If the old Jim Halpert had been asked to list his top ten fears, at least half of them would have been Pam-related. Becoming a werewolf wouldn't have made the cut. Hell, it wouldn't have broken the top hundred.

But, as the saying went… well, shit happens. Then you die.

Jim wasn’t dead yet, not even close, so he counted himself one of the lucky ones. Shit had happened… the shittiest shit of all the shits. But he'd survived it.

Hell, even his relationship had survived it, making him one of the luckiest ones. And he damn well knew it.

Sniffing the air, he scratched his hip under the blanket. Before long, he'd be forced to paw at his haunches with one or the other rear leg. In anticipation of forthcoming events, he was nude. That wasn't a requirement, strictly-speaking, but it made no sense to waste perfectly good clothing.

As it happened, tonight's full moon would coincide with Halloween. Jim refused to read anything into that, because it was simply a coincidence. According to Google, it happened once every eighteen-ish years or so.

With a quiet whimper of dread, he tucked the blanket more tightly beneath his armpits. He did his best to tune out the drone of the television from the living room downstairs. He hadn't been able to hear it just a few short minutes ago, but his senses were beginning to sharpen acutely. This part wasn't shitty–it was actually fairly cool, from a scientific perspective.

With his preternaturally-enhanced sense of smell, Jim suddenly detected the scents of raw rabbit and uncooked chicken gizzards, all the way from the kitchen.

Closing his eyes, he smiled to himself. God, Pam was the best.

If there was a God. There might be–in fact, there probably was–so Jim counted his blessings regularly.

Like every other red-blooded thirty-something, he'd watched the Harry Potter series. Aside from that, he'd never paid much attention to werewolves in film. He'd never bothered with the Twilight franchise. Jim was possessed of a Y-chromosome, and he wasn't gay. Moreover, his wife–in her usual, amazingly atypical fashion–wasn't into paranormal romances between conspicuously attractive, psychologically-damaged teenagers who were variously covered in sparkles or fur.

Then Jim had become a werewolf. Practically overnight, he'd taken an obsessive interest in the genre. Twilight, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (which he'd seen, but he paid closer attention to Lupin upon rewatch), The Wolfman, Howl, Van Helsing… hell, he'd even downloaded Teen Wolf. The movie and the television series.

Jim rolled his eyes. None of the movies had gotten it entirely right. But then, he didn't suppose he could blame them. Until incredibly recently, werewolves hadn't really existed.

Every square inch of his skin prickled sharply, from head to toe. It felt for all the world like his smooth, moderately hairy body was turning into a saguaro cactus.

Against his will, Jim gasped, twisting the blanket between both fists. He stared at his forearms, surprised as always that they weren't studded with bloody pinpricks. Unfortunately, the one thing Hollywood had gotten right was the searing, bone-crushing pain of the transformation.

His neck twitched back spasmodically. A rafter-shaking howl erupted from his throat.

It wasn't a sound that any human should ever, ever make without the assistance of a professional sound designer.

It was equal parts involuntary and–no matter how much his doctor reassured him that it shouldn't be–so fucking embarrassing. It only happened once a month, it was easily predictable. The only people who would ever hear it were non-judgmental relatives. It wasn't as bad as Tourette's Syndrome, Mister Halpert, please try to retain a little perspective.

In spite of all the professional medical wisdom to the contrary, the experience was fucking mortifying. That wasn't the only reason he and Pam had sold Jim's childhood home and moved, but it was a biggie.

They hadn't gone far, just far enough. They'd found a relatively-secluded property. They had neighbors, but they were sufficiently distant that the sound wouldn't attract undue attention. 

In response, twin sets of footsteps thundered up the stairs.

"Daddy!" Cecelia squealed, bounding into the room and onto the bed. "Is it time already?"

"Daaad!" Phillip echoed, bringing up the rear, his short legs pumping for all they were worth. He jumped up and down beside the mattress, grasping at Jim's blanket-covered thigh.

Jim lifted him up, concealing a grimace. "Just about," he said, shoring up his voice against the weakness that wanted to make itself known. "Are you guys excited about going trick-or-treating tonight, or what?"

Cecelia let out an incoherent squeal. It bore no resemblance to language in general, much less English in particular. The sound pained Jim's ears, quite literally. It probably would have, even without the benefit of enhanced hearing, although he supposed he couldn't be sure.

