The door to the cell creaked as Jim threw his weight against it; more importantly, it held firm. Artie hadn't been sure it would, despite the care and attention put into the crafting of every element of the Wanderer, from cowcatcher back. Another blow, another creak, and still it held.

Maybe his presence there, watching over Jim, wasn't that good an idea. It could be as simple as that - just the nearness of another being making Jim react more violently than he ought, the animal instincts stronger than they otherwise would be. It was as good a theory as any, better than many his tired brain had come up with in the days since Jim had returned, changed like this. Of all the strangeness they'd experienced, Artie had never thought of this, never anticipated Loveless would manage to come up with a formula that mimicked the werewolf of legend with such terrifying accuracy. And yet, as usual, the little genius had managed it. As usual, too, Jim West had been in the middle of his boasting, of his success, and found himself an unexpected test subject.

The cell was dark, and for that small mercy Artie was thankful. He'd seen enough of the creature Jim West became, the rending of flesh and bone that accompanied his nightly change. Only time would tell if Loveless' version obeyed the legends or not, or whether Jim was cursed to remain this way for the rest of his life - that one small hope, along with the fact Artie had locked his unconscious and completely naked partner into the small cell in the freight wagon, was all that he could cling to. At least the fact Jim was naked reduced the chances of him escaping under his own steam as close to zero as anyone could manage.

If the nights had been bad, the days had been worse.

It was easier by far to be resolute when Jim was a creature of the night, all flashing teeth and dark fur; in the night he could only growl and snarl, not cajole and plead like he did in daylight hours. Jim knew his every weakness, the softness of Artie's heart despite his bluster, and played upon them like a virtuoso. In turn, Jim would plead or demand, seeking release or death depending on which was foremost on his mind. He would cajole and rage, calling Artie every vile name he could think of, or try to tug on his heartstrings, eliciting sympathy. And yet, despite all of this, Jim was still very much alive and still in the cell.

He should get some sleep. There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do to effect a change on what Loveless had wrought; if there was a cure, a way to put this right, Loveless had failed for once to brag of it before his disappearance. That boded ill for Jim West and his chances of things being different, speaking to the permanence of this situation more eloquently than the glibbest of phrases an actor's tongue could create. Sleep was something Artie craved and yet he feared it too; every time he tried to close his eyes, his too-creative mind would jolt him awake once more, certain he felt the hot breath of a beast on his throat, sharp teeth a moment away from tearing till he drowned in fear and blood.

He had been working, though. Not on a cure, for if Loveless didn't have one then it was possible one could not be found, but on something more effective - there was little silver on the train, but most of it had been melted down now to make bullets and a blade, both of which Artie kept on his person at all times. If the cell did not hold, though that did not bear thinking about, then he would have to be ready. Ready to take his partner's life in order to save his own, though daily he'd shut his ears, ignoring Jim's pleas to do just that.