"No, just a little tired. If there's traps I'll undo them. I'll stick with you. I've got your back, don't worry about it. Do you still hurt anywhere?"
"Sore. In my bones. Under my skin..." You tuck your tail more tightly and shudder again. "It's feeling better. The bad-- the bad feeling-- is going away."
"Tell you what. Let me go human so I can deal with the water jug, I'll get you some water, make me some tea or something, it's getting chilly. And then we can curl up in the blankets and warm your achey bones. I'm not sleepy yet, but I can read. I could read to you if you like."
"Alright. Alright. We should work on--signals? Sometime? Shorthand? While you're learning to, to understand this way of talking. Not tonight, I suppose. Whenever. Don't strain yourself." You lick his throat and jaw, anxiously, and hover when he goes to change.
Since he insists on coming outside with you while you make tea, you stir the fire a little higher than strictly necessary, and drape your hoodie over his furry back instead of wearing it yourself. While you wait for the kettle to boil, you ruffle his ears and look at the stars, feeling generally contented despite the small crisis. Having made yourself a big thermos mug of instant chai, and refilled your saucepan with clean water for him, you bring the drinks into the tent and zip the flap closed. By the light of your tablet screen, the two of you burrow into the bedding. "Cozy?" you inquire. "Got everything you need?"
"Good." You kiss the top of his head. Then you open your book app and flick through your list. "What shall I read... ah, of course." He deserves to know what all the jokes are about, after all. You take a sip of your tea and begin: “Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.”
You listen attentively until he says 'Harry Potter', then h0wl in betrayal and roll over on your back to die.
You crow with triumphant laughter and blow a failure of a raspberry on his tummy (the fur keeps it from blblbl-ing properly). "Okay, but it's a good story," you laugh. "Come on, snuggle back in, you can have your revenge by falling asleep on me and not listening."
You make sad moans, but when he continues to hold the blankets up for you, you roll on to your side and scoot into the warm hollow. But still sadly moaning. You've got your pride.
"Yes, I know, I'm a traitorous bastard who should probably be drowned in motor oil or lime sherbet or something. But there's no justice in this world, so I will continue to sin." And you do. But at least he gets warm cuddles with his objectionable fiction.
The next morning goes better than you'd feared it would. Bel mostly keeps himself entertained, and asks you questions intended to have clear, yes-or-no answers. You keep pace as he jogs, occasionally nipping his heels and trying to pull his shoelaces undone, and afterwards there's a light breakfast and a slightly more intense game of breakfast keep-away. Then you go off to rent a boat for fishing. Small boats are so interesting. You mark the outside while Bel settles the human ownership procedures, then sit in the boat while Bel drags it out on to the water. You eat a worm. Bel closes the box with the worms in it. You flip the latches with your nose and eat another worm. Bel closes the box and holds it under his arm. You lay your head in his lap and stare at him in heartbroken starvation, but receive no worms for your troubles. He reads to you more while you sit in the boat and wait for the fish. The reading device is sealed in a clear plastic ziploc, so if it goes overboard it'll float instead of die, which you think is very clever. Harry Potter remains mostly baffling, with a side of stupid and boring, but you don't mind Bel's voice. You have spitefully decided to cheer for the Dursleys, and wag your tail every time any of them do anything. You hope they seduce Hagrid and have fifteen gigantic fat babies and Harry Potter dies in a magical ditch somewhere.
You catch nothing until around the time you're thinking of heading back for lunch, at which point it starts raining fitfully, and the fish start biting like mad. You catch a couple of handsome brown trout, and then a walleye that's too small, so you try to throw it back, but the same damn fish ends up on your hook ten minutes later so you give it to Erskin with the instruction, "It doesn't want to live. Do the merciful, will you?" Then you catch a northern as long as your arm, and that's it, you're done. The rain's not bothering either of you, but more fish than this won't fit in your cooler. "Stocked lakes are almost too easy," you muse as you row back to shore. "But I guess we want to start the fire before everything gets too soaked, if we want to fry these up. Which we do. Or would you rather have your share raw?"
You give him a pointed look until he rephrases, then nod yes to a fire. When he goes to get the boat to shore, you wait until just the right moment, then throw your weight against the other side of the boat so that he pitches out face-first into the water rather than climbing out to wade. When he comes up sputtering you do a hopping victory dance, yipping with glee, then vault off the side, splash off to shore, and continue to taunt him from land with your pelt wringing wet. The minute he gets close enough, he's getting sprayed.
"You're a humongous asshole," you laugh. "I could get hypothermia and die, you know." You're not going to get hypothermia and die. Even before you got bitten, you could handle cold water. You trained for it. But you moan theatrically about how you're going to turn into an icicle now and then who will fry fish for him -- until he shakes all over you, at which point you trail off into sputters. And then when you heft the canoe upside-down over your head to put it on the rack, it pours rainwater all over you. "Oh good," you say calmly, while Erskin goes into fresh fits of canine laughter.
Eventually you take pity on him, and steal a scratchy blanket from the back of the registration shack for him. From the face he makes, it's not much better than just standing there being soggy. You trot on ahead to go start setting up the fire. You're clumsy with matches and tend to singe your whiskers, even with the long wooden ones, but you can drag any amount of sticks and logs around.
The blanket might not be much help, but the way he brought it to you was super cute, and the boat rental guy tells you to hang onto it and just bring it back tomorrow or whenever. He also offers to drive you to your campsite, but you decline; the walk will warm you up. Erskin has also assembled wood into a passable heap by the time you get there, which makes you tremendously pleased. Doing camp chores together is one of your favorite things, and it's been so long since you had anyone to share it with. Once he's got the wood arranged how he wants it, you bring out the bark shavings and magnesium firestarter you keep dry in a plastic bag, and get a little blaze going. It's smoky at first -- steamy, really -- but the rain's still intermittent and nothing's soaked through yet. The wood dries out soon enough. Then you set to cleaning the fish. "Want the heads?" you offer.
You do want the heads! You bounce impatiently until he flicks one at you, then settle onto your elbows and haunches to really enjoy it. After two heads are crunched and no more are forthcoming for a minute, you go and get him dry clothes from the tent. The pants get a little dusty in transport, but it's the thought that counts.
"Oh hey, thanks!" You rinse the scales off your hands and change into the luxury of dry clothes. You hang your soaked clothes over some bushes; here under the canopy of bright maple leaves, they're still getting dripped on a bit, but with the heat of the fire they can maybe get a head start on drying. Better than sitting in a mildew wad in the tent, anyhow. You return the favor by rubbing him down with a towel. After that, it's a quick business to fry the fish fillets in a little butter and eat them while they're hot. The two of you eat off of one plate, sitting on the folded blanket next to the fire. The occasional rain drip goes down your neck, but it just makes you laugh. "This is how I like to live," you explain. "Just enough tools, just enough civilization to enjoy the little luxuries, like fried fish. But out in the world, not cooped up in a room."
You lick butter off his wrist in pleased agreement. Fires are easy enough to live without, on the move, but hot food is a delightful treat. It'd be nice if he wanted to stick around for awhile.