"Yeah yeah!" Phillip added, squirming in Jim's arms like a Mexican jumping bean. In all likelihood, he was copying his sister. He wasn't quite old enough to really understand what the fuss was about, but his excitement was no less real.

Jim kissed his son's plump cheek, because he wanted to and because he still could. "I can't wait," he said honestly, because he couldn't wait for this to be over.

Not the trick-or-treating. That was going to be fun, but he had to get through this first. And this he dreaded, down to his bones, to his very fucking soul.

God, they were so young… so innocent. They didn't have the first clue how much it hurt, even with industrial-strength painkillers. That was intentional. Jim wouldn't have burdened them with such knowledge, not at the tender ages of five and three.

For once, he'd chosen not to take any industrial-strength painkillers. Not one… not tonight. There was a half-empty box of fentanyl patches behind a childproof lock in the bathroom, along with a bottle of injectable morphine, but he didn't intend to spend this particular night floating in a woozy state of half-consciousness.

Reminding himself that this part was temporary–no matter how much it sucked, which was a hell of a lot–Jim beckoned Cece over. He wrapped an arm around each of his children. Already, they were hairier than usual.

His arms, of course. Not the children.

"How's your monthly visitor?" Pam asked, poking her head through the door.

Jim had heard and scented her coming, of course. Fortunately, their cycles weren't aligned–never had been, and (God willing) never would be. If such a thing ever happened, he knew they could ask either of their parents to watch the kids for the night.

He snorted in response, shaking his head a little. "That's what I love about you, Beesly. The way you manage to stay fresh and relevant."

Forcing his eyes open, Jim gazed longingly at the plate in her hands. He wasn't exactly capable of humor at the moment, but he made his best effort to play along for Cece and Phillip's benefit.

"It's good for the gander," she needled him with a sympathetic smile, reminding Jim that he made the exact same joke every time Pam's period started.

And he always would. "Thanks, Mother Goose. So when do I get to see the allegedly amazing costumes you've cooked up?"

"They aren't cooked, they're raw," she ribbed him, glancing down at the plate.

Jim groaned quietly, more from pain than exasperation at this point. "When do I get to see them?" he repeated quietly. He was hurting so much, he could have cried.

He didn't let himself.

Pam noticed, of course. "After yours is all set." Moving beside the bed, she stroked his shoulder with fond fingers. The onset of symptoms was simultaneous with the howl, as she was fully-aware.

Cece jumped up and down on the bed, almost literally bursting with excitement. "It's gonna be the best! The best in the west!" she sang to a tune that she was probably making up on the spot.

"Candy's the best!" Philip added exuberantly. Naturally, he joined in the jumping, even though he was too young to be in on the secret of the costumes.

“Trick or treat! Smell my feet! Give me something good to eat!”

“I will not smell your feet, Ceece,” Jim said, pretending to be appalled that she would say such a thing. By this point, he was having difficulty schooling his features. He glanced at Pam and let his eyes do the talking. He said nothing, because he knew he wouldn’t have to.

Jim would never have guessed that Pam would stick it out through this, because this particular shit was something that nobody on the planet should be expected to put up with. And he hadn't.

Expected her to, that is. He'd given Pam the opportunity to back out, entirely without animosity or acrimony… just once.

She hadn't. In fact, she'd gotten pissed as all hell halfway through the conversation, taking legitimate offense at the faintest suggestion that her life might be better off without this particular burden weighing her down. She'd reminded Jim, fairly tearfully, of a certain set of vows that she'd taken in front of a certain set of people they cared about, not to mention a certain deity.

But, she'd reminded him, even if their families and God ceased to exist, she'd vowed to him to be there… In sickness and in health. For better or for worse. And it didn't matter how worse things got, she wasn't leaving, so help her God.

Jim had cried buckets of grateful tears that night. He hadn't been stupid enough to bring up the topic again, nor would he. To do so would be an insult, and he wouldn't dream of insulting the best thing that had ever happened to him. It had been the rockiest of all fucking roads. But, through it all, Pam had been his rock.

Because she was the best.

Jim hadn't gone into this whole marriage thing knowing how best Pam would be. And now he wanted to cry so much that he couldn't not.

Silently, his eyes begged her for privacy. A single teardrop (which he dashed away before it could track its way down his cheek) served to drive the point home.

"Speaking of candy," Pam said loudly, producing two Reese's cups from her pockets. It was bribery, plain and simple. "I started Spooky Buddies. Better hurry, or you’ll miss the beginning."

