Where Woofs (18+)

There's a moment of tension, not quite alarm but on the verge of it, at waking up in this unfamiliar place, in this enclosed space, and wolf-shaped. But the smells of Erskin and leftover goose convey safety and comfort in very compact shorthand, and you relax as soon as you're conscious enough to be aware of them. "You? Are so. Awesome." He even managed to pile some gravy-mooshy potatoes in the hollow of the ribs, what a good boyfriend. Friend-friend. Whatever.

"Breakfast under bed, the nadir of decadence," you retort after savoring a mouthful or two. The Wolf for 'the lowest point of something' is actually a lot less obscure a term than the English one. You guess it must be handy for planning hunts or something.

 

You lick some potatos, then bite the edge of the goose and pull it towards yourself, just to tease. This devolves into a great deal of giggly nipping and licking and tugging-of-war in between defensive eating, and when he wins by crunching up and swallowing the last knob of bone you get a paw slung around his neck and wash his snout enthusiastically.

"You're lovely," you say happily. "Good job, well done. D'you have anything in mind to do today? I want to run and run, we haven't done enough of that for— for nearly the whole time we've been palling about. We should run. We should do thirty miles at least, I've got—" you give the notion for the eager, frantic anticipation of movement and distance, travel, "— and I should think you would too, I haven't seen you go all-out yet."

 

"Aw, we can't, Erskin. Not in wolf form, not in Minnetonka. There's no real wilderness anywhere around here, it's all built up. There's Carver Park not too far away, but two unattended unleashed 'dogs'... it's probably going to be full of schoolchildren by noon, too." You huff regret and flop on your side to stretch out your legs, all four of them. Running does sound fantastic, but it'll have to wait until you get farther north. "I wonder if my bike is still in the garage," you muse. "There's bike trails. You could run alongside. Then you could go as fast as you want and I could keep up in human form."

 

You make a grumble and gnaw on one of his near leg bones. "Well, alright, so long as we get some distance in. I just want to go."

 

"I feel you, man. I'm just taking your lessons to heart. You're the one who keeps pushing secrecy." You shove him affectionately, then wriggle out from under the bed so you can stretch and change.

Your bike is, indeed, still in the garage, though it needs its chain oiled and its tires reinflated. You also have to pack a lunch and some water bottles, leave a note for Dad, print out the trail map, and clean up the greasy spot under the bed where you ate the goose, because Greta doesn't deserve to have to deal with that. All told, it's midmorning by the time you set out, and Erskin is restless as a toddler. You tease him for it, and get your elbow lightly gnawed for your trouble.

 

Finally you've gotten your collar and lead on, Bel mounts up, and you're off. It's good to stretch out, and for the first few miles you run as fast as you possibly go, Bel trailing along behind like a pull toy, before you settle into a steady lope and run abreast the rest of the way to the park. Periodically Bel wants to stop for water, and you sit and pant and and drink when offered, but it feels best to move, to be going somewhere, even if that somewhere's in a loop. The park is lovely, the lakes are nice, the ducks deeply offended when chased around.

Bel eats his lunch and shares with you, though you're not interested in more than a few bites for flavor, while you're in this sort of mindset. You take a few meandering laps around the park, enjoying yourself as the afternoon stretches on, then go all-out on the way back to the house.

You stand in the garage, panting happily while Bel puts the bicycle back and unclips your lead and collar, then lick his hands gratefully and trot after him back to the house, where you proceed to drink all the water.

After that you lie on the cool flat hearthstones, very pleased with everything, and chew grit out of your toes.

 

"That was pretty great," you admit as you sprawl beside him.

Your phone buzzes with a text. After checking it, you convey, "Dad's inviting me out to a restaurant. I'd have to leave you behind, but it occurs to me you might like some alone time."

 

You wag your tail in agreement. Solitude would be restful, and you know he'll be back. Probably with leftovers. In the meanwhile you can just lie around and let the part of your brain that talks to people cool off.

