Disclaimer: I do not own Skinwalkers nor its characters. They belong to LGF, After Dark, and whoever else screwed the movie up.
Author's Note: Requested fic written for a friend. This idea is based on an extremely early draft of the script, where the age difference between Varek and Sonja was much bigger, and it was possible Sonja was turned while still a teenager.
It's just a day. Any other day. Nothing special or out of the ordinary. It's just a quiet, boring day; another day of being alone, and it's wearing him down.
The lone wolf is lonely, and it doesn't have anything to do with society's traditions and the bitter cold.
But there's a girl on the corner of a street in the bad part of town. He's been eyeing her all morning; a doe in the clearing. She's selling, but nobody's buying - even the lowlifes are staying clean today.
He licks his canines behind closed lips. He's hungry. He won't want a meal for another week; these are different hunger pains. He hasn't felt this craving in a long time, and never this strong. He's been searching for a pack to stick to, tired of isolation - but now he's thinking, gears are turning.
He never sticks with any of the packs. Never gets along.
But there's that girl, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk and defiantly holding her head high. The cold is stinging her skin, he can see it, but the shine in her eyes won't stain her cheeks - oh, no, she's much too proud for that.
And he understands why he's been so lonely.
It's a different kind of hunger pawing away at his insides; the wolf's lust isn't for blood, isn't for the kill. He wants the hunt, the thrill of the chase; he wants his fill of her, but it won't be his gullet he fills. He's craved it for so long, but he'd forgotten what it was - until her.
There's that girl, staring at every person that passes her by. Her eyes are daring them to look at her, acknowledge her. She looks ready to pounce on anyone who does, remind them that there are some out in the world not filled with cheer and goodwill.
He'd like to see that.
She's standing up again. She looks at the men, she curves her lips; it isn't a smile, the corners of her lips are just turned upward. The angles are to sharp, the line drawn too tight. She can't lower herself enough to fake it.
There's a wildfire in this little one before him, just under the icy edges. He's been warming his hands, but the rest of him is tired of being left in the cold.
The lone wolf won't be lonely anymore.
And when she looks up at him, that sharp, tight curve on her face, he wants more than she can give him. He's so tempted to buy what she's selling, and he knows he'll turn those hard lines on her face into softness and awe. He truly wishes he could take her now - but the flames in his little wildfire's eyes are too young.
It strikes him, as he offers her his left hand, that today is the day of the Christ Child's birth - but he'll be packing death and resurrection into one night tonight.
He never was one for tradition. He's been a rebel without a cause too long.
And his wildfire can't blaze brightly until she rises from the ashes.