"Mmm, well, it's not as if you can kill a tennis ball, that sort of thing's alright," you say, slowly edging towards the squirrel. Hackles up, ears in a sneaking position, you sllllowwwwlllyyy inch your fangs towards his meal. The impulse towards defensive eating can often get a fussy puppy past the worst of their human squeamishness.
That is... really confusing, what is he doing, you don't understand. You edge back a few wary inches, your own hackles rising. Oh yeah, words. You have those. "Oh god. I'm a dog. I'm a big stupid dog." Wow, thanks words, that was super helpful.
"You're a big stupid dog who's going to get his delicious meal stolen by a dastardly no-good interloper very shortly," you say, exasperated, your jaws poised over the damn thing. "Are you just going to let me have it, or what?"
"I tried to give it to you thirty seconds ago, so why am I upset about the idea now? Argh!" With an exasperated whine, you snatch the squirrel and jump away, crunching down a few furry, rubbery morsels before your human sense of what is and is not food catches up. "This is worse than the veggie omelet MRE, and that is a high goddamn bar to reach." Somehow it is possible to say this while chewing. Being a werewolf makes no sense whatsoever.
You laugh at him, and make a playful feint towards what's left of the body, getting a nip of the tail and jiggling it around. You prance back, tail set in an arrogant flag, and brace your forepaws low in challenge. "Tasty or not, I bet you can't finish it now that I've got it!"
"That is so transparent as to be insulting," you point out, even while you bounce a bit in excitement. You don't want to eat the squirrel, but you sure want to play a game of taking it from him. He's happy to cooperate; squirrel tag is now a Thing. After a few minutes of this, you've relaxed enough to enjoy yourself. It really is fun, racing around the autumn woods, scattering crunchy leaves, stealing this diminishing bit of bloody fluff from each other. Your long black fur is full of prickles and dirt and you don't even care.
The new guy is fast as hell on straightaways, and surprisingly light on his paws for such a hulk. Eating the meat out from the hide while you snap the squirrel back and forth is more of a challenge than you'd thought. But he's conservative with his jumps, still, and reaches out too often with paws that don't grip the same as hands, and you lead him on a wild chase over every possible log or rock or treacherous mucky patch, laughing at every spill or tumble. By the end he's gotten bolder, more daring, and when he leaps clear over you to spin and snatch he last little bit of tail back and— accidentally, apparently— swallows it, you're bowled over into an ungainly skid of your own. You pop back to your feet and shake the leaves and dirt off, then grin at him. "Not so bad!" You say, panting. "But I'm hungry again. I believe you said something about cheeseburgers?"
"Hell yes. Race you back to my clothes." You win the race, mostly because you remember where you put them and he isn't as clear on it. The trail is still deserted, conveniently. Shifting back to human is a bit more of an effort physically, and less of one mentally, somehow. Most of the leaves and burrs fall off you, but there's some still stuck in your hair; you struggle with that for a few moments, then give up and just get dressed. Back at your room, you consider the clothes you were wearing before, and how they are now cleaner than you are, and decide you want a shower first. "Do we need to swing by someplace to pick up your clothes?" you ask your new friend. "Or do you just want to borrow some of mine?"
You sniff interestedly around the space, locate his luggage, and stuff your head in it. He's been around, it seems, but certainly not the ways you've taken. Reeks of humans, machines, the nasty can-smell of automotive transportation. You pull your head back out and wave your tailtip at him uncertainly. What? Oh, yes. You don't have clothes. Why would you? A fur coat is stylish and appropriate at nearly any event you'd care to attend.
You shrug. "Help yourself, then." Taking your clothes into the bathroom with you -- and thus your keys and wallet -- you leave the rest of your things to his mercy. Your weapon is still out there, but it's got a trigger lock on, and the key's in here with you, which would alert any local pawnshop it's stolen and give you time to recover it if it vanished. Not that you think your new friend is going to rob you. You're half expecting him to still be a wolf when you come out of the bathroom, but you really hope he's not. You want to talk over lunch, and also see what he looks like as a human. ((bel's been out of the military about 6 months, his hair's about winter soldier length rn))
You give yourself a good shaking-out while your new friend's attending to his grooming, then hop on the bed to chew out the burrs and lick the rest of your coat into proper shape. Might as well make an effort.
Emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, you consider him gravely. "I thought we were getting hamburgers, dude." He looks at you. Doggedly. "Did you bring a 'service animal' vest? Because I didn't. You're not getting into a restaurant without one." When he remains reluctant, you pick out a nice, clean-folded set of boxers, jeans, and t-shirt from your suitcase and set them on the bathroom counter for him. "What are you, shy? I changed in front of you no problem. Look, I want to know your name, I want to talk about this whole -- thing. If I just wanted to learn to chase squirrels I could learn that from an actual dog."
