You hurt, distantly but pervasively, and your mouth tastes like you tried to suck-start a fighter jet. Your vision is blurry. Your body feels heavy. Everything is very slightly terrible. But the only really important thing is: where is Erskin? Attempting to articulate this produces the following speech: "Hngl?"
You get up on your hind legs and brace your forepaws on the cot by his shoulder. "I'm here, love, shh," you tell him. You also lick his neck. He tastes pretty bad.
There he is. World reassembled correctly. You smile for him. "Hi there, Trouble. You okay?" It actually comes out largely in Wolf, somehow, because your voice is still not cooperating. You lift your arms as much as you can, which is not much. "Snuggle?"
You pull yourself awkwardly on to the cot with a little whimper of pain, but it doesn't take too long. You don't want to lay on top of him, but he budges over to give you room to stretch out alongside, and lay your chin on his shoulder. You wash his cheek until it doesn't taste so much like chemical disinfectant.
You hug him as best you can manage, smiling with relief and sheer gladness to be alive. And once your eyes clear a bit, there's your dad, sleeping in a chair like a doofus. He shouldn't sleep in chairs, it's hard on his neck. "Thank you for calling Dad," you murmur to Erskin. "And covering me up, and moving me to where there was clean snow. I don't think I would've made it if you hadn't."
"Well, maybe you wouldn't have gotten so hurt if I hadn't run away like some rabbit and left everything for you to handle," you say unhappily. "You shouldn't have had to."
"No," you say sternly. "Don't you blame yourself. You would've gotten killed. I think the only reason I beat him was because he was expecting like... angry wolf fu, not Krav Maga." You gingerly pat at your stitched-up side -- ow, bad idea. "This is way better than losing you."
"You almost did anyway though!" you wail. "I just ran and ran and even when I remembered you I didn't want to come back. I could be in Canada now!" You hide your face against his side. "Let me be sorry, okay? It was bad, everything was bad."
"Okay. I don't want to... to tell you what to feel. I just. Please don't blame yourself for what I chose to do. Running was a sensible choice. If he hadn't got me in the leg as an opener I might've run too." You kiss his head between his poor mournful ears. "Christ, you've lost family to these assholes, of course you were scared."
You grumble a little, trying to rally yourself to some better state of mind. "Well, I suppose there's... there's one less of them out there now. For people to lose family to. That's something." You give a little shiver. "I've never had such a close call, though, with anyone. I've always been able to tell before the, the attack, get away before then, even with the hold trap— I didn't smell anything this time. No warning. Just, pow."
"He was military." The theory solidifies as you speak it. "The way he fought -- he was cautious but not afraid, he knew I was weakening and he was confident enough to outwait me. And he had no regrets. He was calm as a suicide bomber. A fanatic." You shake your head slightly. "I thought you were being paranoid at the time, trying to hide me, but there's no way a guy like that doesn't have some kind of support system. There's... there's an organization out there."
"Yes," you say simply. "A lot of them. There's a lot of them. And they have phones, and poison, and, and the internet, and dogs. Spells, too, sometimes." You huff a long sigh. "I'm sad for them, I think they mostly lose family to monsters, like you did, and that gets them started on all this. So I'm sad for us but I'm almost more sad for them. You know?"
"Yeah, me too, I think," you sigh, thinking: only because he didn't get you, Erskin. Which sort of proves his point. "But they can't go around doing murders. I can't let them. Now that I know, I can't let them." It's terrifying, and daunting, and wonderful: purpose, after so long without.
"Oh, fuck, are you going back to war?" you ask, and nose him hard in the jaw. "You cut that out. You're not going to be a... a werewolf werewolf-hunter hunter. I suspect your dad will sit on you if you try, and I'll help."
"Let's ask him when he wakes up," you return stubbornly. "Babe, however that guy found us -- how did he find us? You think he killed Alphabutt von Trenchcoat too? I was wondering about that." Your thoughts are getting disorganized. "You know what I should do, I should give my statement to the police before I push the morphine button. Is what I should do. Tell 'em everything except that we know why the crazy came after us."
"There's a morphine button? Good, I don't think I can hold you down without popping your stitches if you decide to draw your sword and sally the fuck forth right now. You absurd pain in the tailbone." You find the morphine button and paw it firmly, then jaw-hold his face when he protests.
You groan. "Erskin, you jerk, now I won't be able to give a statement, I'll be floating on pink clouds." "Bel, it's five in the morning," your dad mumbles from his chair. "Nobody's waiting to take a statement." "Television lied to me," you say solemnly, and he laughs like you'd hoped. Then he has to come over and gingerly hug you, and hug Erskin, and make unbearable brave sniffle-smile faces at you until you hide your eyes against Erskin's ruff and say, "Make Dad stop sniffle-smiling at me, I can't take it." "Oh, live with it," Dad says happily. "I almost lost you again, I can make faces if I want." "Well, fine, but you owe me pudding." You sigh resignedly: "Morphine. Wow."
"I want one of these permanently installed," you tell Alex, the morphine push-box still proprietarily under your paw. "I will press it whenever he's about to knife a bear. Or all of North America's monster hunting organizations."
"He's talking to me, isn't he?" Dad says. You translate. "Not that I think a morphine addiction is a good idea, but I have definitely wished Bel had a 'stop this nonsense' button before." You roll your eyes at him. "Dad, go get a hotel room. You can't sleep in chairs, it's bad for your neck." "I couldn't leave. Not until you woke up," he says seriously, and then adds sarcastically, "and you're welcome for riding to the rescue in an evac chopper, by the way." "Manners or morphine, pick one," you say with an inane little giggle. But you find his hand with your splinted fingers and pat it. "I'll thank you for that when my side heals up a bit. Cuz I'm gonna bawl like a baby and that'd hurt right now." "Fair enough." He kisses your forehead, and then Erskin's, and leaves, turning back once at the door to smile at you. He's still giving quiet reminders or instructions or something to the guards outside when sleep swarms up on you like a pile of warm golden bees. You snuzzle against Erskin for safety; he'll guard you while you sleep. You can sleep because he's here and everything's all right now. "So glad of you," you mumble.
You're thirsty, and hurting, and still scared of what might come through the door. But you're tired again, and it's not so hard to lean against him and doze.
