You nod. "I haven't changed at all since the fight. I don't want to find out where all these holes migrate to." Much as you've been enjoying the banter, this seems like the best chance you're going to get to bring up the serious topic, the elephant in the room. "Lord Aspera, please tell me about werewolf hunters. It seems there's a strain of domestic terrorism going on that the police aren't equipped to address, and I can't just shrug that off."
"There's a lot going on in America the police aren't equipped to address," Lord Aspera says. When this doesn't go over well, he sighs, takes a drink, runs his fingers through his hair. "The popularity of homeland-defense werewolf hunters rises and falls with the population of monsters, and civilians affected by such" he says slowly. "I don't mean to be blaming the victims, here, but I do want to make it clear that this is a far more complicated, murky situation than your country's usual hatecrime, domestic terrorist, racially or religiously motivated paramilitary organizations. There are a lot of different sides to the preternatural parts of any nation— in your case, Weird America, or Supramerica, I've always thought that was pretty snappy. England's got a lot more history and hence a lot more silly names, though it's often called The Old Country." He seems to realize he's going off target. "There are organizations, secular and religious, that want to do away with every last scrap of spooky business, to the point of burning down every last hedgewitch's home or phone psychic's parlors. And of course there are counter-organizations that want to promote downright unearthly interests, to the point of throwing all the doors open and inviting the dungeon dimensions upstairs for a party. And somewhere in between are organizations with more specific objectives, such as whatever militia recruited a young man with a lot of dead friends and didn't bother to teach him the difference between the sort of ravening bloodthirsty horrorshow that needs to be put down, and an innocent chap just out for his morning constitutional."
You hear him out, and listen carefully, and nod acknowlegement, but you aren't too awed by his reputation to put in your own opinion. "I recognize it's complex and full of moral grays. But I've never been content to be treated as a monster to be eliminated, not as queer, not as autistic, and I won't settle for it as a werewolf. I'm not okay with the idea that there are people out there actively trying to kill us and no one can do anything about it. Letting them shoot first has not, empirically, proven a good solution."
"I'm not saying anyone shouldn't, or couldn't, do anything about the slaughter of innocents. I'm trying to convey that there's a hell of a lot to do, and you should be clear on what you're fighting for. Do you want revenge? Justice? To feel safe? Getting rid of this local chapter of slovenly malcontents shouldn't be difficult, not with the CIA to throw them to, but then what? I don't particularly feel like sitting here right in front of your poor father and give you a list of wars to run off to, young man, not while you're looking this keen about it."
"I always look keen," you say mildly. "I was born keen, ask Dad. I want -- since you ask -- ultimately -- for werewolves to be as safe or unsafe as any other citizen, which is to say, if someone murders me, I want it to be against the goddamn law. Since it's obviously not a good idea to simply come clean with the general public about our existence -- and not my decision to make in any case -- the best I can hope for is to find the wackjob militias and feed them to the CIA, as you suggested, or tip off law enforcement on other possible charges, so they're less able to act without scrutiny." You raise your eyebrows. "Sir. I may be young and angry, but I am neither stupid nor naive."
Aspera sighs. "Yes, I've never heard anyone your age say anything like that before," he says mildly, and smothers a little smile at Bel's look. "Your desire to work with— and within— the law certainly does you credit, Bel. I could do some digging into how directly the FBI and the CIA, maybe even the NSA, work with paranatural citizens. I know there's some amount of collaboration with freelance agents and informants, but there might be departments that offer direct employment. I'm going to go out on a limb and guess you don't want to work for the SCP Foundation, at this juncture: they'll hire on nearly anyone, in one capacity of another, but they're more of a doomsday device bomb squad, and don't much care about civil liberties."
"They're real?" you gape. "I heard rumors, but I thought it was all black-helicopter chemtrail bullshit." You look at Erskin, think about how determined he seems to keep you from running off on a crusade -- from knifing bears, literally or figuratively -- and adjust your goals a little. "I think what I need is an education. I need to know things like -- is anyone investigating this incident doing so in the knowlege that werewolves are real, that I am one, and that this does not make me a monster? If so, I'm content to let the FBI do the federal investigating; I had assumed they were either out of the loop or on the hunters' side -- I guess because of the impression I got from Erskin." You give him a wry smile. "Not that I blame you for wanting to avoid confrontations with them, but if 'run away' and 'fight when cornered' aren't our only options, I want to know."