Urrghfgh. Ears back, you make your way— very reproachfully— into the bathroom. You give him a final disappointed look over your shoulder, then kick the door closed with a hindpaw. Right, so, human. Human, human... human. You pace back and forth in the bathroom, take a few deep huffs, give a hop and a shake. Human. It's been years— how do you?— how do you get there? Hands, feet, great big gangly legs. Incisors. Human. You double back and chew on your tail, whining to yourself. It doesn't help. Rear up and put your forepaws on the sink, squint at yourself in the mirror. There's your snout, your ears, your handsome dark-and-light face. What does that other bit of you look like? You reach. It's like clawing your way out of a muddy ditch: slippery, exhausting, a scrambling filthy muddle. Your teeth don't fit in your mouth, your ears want to turn inside out. Your eyes see colors your brain can't understand. A final, heaving effort gets you over the edge, and when you flop back down to the floor it's on hands and ungainly human knees. You gasp for air and shiver. God, human skin is sensitive. It's like you're coated with nose-skin all over. And the— the— mating bits, absurdly proportioned and just about always ready to go. Fuck. Maybe your new friend will give you a tumble, that'd be a damn relief. He practically owes you, anyway, it's his fault you're fumbling about like this, peeled-raw. Red. Red and purple. Orange. You paw the clothes to the ground with you, take your time with the observation. Every last little stitch, the grain of the fabric, any number of hues you didn't even have concepts before. Near and far vision, a sharp-edged clarity, depth and purpose. And the set of impulses that come with fingers: pull apart, put together, tie in knots, stack, arrange, push, twist. Subtle and creative. It's a long, hesitant process to get the shirt on, but you're more confident with the boxers and very nearly competent when you grab the jeans to pull them up. The little button, though— and the zip— you give it up as a bad job, and rear up on your squashy hind feet to try and fumble the door open. ....fuck. Knobs. Fuck doorknobs. You smack the door and whine sharply. Let me out!
The noises from the bathroom had you suspicious, and the fact that he whines while rattling the door confirms it. Werewolf or no, this guy has a wolf mind, not a human one. So when you open the door for him, you're pretty much prepared for anything. The first thing you notice is: "Your fly's open."
You roll your eyes. Yes, obviously, and you gesture a grand invitation towards the offending clasp with your spare hand. The other's got a primate death-grip on the doorframe. The damage to your right hind leg is a lot more of a nuisance to manage when you're bipedal.
"Seriously?" You roll your eyes, but you do up his fly for him, managing not to be a perv about it. Then you take a step back and look him over. Thing one: he looks like he went through a propeller face-first. He's not missing any important bits, and his face isn't distorted, so it's not as bad as some you've seen. Still, that is a lot of scarring. Thing two: he manages to be, somehow, really cute anyway. Bit on the short side, lean and trim, big dark eyes, a kind of coiled-spring energy that makes you want. Thing three: he holds himself like he thinks he's going to fall over if he moves. "You want a shoulder to steady on?" you offer. "Take a few turns around the room while you get used to it? I'm guessing it's been a long time."
You nod and transfer your grip to his arm, let him ease you around the room for a few turns. It gets easier as you remember how to balance your spine, to swing your legs out and keep your shoulders level. Taking a last, meandering lap all on your own, you finish by sitting on the endge of the bed, bent at the appropriate angles. "I'm," you start hesitantly, and lick your teeth with you thick, short tongue. "I-I'm Errrs. Erskin." You stick your hand out shyly, pads down, for a shake. It's more awkward than giving a paw, you don't remember if you should be spreading your fingers out or not.
Hugely relieved that he can speak at all -- you were beginning to doubt it -- you shake his hand warmly despite the odd angle he presented it at. "Bel," you tell him. "Bel Kadros. So, shall we go get that burger? Or we could order a pizza and eat it here," you add, in case relearning how to human is not something he feels like doing in a restaurant. You would sympathize with that. It's gotta be worse than relearning how to civilian.
You frown at him, the skin between your eyebrows crinkling together. "If you're-- were, were going to orrr-- order. In. Then--" and you wave an indignant hand at yourself.
"I don't seem to be able to understand wolf language when I'm human, and I want to talk with you. Also, the motel would either charge me extra or kick me out for having a 'dog' in here. Anyway, what I want is a bacon cheeseburger, the huge kind you get at those chain sit-down places. Chili Fridays or whatever. But dude, you look awkward as hell, and I wouldn't blame you if you don't want to deal with a restaurant, so I could be okay with pizza. Honestly, anything that isn't leaking its intestinal contents on the meat would be an improvement on the taste in my mouth right now."
