You're every bit as licky at the pleasant prospect of a running date, so it takes the two of you a while to get back en route. "I wonder how our dads are doing," you muse as the safehouse comes in sight. "Is Helen in touch with them, do you think?"
You frown at that. You hadn't actually been thinking about anything outside of what's here and now, and it takes a little effort to focus on such distant hypotheticals as whatever your fathers are up to, wherever they are. "Maybe?" you hazard.
"I'll ask her. I'm sure they're okay," you reassure him. "My dad's pretty badass, and yours is a superspy or something."
"Well of course he isn't in trouble," you say. "He's my dad. He can do anything. Some people's dads can't, but mine can."
"You," you point out in an awed tone, "are the cutest thing i've ever seen." From up ahead: "Come on, you guys, Helen's cooking something, we can smell it!" "Oh, well then!" You're not about to dash off ahead and leave Erskin, but he could surely pick up the pace a little.
"Well fine, we'll race!" you say, and put on your best turn of speed. You're more than a little erratic in direction and velocity, but also currently winning.
You think you are admirably subtle about pacing him and disguising your assists as teasing shoulder-bumps when he veers. At the door of the building, Pancho and Logan join you -- Pancho probably didn't want to try to herd Logan through the maze alone -- and the result is that you all tumble into the furnished room in one big, happy, steaming, burr-covered, grass-stained mob. "Hi, Helen!" you shout. It comes out as AROU!
"Hello to you too, Mister," Helen says, and gives his side a few thumps when he comes close. "We've got reconstituted eggs, canned bread, and an unholy mess of spam. Anything sound good?"
You study the offering, then tap out S A N D W I C H and nod at the bread, eggs, spam, and bread in turn. "I'm gonna get her to make you a sandwich, Erskin." Pancho says wryly, "You guys's wedding cake is going to be a ham on rye the size of a rescue raft, isn't it."
"Wedding, hell, I want a raft-size sandwich for a first date," you laugh, and stick your nose under Helen's elbow to grab a spam slice. "I'm not easy!"
"I'm basically going to build him a house out of sandwich," you agree. "Just solid sandwich. He can eat rooms out of it for us to live in." Helen finishes putting together a sort of camping-food egg mcmuffin, and you pick up the plate delicately in your teeth to carry it to Erskin, tail wagging like mad.
"Aw, mighty hunter," you praise him, and lick him proudly between the ears. Then you shoulder him away from your meal and devour it.
Pleased with your success, you leave him to it and move aside so the others can get something to eat. You had the most success with mice, so you'll take whatever's left, if there's any. In the meantime, you tap for Helen, H A V E U H E A R D F R O M D A D.
"Sorry, kid, we're on radio silence out here. I don't even have cell reception." She scruffles his ears sympathetically. "Don't worry, though, this kind of clean-up op's the Agency's bread and butter. Everything's gonna be fine."
You nod, and dutifully try to put it out of your mind. It's easier as a wolf, you find. It's too much effort to hold multiple thoughts in your head at once; your brain just doesn't have the capacity to run an anxiety loop in the background while you're doing stuff. There's some egg left when everyone else has had their meal, so you finish that off. Then you go and flop on Erskin for a post-meal grooming. There's something tangled in your neck fur just under your left ear that's pulling in a super annoying way and you're hoping he can get it off. Pancho, having the same sort of idea, is untangling some burdock stickers from Erskin's tail. Logan licks Helen's face. You don't know if she's trying to join the grooming party or just wants attention.
You chew burrs and grass stems out of Bel's mane, vaguely jealous of how long it's getting. He's going to be the size of a very furry tank when his winter coat's completely filled in, even now you could probably lose a colony of mice in his tail. "Look at you, you're so handsome!" you complain. "Look at this. So much fluff. You're disgraceful. You should be ashamed! You should be auctioned by the inch. You're too damn pretty." You gnaw reproachfully on his shoulder.
You do the duck-and-whine that's the canine equivalent of a blush, squirmingly pleased at the grumpy compliments. "You can't auction me off, I'm all yours. Ooh, yeah, there's something itchy right -- there." Pancho interrupts. "Guys?" You turn and look. The burr she removed has gotten stuck on her cheek somehow. "I need to take a selfie and I have no hands," she despairs, while you roll with laughter.
You grab his paw in your teeth and flop over, pulling him down with you. You remain like this, tail slowly waving, while Bel removes your facial adornment. This being a wolf gig doesn't suck.