Aspera grimaces, scratching his beard. "It's not like there's a manual to hand out, and wikis-- even libraries-- can hardly be trusted. I don't suppose Erskin's given you the metaphor of the hedge maze? What's true and where to go depends so much on where you start. Honestly, on the job training gives you the best ratio of stuff to nonsense, at least for one particular angle of endeavor." He holds up his hands as if to forstall Bel's impatience. "I know, it's very frustrating. The departments of the FBI you might most profitably contact could entirely fail to exist if you start out enquiring from this situation. Or they might only exist now and here. You're going to have to do a lot of guessing, and bluffing, and the occasional spot of bullying." He gives Alex a wry smile. "You end up with a very forceful personality, in this world, after awhile. Good intentions and an iron will are never to be underestimated."
You grimace. "I am legitimately terrible at guessing and bluffing. I don't suppose deductive reasoning will get me much of anywhere? Didn't think so." You sigh and lean on Erskin, resting your cheek against his hair. "I'm sorry if I seem ungrateful. I am honestly very thankful for everything you've told me, and for the job lead, and the advice. They just... won't help with the nightmares." Another grimace, this one apologetic. You didn't mean to guilt-trip.
Your dad salutes him with what's left of the beer. "Time. And rest. And family. Just like all the rest of us poor sods." You slip an arm gently around Bel's side. "For what it's worth, this is all just... how the world's always been, for me," you offer. "You know I'll stick with you till you get the hang of it. Or past then. But at least until then."
"Past," you say hopefully. "Past is good." You look at the remaining pizza, and suddenly just chewing it sounds like way too much work. "Can you help me back upstairs, babe? If I wait any longer I won't be able to do it. Uh. But you look really tired too." Your dad looks at Erskin's dad thoughtfully. "What do you say, Aspera, shall we make a hand-chair and get this boy to bed?"
You grin at the look on Bel's face. "Yes, do please carry the sleepy puppy to bed," you say, ruffling his hair. "Shouldn't be too hard," your dad says, pushing off from the table and cracking his back out. "He looks the light and dainty sort. A teacup chihuahua if I've ever seen one."
"I'm a delicate debutante," you agree demurely, as Erskin helps you stand and you tower over everyone in the room. Okay, you only have about two inches on your dad, but the Aspera family seems to produce mainly sports models. "All I ask is, Dad, if you feel your shoulder doing the thing --" "I'll set you down, yes, I'm not a martyr. Aspera, if you grab my arm like so..." They make a hand chair, and you sit carefully on their linked arms, one arm around each neck. They actually have less trouble lifting you than you expected. You may be big, but they're fit old guys and they don't have far to take you. You dare to hope you won't take a header down the stairs and pull out your stitches.
You take the opportunity to change in the kitchen, and make your way up the stairs on a sane number of legs, several slices— alright, maybe more like six slices— of pizza held firmly in your mouth. You deposit them under the bed, for later, then back out and go lean against your dad's legs before he goes back down to do manly old man things with Bel's dad. "I'm glad to see you again," you tell him. "I love you. I didn't run away because I didn't. I just couldn't stay." "I know, I know. You're a good boy, Erskin, you don't have to be anyone else." He scruffles your ears and you wag at him, fervently relieved. Then he goes downstairs and you go back to Bel's bed, and jump up beside him. When he digs his fingers into your fur you thump your tail a few times, and sigh. There are too many emotions for your brain, or even your bones. "Long day," you say.
"Yeah," you sigh. "We spent most of it sedated and it was still long. Scoot up like two inches, your foot is... yeah, better." Now that he's not digging into any of your stitches, you feel exhaustion pulling you down despite the fact that the morphine has pretty much entirely worn off and you ache like a bastard in way more places than seems reasonable. You're no longer on a drip, there isn't a morphine button. Surely there must've been some kind of pain relief planned... aha. Bottle on the bookshelf. Oxycodone. Rather than try to pour water for yourself or ask Erskin to change and do it, you just dry-swallow one. While you wait for it to kick in, you make polite, tactful conversation with your significant other: "Your dad is hot."
"Yeah!" You thump your tail again. "He's got an absolutely terrible pedigree, but good enough conformation my mom and aunt kept trying even after the first stillbirths. I mean, on and off. But I happened! So they were right! He said I got a lot of his face." Your tail is perhaps slightly out of control. But he did say that.
"Yeah, I noticed that right away. Dang, you're going to just... stay hot forever, aren't you?" This is a truly appealing prospect.
"Pff. Yes, I'm a troll, just like my father. Whom I am pretty sure I've seen you drooling over on more than one occasion." You can't reach his ear to bite it, so you tweak it with your fingers. "Dang, we both dodged the male pattern baldness bullet in a big way, we should gift our genetics to the world. Too bad there's no way we can mix ours. Uh... if there's some kind of freaky magic mpreg option out there, break it to me gently, I'm too sore to hide under the bed."
