it was... weirdly nice. Like maybe they had something in common.

Nodding, he glanced back at the carcass. It would start to cool soon, and once it did, it was worthless to him. "Y-yeah... thank... you."

He nodded and took another bite. "C'mon, let's find somewhere to clean off." He'd eat the liver along the way. Bull knew the rivers and streams out here, and he was pretty sure R could handle something nice and shallow to splash around in.

"Hey, I heard a hoof or something connect with you - you okay?" he asked as he looked down at the shambling kid. Watching him move that quickly had been impressive. Maybe it was a weird hunting adaptation. Preserving energy until he needed it.

Cleaning off was strongly advised. If R had been a mess after one little cat, after literally bleeding out a deer he was... well, simply he was gross. It was a good thing his appearance didn't mean much of anything any more, otherwise he'd probably feel self conscious. Instead he was just nervous about trying to waltz back into town looking like a scene from a bad B-movie.

Nodding, he clumsily felt along his rib cage. Nothing was jutting out at an odd angle, or caving in, but he was pretty sure he'd heard a dim crack when the hoof hit. "Does-doesn't... hurt," he shrugged. "Don't... f-feel... pain. It'll... g-go... away... if it... broke."

"You don't feel pain? Helpful and also dangerous," he mused. Bull finished the liver as they approached a small stream.

"Here, this should be shallow enough to splash around in. Can't imagine you're much of a swimmer. No offense, kid."

Bull crouched by the edge of the water, to clean his hands and his face. It wouldn't do to return to Dorian covered in blood, since that would require a more detailed explanation of where he'd been.

What's dangerous about it? R wondered. I'm already dead.

Shrugging, he considered the shallow stream before wading into it. The water wasn't very deep and the current rather gentle. He fell into an unsteady crouch where he tried to wash his hands and where blood had soaked into the fabric of his hoodie. Frowning, he looked down at himself. Blood spread from his face, throat, and down the tattered cotton of his shirt. That's not good.

Thinking, his shoulders slumped. Glancing to make sure Bull hadn't wandered off yet, he adjusted his stance and let himself splash down face first. Resigned to just let the water wash the majority of the mess away, he started counting down as he considered the rocky stream bed just below his nose. Like nature's washing machine.

Bull looked up when he heard a louder splash and he-- he laughed, startled, when he saw R face-down in the water. With a quiet grunt he got up and gently grabbed R by the back of his hoodie and shirt to haul him up.

"I don't know if you can drown, but let's not tempt fate."

The light was almost gone, but Bull got a decent look at R. "Well, maybe if you zip up your hoodie, you'll be alright. Do you have other clothes?"

If he'd had better reflexes, he'd have probably yelped. Instead, he just kind of hung there like a gangly wet rat as Bull pulled him up onto his feet and tried to ignore the water dripping from his hair into his eyes.

Shaking his head, he fumbled for the zipper and wrestled it up. If there were blood stains still on his hoodie, they weren't immediately discernible while the fabric was wet. And if there were... well. He'd picked the right outfit the day he'd died. "It's... a... g-good... thing... I... w-wear... rr-red. Huh?"

Bull chuckled and gave R a pat on the back now that he was on his feet. "Yeah, probably for the best."

Still, he looked R over. He needed alternatives, especially if he had a habit of getting blood on his clothes. Bull made a mental note to start looking for clothes that might fit R. He was tall, for a human, and a little gangly. "Come on, kid. Do you wanna go back to your apartment? I'll walk you."

This day has been surreal. With a nod, R awkwardly pushed his wet hair back and away from his face. The water in his eyes didn't sting, but it did make the world a bit blurrier than he preferred.

"Sure," he said, taking a few heavy steps thanks to wet denim and cotton. On the upside, at least I don't need to worry about chafing. "D-don't... want... to... h-hold... you... up."

"You're not holding me up, kid. You needed help." He looked R over and gave him a wry smile. "And you need dry clothes. Nothing Dorian or I have will fit you, though."

Anything of his would drown R; Dorian was closer to his size, but the mage's legs were thicker than R's. Krem was too short, Geralt-- well, that might work, but he wasn't sure where the witcher was, and he didn't want to scour the woods for him in the dark.

Frowning, R looked down and considered his clothing. Despite water, blood, mud, and one time standing under a flock of insanely rude pigeons, he'd never changed his clothes before. Not that he could remember. He'd never even taken them off.

I did see a naked Corpse shuffling around once. That was an unpleasant experience.

"They'll... dry," he pointed out. It wasn't that he'd mind new clothes, he just didn't really see the point.

"Will you mold in the mean time?" Bull asked, half serious. He was curious. Would R start growing moss? Mushrooms? "Those will start to smell, eventually. That they aren't offensive yet is luck on your part."

Blood didn't smell terrible when it dried, just slightly tangy, rusty. But viscera did not smell good; mud might not smell great, depending on where it was from and what it was mixed with.

If R didn't want to stand out too badly, being able to change clothes was something he'd have to learn to remember.

R hadn't actually thought of that. He couldn't really smell himself, and rainwater and sunlight had done enough to keep him relatively clean for as long as he could remember. But did he smell? Would he? Oh god, is that something I need to worry about now? Being the weird zombie with the BO?

Picking at a crusty stain on his jeans, he wondered if Julie had thought he smelled. If she had, she'd been nice enough to not mention it. See, even if she'd been willing to overlook the dead thing, no girl is going to to overlook bad hygiene.

"Good... p-point." He conceded. "Never... th-thought... about... that."

"You don't smell like you sweat the way other humans do, maybe that's part of the disease. So there's that, at least."

Bull tried to sound reassuring, but he was pretty sure he'd just thrown R for an uncomfortable loop.

"More than anything, you need clothes that aren't covered in bloodstains. If I've learned anything, it's that humans take some exception to seeing other people wander around with blood all over them. I don't want someone trying to hurt you over a misunderstanding."

R was clever, for an undead kid, and while he was articulate, there was no way he could explain anything in a hurry in his current state. Bull knew there were plenty of shoot-first-ask-later people in Darrow, from hostile worlds. He liked R, he didn't want to see anything bad happen to him.

Okay, he definitely has a point there. R tried to imagine himself walking through downtown in bloodstained clothes, and the image was immediately met with some pretty suspicious and gun happy humans. Grimacing, he nodded.

"It's... a... g-good... idea." He agreed, still a bit thrown by the idea of wearing something new. Maybe new clothes would add to his camouflage. Humans might be more inclined to think he was just awkward and sickly, instead of awkward and dead. "B-blend... in... m-more... y'know?"

"Exactly. We'll get you taken care of, kid. I like you too much to see a crowd mess with you because they don't understand. I know what that feels like."

The only advantage that Bull had was that he was huge, and most people had to think very hard before they started with him. But crowds had a way of making people bold.

"If you can lay low for a little bit, I'll bring you things that should fit. Only question is, do you have the dexterity to change clothes?"

Whatever flicker of warmth R felt at being told he was genuinely liked was immediately swept under the rug by the question of his ability to change clothes himself. Which was.... well, a valid question, but still one that made him wish he could properly squirm in embarrassment.

It was obvious Bull didn't mean it in any way that wasn't honest curiosity, but still. I'm a grown dead man, and I'm not even sure if I can change my pants properly. How sad is that?

Shrugging, he picked at the crusty jean stain again. "P-prob... ably." He hedged, because it was neither a yes or a no. Given time he probably could. He wouldn't be speeding through any makeovers in a dressing room any time soon, but given some patience and privacy he could probably fish flop his way into some new jeans and shoes.

Shoulders sagging, he realized he might need help with the laces, though.

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