In that moment, Jim wished he was the artist. If he had been, maybe he could have captured the look in her eyes… replicated it for future generations to admire.

She closed the bedroom door as the kids whooped their way down to the living room. Phillip wanted a puppy. Cece wanted six puppies, but having a werewolf for a dad was the next best thing. Sunrise, sunset.

Taking Jim's hand, Pam slipped the fingers of her other into the shaggy hair at the nape of his neck. It was growing longer by the minute.

"Sorry," she murmured against his forehead.

"Not your fault," he reassured her. “They’re excited.” Of course they were excited. It was the motherlode of all holidays for chocolate fiends worldwide.

It was also an incredibly rare event for Jim to leave the house while transformed. On an average night, he would've been out of it by now. The pain medication wouldn't have worn off until well after the kids’ bedtime. By the time they woke up the following morning, he would have been back to normal.

Totally boring.

Fortunately, Cece and Phillip were old enough by now to entertain themselves for brief windows of time. Jim wanted… no, needed Pam all to himself for this part. Skipping the pain meds would have been unthinkable without her.

Even with them, it still hurt like a bitch. Tonight, it was going to hurt like a bitch and a motherfucking half, and that didn’t even begin to cover it.

"What are you up to?" she intoned, forking over a bite of uncooked rabbit meat.

"Nine," he gritted out. It was motherfucking awful, but not as bad as it would get. On the ten scale, Jim estimated the pain of becoming a werewolf peaked around twenty-three. Pain relievers knocked it down to twelve or so.

Pam didn't fuss. She didn’t ask Jim if he'd taken his ibuprofen and tylenol. She didn’t say he didn’t have to do this if he didn’t want to. She didn’t always say the right things–neither of them were perfect people–but she always seemed to know when not to say anything at all.

Jim appreciated that, now more than ever.

When the plate was empty, he lay down on his side with a grunting sort of gasp. The movement hurt severely, but nothing didn’t by now. The food wasn’t necessary by any means, it was simply a tasty distraction.

Pam's idea, and a fucking great one. The raw, bloody meat would have disgusted him half an hour ago, and would again come morning.

She curled up spoon-wise behind him. While he still could, Jim entwined their fingers. For sure, paws didn't have shit on hands. He shivered, feeling like his bones were breaking and re-forming his skeleton from the inside out.

Because they were.

He squirmed uncomfortably, feeling like his internal organs were shrinking and reshaping themselves and shuffling around one another.

Because they were.

He opened his mouth wide, feeling like his teeth were clacking against one another, lengthening and sharpening.

Because they fucking were.

Somehow, Jim managed to keep his agonized cries down to a dull roar. He really… really didn’t want to alarm Cece or Phillip. The instinct not to terrify them overrode the instinct to scream at the top of his fucking lungs, only just.

He wept throughout, sure that the pain would kill him this time. It was the same thing he thought every time, even though it hadn’t killed him yet.

Smartly, Pam had cranked the volume on the television far louder than usual. It helped.

Pam held him loosely, patting here, stroking there, crying right along with him, saying words that Jim hardly heard. The words themselves didn't matter a tenth so much as the comforting tone in which she said them. A net benefit, absolutely.

As they’d previously established, it wasn't any more painful for Jim to be touched than not to be touched right now. And it was comforting, even if it didn’t help physiologically (because nothing but fentanyl or morphine had the faintest goddamn hope of touching that).

Fifteen minutes later, about as far from dead as it was possible to be, Jim opened his eyes. Now that the transformation was complete, the pain vanished, as though it had never existed. He wriggled and flopped onto his other side, feeling objectively amazing. Even if he had merely felt objectively okay, it would have been a vast improvement over feeling like he was hovering on the threshold of death’s door.

Now that he was facing Pam, he booped her nose with his snout and licked the tears from her cheeks. He wished he could tell her he was okay.

He couldn't, of course. Not in so many words.

Jim had never gotten comfortable doing most wolfish or doggish things–he found such actions demeaning, in general–but he didn’t have thumbs or lips so… how else was he supposed to thank her?

She giggled, obviously relieved, wiping her face on her sleeve. Her tears had slowed down, but hadn’t quite stopped yet. She ruffled his fur affectionately, clearly doing her best to stop her lips from twitching down repeatedly at the corners. "What's up, dog?"

