Nurse. | Chapter 2. [Reward]

Chapter 2.

The alarm on Frank’s phone buzzed insistently, dragging him up from a shallow, dreamless sleep. He slapped at the screen until it went silent, then lay still for a moment, listening to the steady hum of his box fan. His head felt heavy, as if he had overslept, though the red digits on the clock insisted otherwise.

With a groan, he rolled out of bed and padded toward the bathroom. The mirror greeted him with the usual sight of a young fur in desperate need of caffeine: dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up in uncooperative tufts, and a faint crease across his cheek from the pillow.

But something else caught his eye.

He leaned closer, frowning slightly. His facial hair looked thicker. Not a wild beard, but heavier than what he had clipped only two days ago. The fur seemed to be darker along his chin. His arms, too, when he pushed his sleeves up, the light caught a faint sheen of bronze hair that had not been there before. And his legs, when he tugged up the hem of his pajama bottoms, were fuller, fuzzier somehow, though not discolored.

Weird.

Frank rubbed at his jawline, testing the scratch of it under his paws. He did not remember it growing this fast before. Sure, most furs experienced some degree of facial growth that required a light trim every week or so, but even this was expedited. 

Dietary reaction? 

Maybe he was just tired. Maybe he had missed a trim longer than he thought. Shaking his head, he turned the faucet on and splashed cold water across his muzzle. The shock of it made him blink rapidly, forcing his reflection to blur into a wet shimmer. When he looked back, the hair seemed less noticeable, like maybe he had just imagined it in the harsh bathroom light.

“Tea,” he muttered, as though that would solve just about anything.

The day unfolded as it usually did, clipboard, meds pass, half-hearted jokes with coworkers, but Frank could not shake the sense that something was off. His body felt unfamiliar, like a shirt just slightly too tight across the shoulders. His arms dragged heavier than usual when he lifted supply boxes. His scrubs brushed against his legs in a way that prickled at him, almost as though the fabric was catching on extra fur.

He caught himself zoning out more than once, staring just a moment too long at patients as they spoke, their words registering a beat late. When Dr. Kai flagged him down about Mrs. Ramirez’s potassium levels, Frank nodded automatically, then realized he had not actually heard what Kai had said.

“Are you feeling alright?” Kai asked, ears flicking with mild concern.

“Yeah,” Frank said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just… didn’t sleep well.”

Kai studied him for a second longer before letting it go.

By the time his shift ended, the low thrum of wrongness had settled into his bones. It was not pain or sickness, which was known to happen occasionally as 24 hour bugs were not too uncommon during this season. Just a constant, distracting weight in his body that refused to be ignored.

In the locker room mirror, he caught his reflection again. The fur on his lower muzzle seemed even darker now, his hair curling at the edges of his jaw. His arms looked broader, the hair standing a little prouder in the fluorescent light.

“Huh…” he muttered. 

He pulled on his jacket and forced a laugh at himself. Maybe he just needed a visit to the salon. A trim, a shave, something to knock the edge off this nagging feeling.

As he headed out into the evening air, Frank made a mental note: barber’s tomorrow. The thought sat oddly comforting in his mind, as if a pair of clippers and a razor could tidy away the strangeness creeping through his skin.

~

Frank’s apartment greeted him with its usual quiet when he pushed open the door, the faint smell of detergent and soil from his window plants clinging in the air. He let his bag slump onto the couch and kicked off his shoes, flexing his toes against the cool laminate floor. For a long moment he just stood there, listening to the tick of his wall clock, the distant hum of traffic beyond the thin pane of glass.

He exhaled through his nose and padded toward the bathroom again. The mirror’s image had not changed, but when he flicked on the overhead light it felt almost like being caught by a spotlight. His reflection stared back at him, newly grown fur bristling dark across his jaw just visible amidst his snowwhite fur. It was not wild, not yet, but it made his face look older, heavier, like it belonged to someone else.

His hand found the trimmer tucked under the sink. He did not trim every day, but he liked keeping himself tidy. Clean cheeks, sharp lines, the way he looked when he first graduated nursing school, when he felt bright and ready, not dull around the edges.

He clicked the trimmer on. The buzz filled the small bathroom, comforting in its predictability. He tilted his chin and pressed the blades to his jaw. Hair fell in soft, peppery flecks onto the porcelain sink. Each pass lightened the weight of his reflection, smoothing out the shadow on his face.

Bit by bit, the stranger faded, and the familiar Frank re-emerged.

When he shut the trimmer off, the silence was sharper for its absence. He leaned forward, inspecting the results. Clean lines, softer cheeks, his maw not swallowed in scruff. The faint anxiety he had carried all day eased just a little, as though the buzzing blades had trimmed it away along with the hair.

“Better,” he murmured.

He rinsed the sink, watching the hair swirl into the drain before disappearing. For a moment he wondered if it was thicker than usual, darker, almost like dog fur instead of human stubble. The thought made him snort, shaking his head. He was overtired, that was all.

Still, as he reached for the towel, his paws lingered on his jawline. His fur was silky smooth, not too scruffy, pretty much normal. The kind of face his patients would recognize, the kind his coworkers would not glance at twice.

He drifted into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge. A few leftover takeout boxes, a carton of milk, a lonely apple. He was not hungry, not really, but he poured himself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, sipping slowly.

The faint aftertaste of the strawberry candy flickered through his memory. He had not thought of it all day, but now, in the quiet, it surfaced again. That odd sweetness, the way it had pulled up memories like weeds through cracks in pavement. Frank shook his head, hard enough to make his ears ring. 

No. He was not going to dwell on some weird old lady’s candy. He had gotten through the day, hadn’t he? Patients seen, meds passed, charts signed. Everything was normal.

Almost normal.

He sighed, rinsed the glass, and padded back toward the couch. He collapsed into the cushions, dragging the throw blanket over his legs. The TV remote sat on the coffee table, waiting, but he didn’t bother turning it on. Instead he let the soft stillness of the apartment press in.

The hairs on his arms prickled when the blanket shifted. He tugged it higher, tucking himself in until only his head poked free.