 

You hug him, text your acceptance, then go to shower and get ready. It's been a while since you dressed up in anything but a uniform, and your suit jacket is a little tight across the shoulders, but not excessively so. You still feel sharp and handsome enough that you have to go show Erskin before you leave.

 

He's groomed himself and put on new clothes. From what you can tell of clothes they're nice, and make him look dignified and important. You think he's generally more attractive naked, or in fur, but by human standards you suppose he quite probably makes the grade.

You nose him sharply between the legs from behind, just to enjoy the startled noise he makes, then dance back out of reach and laugh when he can't chase you. His outfit's too restrictive. To really rub it in you climb the back of the couch and balance there, wagging at him provokingly.

 

You stick your tongue out at him. "Try not to wreck the place. I'll bring you home a snack. Later!"

As you drive off to meet your dad, you can't help thinking how utterly adorable Erskin would look in a suit. When your imagination supplies white corsages and a preacher, you metaphorically poke your mind's eyes Three Stooges style and make an effort to think about the climbing possibilities around Calgary. Because jeez.

The restaurant has a shiny facade of 'classy' that doesn't really extend to the food. Dad is embarrassed, but you don't care much. It's just nice to spend time with him, and to talk with him grownup-to-grownup instead of parent-and-child. You talk a little about your plans, the idea that you might want to have a look at the Canadian Rockies on the way to Alaska, just work your way northward from beauty to beauty, learning to use Mom's camera as you go. When you apologize for planning such a long trip on his dime without consulting him, he waves it off. "Kiddo, I inherited a pile and the only thing I've ever really wanted to spend it on is you. It gets bigger when I'm not looking at it. You do whatever makes you happy, and let me worry about the funding."

After your big goose breakfast and multi-sandwich lunch, you're not especially hungry for once. You fill up on appetizers and salad, and bring home fully half your enormous but mediocre steak for Erskin. As you drive home, following his taillights through yet another autumn storm, you decide that you do want to tell him about The Werewolf Thing. Keeping secrets from him is just something you're not okay with.

 

You wake up from your sprawl on the now-chilly hearthstones when you hear them pull in the driveway, and the smell of beef hanging around Bel when he enters has you dancing excited circles around him, though after you knock heavily into his father you have to sit down in embarrassed apology. Bel ruffles ears and takes you into the kitchen to put the meat down on a plate.

He's got a very serious face on. You fix an ear on him expectantly, as you work through the delightfully chewy, salty steak.

 

You sit down with your back against the fridge to watch him eat. Once your dad's out of earshot, you say softly, "I thought about it, and I want to tell him. Because being honest with him is important to me, and because you're important to me, and it weirds me out to treat you as my dog when you're actually... kinda my best friend? Already? So. Are you okay with that?"

 

You figured he'd decide as much. He's an honest sort of person, and it's flattering he's got such consideration for you. A little strange, though, you can't have been running together for more than half a month so far. But you wag your tail in agreement, then remember to back it up with a deliberate nod.

Then you go back to your steak, which is excellent. He's still sitting there when you're done, so you suppose he wants some sort of support— tactical? emotional?— while he breaks the news. You go stand in front of him, at the ready, and rub your nose against his neck.

 

You hug him, glad but apprehensive, and then you take his collar off.

When you find Dad in the lounge, he's already changed into pyjamas and bathrobe and opened his puzzle book. He looks curiously at you when you sit down and set the collar on the table. "Why so serious?" he says. "And why've you still got your tie on?"

"Eh? Oh. Yeah, I could, um." You shed your suitcoat and tie, unbutton your shirt a couple buttons. That's better. "Well, Dad, I have something to tell you."

"I already know you're bisexual, Bel," he grins.

"I should goddamn hope so, it's not like I've been subtle!" you say mock-indignantly, grateful to have the tension broken. "No, it's... weirder than that. Ok, I'll never get another chance, so I'm going to do this the corny way." You draw yourself up solemnly. "Dad? I'm a werewolf."

