Firestone Hot Springs i could love you

He resists the urge to grimace at the crude display, a little put off by it but unwilling to show any emotion to the stranger. His ire is softened somewhat by the lack of aggression in the man's insistence, but not much. Those parts can be removed, He points out mildly, as if observing that it might rain later. I've seen it before. Would you become a woman then?

This was the question that stumped him, ears flattenting against his skull in thought, looking at his penis for a moment longer before lowering his leg and canting that golden head of his. This one knows not. A pause, and then he spoke again, distracted from his task for now. Is that what happened to you?

Somehow, the man's words aren't something he'd ever considered. He pauses, thinking back to his own brief experience; had that man been like him? He can't remember. Everything from that time is fogged, blurry, as if his captivity had all been a terrible dream. Maybe it's better that way. He pulls himself back to the present, finding he suddenly feels nauseous, and far less certain about things than he had before. What if... that really is what happened to him? He can't remember more than brief glimpses of his childhood, random assorted snapshots of varying meaning and importance. Certainly nothing like what the pale stranger is suggesting. I... maybe, He says after a moment, tone a little shaken. I don't remember. There are a lot of things I don't remember. He swallows, suddenly irritated that he'd let the curtain drop for a moment, that he'd shared more than he'd meant to with the stranger who had almost killed him.
That thought is the last, abrupt push that shoves him out of the blur of his anger. The adrenaline it'd granted him has faded fully now, and the dull ache of his wounds has returned. He releases the tension from his body with a soft sigh, and reaches for something else to say. He desperately doesn't want to think about the possibility of having lost some important part of him and not remembering it, and he's pretty sure he's made his point anyway. What's your name?

The other's inner turmoil was lost upon the Icelandic man who returned to tending to the wounds he had caused, letting the wolf (for he could not comprehend calling him, them, a girl) lapse into silence. His understanding of the matter was lacking, and so believed that the wolf beneath him had simply had lost that piece of him. It wasn't until a question was asked of him that he would answer, Stjörnuáti. A pause, and then: Yours?

Zephyr, he was told, before the not-coyote-not-girl fell into a silence that he would not break. Wounds tended, the two would part company so that the pale Watch-dweller could return to his home and be among those who did not confuse him so.

Fade.