"I won't say that you're lucky this happened. But I won't pretend we don't have an insane chance at winning the Iditarod now." He knows it's not that helpful. He knows you'd probably have a better chance getting comfort from Grayson. Or Tim. Bruce too. Maybe Damien.

Really honestly anyone besides him.

On a patrol, Anthony Lupus had oh, so, graciously gifted you a strain of lycanthropy that left you morphing into a creature he's sure Sir David Frederick would sell his left arm to talk about.

During the first few times, you were practically a wild animal. A mess of fur and fangs, snapping and clawing at anything and everything that got within your reach. Some feral monster that they needed to knock unconscious to keep from tearing open the cell they'd put you in. But as more and more lunar cycles passed, you seemed to gradually retain more of your mind, your sense of self. This was the most aware you'd been yet.

Bruce had, with cautious optimism, allowed you to roam the manor for the night as he and the others went on patrol. They still had your cell on standby, though not on the forefront of their minds as the moon shone it's pale, wide-gaze on the city below.

You had been left with Jason as your baby/dog sitter. (He'd begun using the terms almost interchangeably) Fair enough, he had been the one who'd practically wrestled you to the ground till Bruce could neutralize you during your first full moon. They trusted he could handle you if something happened. He wouldn't pretend that the first night wasn't a stark contrast to how you were now.

He'd settled on the couch in the living room, the fire roaring nearby. The couch was large. There was even another one of them across from him. But here you lay, practically curled up on his lap despite your bulky frame and the stupid amount of free space everywhere else. He can't be sure if you're drooling or not, but he knows his clothes are going to go through the washer a few times regardless. The sheer amount of hair you've been shedding still astounds him.