He hesitates. "I don't get it. I'm sorry, did I ruin your joke?"

"It's not a joke. Those Taliban-funding, kid-fucking, drug-running assholes who killed my whole team? They were fucking werewolves. I never showed you the scar." You pull your pants leg up to show him the teeth marks on your calf: the guy tried to hamstring you, almost succeeded before you knifed him in the face.

One thing about your father: he is not a stupid man. He studies the scar, studies your face, glances at the collar on the table, and then stands up and takes off his bathrobe and presents it to Erskin. "Care to join the conversation?"

God damn you love your dad.

 

You hesitate, suddenly terrifically shy, but take the bathrobe in your teeth and get your paws through the armholes. This is a new and not particularly comfortable situation for you, breaking the news to someone's parent, but you'd owe it to Bel for the sandwiches, let alone everything else.

By the time you've got the bathrobe preparatorily situated you can tell any lingering doubts the man might have are gone. You raise a paw— wait, please— take a deep breath, and go at it. Things grind and crackle again, tonight, things tear inside you. You push through it, the feeling of climbing through thorns, flaying yourself, and make slippery tenuous bit-by-bit progress, stubbornly huffing through your fangs, till you've got yourself pressed into just about the right shape.

God, that was hard. The moon's dragging on you already, you can feel it. You lean on your hands and pant raggedly. You don't think you've got the teeth entirely right.

"Fuck," you mumble, licking them. Still a few too many fangs, hell, and a thick taste of blood. You grope around for Bel and curl into his side. His father looks several different shades of upset. Bel wipes your nose.

"Sorry," you say, trying to get your jumbled-up brain back in order, to reassure him. "I'm. I'm mostly wolf, and it's a, a, a bad time for it. The change. It isn't actually supposed to be that, that unpleasant. To watch. I think. It's not like that for your son. The change is easier for his sort."

You stick a hand out. "It's, er, it's Erskin, hello, I'm Erskin. Aspera." There. You think you've gotten about as human-shaped as you're going to manage tonight.

 

Dad takes his hand solemnly. "I'm sorry for the trouble, and thank you. Alexander Kadros. Call me Alex, or Dad if you like." He looks to you, kind of stunned, and you know what he wants.

"Just a second." To Erskin, "Come on, bro, let's get you on the couch. You look like pan-fried hell." Then you step out of view of the windows -- what with the big yard and lake view, someone would have to be spying with binoculars to see you, but operational security is a thing, and you don't feel like getting on the floor where Erskin changed. You pile your clothes neatly on a chair, and drop into fur, as easily as exhaling.

When you approach your father, he's tense, a little frightened, but he doesn't flinch. After a long moment, he reaches out his hand to you, and you lick it. He slips off the chair, onto his knees, and throws his arms around your neck. "Just tell me what you need, Bel," he says, sounding a little choked up. "You're all I've got."

"Erskin, tell him I said this is it. This is all I need, I'm good now. Please pass that on."

 

You're feeling better already, just from having gotten your breath, and you relay the message without stammering or translation errors.

"Can we, er, assist you with anything?" you hazard. "I'm sure this all comes as rather a shock."

 

Ouch.

"No, sir, I'm afraid not," you say, mindful of Bel's devestation. "As far as I understand it he was completely bereaved— er, the only survivor of his f— his unit. I've never been part of any military, I came across him in some little town near the state line a few weeks ago. I was taking a breather to feed back up for the push to Canada, I'm a, a rover. A wandering bachelor? A globe trotter? And we rather fell in together.

"It's hard on, on new—" you nod to Bel. "To the sort who get turned into what we are. Er, victims? Especially so violently. It's an adjustment. There's a lot to take stock of. So he and I are of a mind to go along together till he gets his feet properly underneath him."

Not wanting Alex to think his son is some sort of pitiful charity case, you hasten to add, "He pays me in sandwiches."