"Mm-hmm. I think you're only say that because I'm taken." A few things are settling in his mind, though. "How likely are you to stop a fight between humans? If there are no supernatural creatures involved?"
Ahh, christ. He pulls his hands down over his face.
"Stop a fight, sure. I can get in between anyone throwing a punch. I just tend to misinterpret situations or really make some enemies when it's not some fuck-off monster trying to rip my guts out: there's a reason we Belmonts hunted monsters and didn't become judges or priests."
"Yeah... I'm going to remove that curse. Let you help people who need you, as long as you keep giving me your side of things after." It is the right thing to do even if it is going to make him even more unpopular.
He nods, and doesn’t say thank you, even if a part of him wants to. How do you thank someone who has the power to reattach a limb someone else chopped off and is doing so, but only after a discussion about it?
“Sure. Times like these I wish I were a better writer: could have written you a little book about each person I’ve punched in the face here.”
“Well. Happy birthday.” He chuckles. How does someone even keep track of their birthday? He can vaguely pin his to a season, and the dates are all wrong here.
“You might be surprised. Or upset. I had a few of those earlier.”
“In that case, I might have to actually write something. Alucard will die of shock.” He chuckles, mood lightening now that he knows he’ll be back to normal soon.
He waves a hand, I don't mind. "I was twenty-nine. Almost thirty. Actually, no one under nineteen or twenty can survive the change, so we're all adults when we turn."
"Shit," he says again, feeling old all over again. He shouldn't, but it isn't helped by, "The average wolf lives five to ten years after being turned. I'm ancient for lycanthropes. Now I feel old for a human, too."
He shrugs. "It's how things go. I'm glad to still be alive. I'm glad I graduated so I could keep living. But that doesn't make life more certain. I feel good about how I live my life."
"How is it at 23?" A wry smile, offering him a way to deflect. "I was an asshole at 23. Alcoholic, just starting out in my career and sure I already knew more than any senior partner."
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He knows the answer, he just needs to hear it.
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"Stop a fight, sure. I can get in between anyone throwing a punch. I just tend to misinterpret situations or really make some enemies when it's not some fuck-off monster trying to rip my guts out: there's a reason we Belmonts hunted monsters and didn't become judges or priests."
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"I'm asking because I think you're in a better position to spot trouble than a warden is."
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“Sure. Times like these I wish I were a better writer: could have written you a little book about each person I’ve punched in the face here.”
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“You might be surprised. Or upset. I had a few of those earlier.”
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“Would it be rude to ask how old you turned?”
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"How old you just turned. Three days ago."
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A pause as he thinks about how old that feels. "Shit."
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"Uh. Well. I think probably....Somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-four."
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"You'd probably be dead in my world, too. Human or lycanthrope."
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Do you?
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"At 52, I should hope you like living."
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"I'm not alive anymore, so it's kind of a dead point? It's all right. Better than undeath, I'd imagine."
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