Jim rolled his eyes tolerantly, shaking his head from side to side. He snuggled close, more grateful than words could express for just… everything about her.

After some extended interspecies spooning (which Jim didn’t need at this point, but Pam did, so of course he was all in), she regained her composure. “Do you think they’d let us on an airplane if I said you were my comfort animal?”

He feigned a menacing growl and licked her face again. It was lame, but he’d give her a pass. Anyway, there were only so many dog- or wolf-related jokes a person could tell before they needed to recycle.

"Are you ready for the big reveal?" Pam asked.

Still in full possession of his humanity and intellect, but speechless for obvious physiological reasons, Jim nodded gamely.

Turning on SportsCenter, Pam left to get the kids ready. Jim grasped a Sports Illustrated between his teeth. He’d be missing the second half of an Eagles game tonight–and a home game, at that–but he didn’t mind. The DVR was good to go. He could watch it in the morning.

Flopping on top of the bedspread, he nosed through the pages between downs. His fur was the same shade as the hair on his head, his eyes big and green, no different than his human form. His wolf ears were analogically over-large, although it was less obvious on an animal than a person. He was still over six feet long. Being rather more canine than human, Jim felt it was appropriate to measure in terms of length rather than height.

He wasn't a big fan of the relative helplessness brought on by the lack of vocal cords and opposable thumbs, but he'd pay Pam back when he could. Or pay it forward, whichever was more appropriate to call it. She always had a rough time of it on the first day of her period. Besides, she'd wanted to surprise him tonight.

There were accessibility options out there for people with limited mobility. It was stunning, actually, the variety of communication aids that were available. But they hardly seemed necessary for a condition that affected Jim one night a month, especially when he spent most of that time in a narcotic haze.

Worldwide, the incidence of werewolfism was statistically-insignificant. In Scranton, it was approximately one in a thousand. Nearly a hundred and fifty people had developed the disorder after eating infected meat at Ipanema Grill, where Jim and Pam had been celebrating their second pregnancy (unlike Cece, Phillip had been planned).

Fortunately, being pregnant at the time, Pam had decided against trying the rare picanha.

The new mad cow reporters had called it, because it was a prion disease transmitted by the consumption of tainted animal flesh. Or Mad Dogs 20/12, as the tabloids nicknamed the incident.

Assholes.

Not three years before, the prevalence of werewolfism in Scranton had been twice as high, give or take. The first mass transformation on the full moon following the mass infection was, unfortunately, the first sign of the outbreak. Roughly a quarter of afflicted individuals had been killed by startled police, friends, or family members.

Another quarter had committed suicide–some that very night, by throwing themselves off of parking garages… in front of moving vehicles or trains. Others waited to regain the use of their opposable thumbs. In the morning, they utilized the usual methods–guns, nooses, medications in conjunction with large doses of alcohol.

The families of the afflicted bayed for blood, not to mention the survivors themselves.

Not literally, having transformed back into people by that point.

Ipanema Grill closed down in short order. In the end, it hadn't even been the restaurant's fault. The outbreak was traced to a broker–a food distributor, the most middleman of middlemen. That part had worked out for the best. Their insurance company had far deeper pockets.

And there was the silver lining. Thanks to the proceeds of the class-action lawsuit, neither Jim nor Pam had to work anymore. They’d invested the money in safe, low-risk investment vehicles that he didn’t really understand or care to.

Jim wasn’t sure whose idea it had been to label government bonds and CDs as "vehicles." Fortunately, he didn’t need to know. These days, he was a sports blogger-slash-stay-at-home-dad.

Pam, unsurprisingly, had taken the opportunity to become an artist-slash-stay-at-home-mom. They went to sporting events whenever they wanted, wherever they wanted, with the very minor restriction of being unable to travel for one day out of every twenty-eight.

Unlike many of the survivors, Jim kept a relatively low profile. But he didn't begrudge the ones who'd become media whores. Namely Kelly and Ryan, who had coincidentally eaten at Ipanema Grill that very same night in celebration of the eleventy-third (or whatever) rekindling of their on-again, off-again relationship.

Having both eaten the picanha that night, Kelly and Ryan were werewolves. They were also both Howards. Being relatively young, not entirely unattractive, and experts at self-promotion, they’d become Youtube celebrities in short order. Their channel was entitled Where, wolves? It was G-rated, reasonably interesting, and showcased their travels around the world.

