Figgis 7: Blue Moon

I know I ought to be writing more of the apocalyse fic, but this is SO much damn fun to write....

Blue Moon

Man and woman stared at each other. Both blushing.

“I ought to let you get dressed,” Theresa said. She didn’t move.

“It may be an idea,” Figgis said, very conscious of his naked state, and even more conscious of his state of arousal. 

Theresa climbed down off the bed, tripped, became entangled in the quilt and fell to the floor, taking the quilt and the rest of Figgis’s dignity with her.  He covered himself with his hands.

“Sorry!” She held out the quilt.

He couldn’t take it. Not without exposing himself.

“Blimey,” said Bel from the doorway, “so that’s what a full moon werewolf looks like!”

Figgis blushed even redder, if that was possible. “Ladies, if you’d just excuse me for a moment?”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Bel grinned, “I’m just admiring the view.”

“Could I have a little privacy?” Figgis begged.

“Oh, hark at him, when it’s covered in fur, he’s waving it everywhere and licking his balls in public, but the moment the fur falls off, it’s a different story. Your bed is full of dog hair by the way, you may want to take it outside and shake it.”

He glanced over at his bed. It did indeed look like a hairdresser’s bin.  “Why don’t you go down and make us both a cup of coffee?”

This suggestion finally broke Theresa’s gaze and the two women left him. Figgis took stock of himself.  All the dog hair had fallen off. So had the hair on his head. Not to mention his eyelashes, beard and pubes. From one extreme to the other.  He pulled boxer shorts and jeans on, acutely aware of how soft his skin felt. He only hoped it wasn’t going to itch as it was growing back. Once, in his late teens, he’d shaved his balls for a bet. He’d mistakenly assumed that surviving the razor scraping his most vulnerable places meant the worst was over but no, it was the incredibly acute itching for the following couple of weeks. He learnt very quickly that whilst a quick ball scratch may be tolerated in public, full on, double handed  scratting just made people assume you had crabs. It wasn’t an experience he planned on having again.

Once dressed he sauntered downstairs, casually greeting Theresa as if she’d never seen him naked. She was still blushing as she gave him a fresh steaming hot brew.

“So you’ve reverted,” Bel said, “I wonder if that means we will too?”

“Who knows,” Figgis mused. As he drank his coffee, he looked over to the sofa where Bel’s body was still propped. It disturbed him because it was dressed in a hospital gown staring sightlessly ahead and looked like he had kidnapped a catatonic from the local psychiatric unit. It lent the room a certain atmosphere of crazy. As in ‘chains in the cellar and locked freezer in the garage’ crazy.

“We ought to go to the police,” Theresa said.

“And tell them what?” Bel asked, "’excuse me officer, I seem to be detached from my body, could you recommend a suitable and free transformation studio to fix this fuck-up?’ Not to mention, it’s not a criminal matter. It would come under the civil courts.”

“But they can’t leave us like this?” Theresa’s voice rose with indignation, “what am i supposed to do? Cart these things around with me forever?” She flapped, knocked the clock off the wall. Apologised as she picked it back up and placed it on the kitchen table.

“Stick some feathers on it and tell everyone you’re an angel?” Bel suggested.

“In that case, why don’t you hire yourself out as a private investigator?” Theresa countered. “Or maybe a circus act. Hide behind Figgis and bill yourself as a talking dog?”

“I’m not a dog any more,” Figgis pointed out. He’d been thinking about their predicament. Or rather, thinking about his own. It had occurred to him that life as a dog wasn’t going to be terrible, but he couldn’t go into work like that. There was no way his boss was going to accept a canine chef. There wouldn’t be a hair net in the place big enough to fit him for starters. So then he’d run through a list of new possible careers. Guide dog for the blind maybe, or guard dog, but he didn’t think he looked scary enough for that.  It was the fringe on the tail. It was too feminine. Finally he’d wondered about becoming a busker. People would pay to see a dog attempting to play the guitar wouldn’t they? Not that it mattered now he’d regained his human form.

“What about the hospital?” Theresa asked.

“They might keep your body alive until we can sort it out,” Figgis agreed, and didn’t add he’d be glad when it wasn’t cluttering up his living room.

“Fine,” Bel sniffed, "let’s go dump me at A&E.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Figgis drained his cup. “I’ll drive this time.”