They'd become Youporn celebrities shortly thereafter, which wasn't Jim's thing at all but… whatever, more power to them. They'd tried starting a website of their own, www.WUPHF.com. Jim couldn't even recall what it stood for, at this point. Something about werewolves under persecution… it didn't matter. It hadn't taken off, as much as Ryan had tried to force it.

Their advocacy, obnoxious and motivated by greed though it might have been, was ultimately good publicity for the condition. That, in turn, made it safe for Jim to venture outside during the full moon. Even though he didn’t make a habit of it, and would never have risked it outside of Scranton.

Hell, not even outside their neighborhood, just in case. Jim wasn't personally acquainted with anyone who'd been killed in the initial outbreak, but there had been a couple of highly-publicized international incidents since then and… well, he had a family. He and Pam had been to hell and back after the infection (what with the initial medical uncertainties, the unwanted publicity, and the legal battle).

But those days were long-since behind them now. Twenty-seven days out of twenty-eight, Jim Halpert fucking loved his life. Nothing was worth that kind of risk.

"Five four three two one!" Cece shouted, bursting unceremoniously through the bedroom door. She was covered from neck to foot by an old-fashioned white dress. A small afghan–handmade by Pam's grandmother–was draped over her shoulders. She held a book in one hand, and a fountain pen was tucked behind her ear.

Jim, naturally, had heard her thundering down the hallway. He wasn't startled in the least, but he leapt backward on the bed, eyes wide in feigned surprise. Either Cece was high on sugar, or high on the idea of all the sugar she'd be collecting before the end of the night. Her enthusiasm was infectious, bringing back fond memories of Halloweens from Jim's younger years.

Laughing, Pam followed their daughter into the bedroom at a more sedate pace. Phillip was in her arms. "Honey, that's not how countdowns… uh, never mind. Ta-da!" she giggled at Jim. Setting down their son, she spread her arms in a belated flourish.

"We're in a hurry!" Cece insisted. "Guess who I am, daddy! I'm a pioneer! Annnd… I'm crazy!" she shrieked. She began hooting like Daffy Duck, running around in circles.

Drawing a blank, but amused regardless, Jim blinked up at Pam. He was definitely going to need some help with this one.

"Virginia Woolf," she supplied. Bending over, she retrieved the fountain pen, which had fallen to the floor in a predictable way. Jim would be surprised if it survived the night. "The British author. She pioneered stream of consciousness as a narrative device."

Jim couldn't help wondering how much of that had been aped from the Wikipedia biography. If it wasn't word-for-word, he'd eat raw picanha for breakfast (not really, though… never again).

"Yeah that!" Cece added unnecessarily. "D'you like it, daddy?"

Jim loved it. Nodding his approval, he grinned. The baring of teeth might have frightened people who didn't know him so well.

Pam cleared her throat, drawing his attention. She was wearing a tuxedo. She'd drawn on a thin handlebar mustache, and her hair was slicked back from her face with gel. When she spoke, her voice was gruff and artificially deep. "I solve problems. I think fast, I talk fast, and I need you guys to act fast if you want to get out of this."

So pretty please, Jim added mentally, with sugar on top… clean the fuckin' car. He nodded his emphatic approval, smiling with his eyes. She was The Wolf, from Pulp Fiction. One of his all-time favorite characters, from one of his all-time favorite movies.

Even better, Jim was starting to notice a pattern here, and he was starting to feel all kinds of ways about that.

Last, but certainly not least, he tilted his head inquisitively at their son. Phillip was dressed to the nines in a handsome little suit, a bright blue necktie, and a pair of tiny black glasses. The lenses had been popped out, of course. His hair was brushed back from his face, and artificially white. Jim could smell the remnants of hair spray paint. Non-toxic, no doubt.

"And who are you, Phillip?" Pam prompted him.

"Blitz!" he said simply, beaming like the sun.

This time, Jim got it without the need for adult translation. Wolf Blitzer, the famous journalist. He nodded again, well beyond moved at this point. His heart gave an almost-painful thump. If he'd been human, he would have cried in that moment. Unfortunately, canine tear ducts were incapable.

Instead, in an entirely uncharacteristic maneuver, he reared up onto his hind legs and rested his paws on Pam's shoulders. Lowering his muzzle to the crook of her neck, he exhaled a soft wuf.

She wrapped her arms around him, ruffling the fur behind his ears. "We'll always be your pack," she whispered tenderly.