bigapplesauce | bone canis [closed]

His fingers skim the length of his laptop, tracing its edges as he watches the text on the monitor, promoting some sort of entry-level job access tutorial, blur into parallel streaks. Irritating as he had found ROMAC on principle, it had at least been a useful inlet into the Rift's center of activity with a conveniently, moderately high salary.

Thus far, he has found Manhattan's job market to be comparatively disappointing.

The laptop snaps shut in an abrupt, frustrated jerk of motion, prefacing the inevitable downward arch of Rush's shoulders as he buries his face in his hands and breathes out, worn and protracted. He is tired, or he is reasonably certain he is tired - the other potential explanations for the excess of mental fatigue seem unlikely, as he is relatively sure he would remember being drunk and he is equally unlikely to be experiencing some dissociative episode apropos of nothing and, clearly, it has been a sufficient amount of time since he has last slept as he cannot remember the time he last slept, which serves as an adequate proof of assumption in his mind.

Rush shuts his eyes and tries to recover some sort of celerity or clarity of thought.

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The rate at which things are occurring strikes him as marginally alarming, as if he has just been recruited to some unknown cause in which his participation is imminent.

"Being a displaced member of mathematical intelligentsia is not a skillset applicable to keeping a dog," he says.

He stares at it. Thus far it seems to be avoiding doing anything besides snuffling intermittently and neglecting to put up even so much as a token resistance against gravity's slow, grasping, unrelenting pull.

The dog might possibly be growing on him.

The dog rolls onto his side, collar clinking against the floor, and then heaves a sigh that could pass for contentment. In truth, it's a bit more philosophical: he knows there's nothing for him to do just now but wait for the two-leggers to sort out their business. The fact that his laid-back attitude is a selling point is coincidental. Sort of.

Daine softens a little as she looks back up at Rush. If he really is fussing because he fears he won't do a good job, that's rather sweet. "He sleeps, mostly. You wouldn't have to do much aside from making sure he has water and feeding him twice a day. He'll let you know if you forget." Raising her eyebrows, she adds, "If walking him is too much trouble, I could come by and do that part." She hopes she won't have to, but her schedule isn't so overflowing that she couldn't.

"Please?" She doesn't add that it would mean a lot, though it would. Nor does she stoop to implying that Rush owes her anything; he doesn't, and she's had her fill of folk acting as if wrecking things was some sort of kindness on her part. "It'd make his life easier."

Rush narrows his eyes fractionally and exhales a short, sharp burst of air in unconscious mimicry of the dog's sigh.

He has, categorically, no idea what one should do with a dog when in contact with one on a regular or semi-regular basis.

He sighs again.

"Oh, very well," he says, flapping a hand, failing the snap the words out with any sort of rancor. "I suppose I'd be - amenable to that."

"Thank you," Daine says, her face splitting into a grin. "You won't have to watch him for long." Well, he won't have to. "And if you need anything at all, just let me know. His name is Sampson," she continues, crouching down to give the dog's belly a rub, "and he's clever. He knows 'sit' and 'down' and 'heel' and so on. And 'quiet,' though that shouldn't be a problem. He's not a barker." If he was, she wouldn't have picked him; she can guess how well Rush would respond to unwanted noise.

Sampson responds to the attention by thumping his tail against the floor and rolling over a bit to expose more of his belly. "Is there anything you'd like me to tell him before I fetch his things?" she asks. "He already knows not to be a bother when folk are working."

He watches the dog roll to his back, drumming the floor with what can best be described as percussive, canine joy. He drops into a crouch, meeting the dog's eyes evenly.

"Don't scratch the walls," he says with the utmost even sincerity, then looks to Daine with a less-than-certain outlook upon having just opened conversation with a dog over whose care he has now found himself apparently and unexpectedly made responsible. "That's all."

Daine nods, her gaze going a bit distant as she turns to Sampson. He'd like you to stay away from the walls. Really, anything he's been scribbling on ought to be left alone. It'll upset him if all his numbers get messed up.

Sampson sends her a sense of amused acceptance - there really is no accounting for two-leggers' funny little concerns - then rolls back onto his chest so he can return Rush's even look. His muzzle dips briefly in a recognizable nod.

See what you can do for him, she adds, scritching behind his ears. I'm sure he could stand to sleep and eat more often than he does.

I'm a dog, not a miracle worker, comes the dry reply. But I'll do my best.

Daine straightens. "He understands," she says, probably without need. "He won't mess with anything you've been writing on, walls included."

"Ah," he says, regarding the dog with vague apprehension. It seems to be largely an agreeable enough creature, as far as dogs go. "Thank you."

He is not entirely certain as to whether he is thanking the dog or the vehicle for its induction into his apartment, or why one would thank either such thing, and so he elects to straighten with fluid indifference, one hand exacting a careful pressure to the back of his neck.

"Is there - anything I should - help you with," says Rush, frown darkening in wavering indecision as to his wording and the best course of action with which he should proceed.

"No need," Daine replies. "It's no more than I can carry on my own. You could keep him company while I'm gone, though." She inclines her head towards the dog and adds, "He likes it when you talk to him, even if he doesn't understand most of it."

Right. Now to get herself out the door before Rush can reconsider. She pulls a chew toy and a little bag of biscuits out of her bag, setting the former on the floor and the latter on the counter. "Biscuits are for when he's especially good, so don't give him too many," she says as she hikes her bag back onto her shoulder. "I won't be more than an hour. Thanks again for doing this."

He looks back at her and tries not to feel utterly bemused at the rate and outcome of his current circumstance.

"Yes, well." His hand slides from the back of his neck and the budding ache buried in the muscle. "I suppose I owe you."

Lamentably, it is supremely unlikely that caring for the unassuming animal on his floor will be an adequate exchange, considering the habit Daine seems to have made of rescuing him from unpleasant situations.

Well, she thinks, he said it, not her. On the other hand, he hasn't said a word about the fall of the rebel base since she arrived, and she could just about hug him for that if a refreshing lack of tender feelings wasn't the whole point.

"For this," she says, "we can call it even." At least until the next bout of ruction tips the scales one way or the other, but she's guessing they'd both rather not think about that.

She takes a step towards the door, then hesitates. "Is there anything you need?" The dog's needs are covered - or will be - but two-legger needs are a bit more complicated. She's going out anyway, though, so she might as well check.

Dubious as he is regarding the legitimacy of her claim, he currently lacks the motivation or contentious verve to argue to the contrary. He eyes the dog warily until the hesitant question reminds him of the fact that both time and space are behaving linearly, and therefore there would be no reason to assume Daine has left his apartment in the space between seconds.

He catches the rising intonation of expectation without the specifics of intent, his mental topography caught in an irresolving error cast in variegating shades of neon confusion.

Why has a dog, of all things, been left in his care.

"No," he says, unable to perform any sort of mental decoupling from his puzzlement and the basis of his puzzlement. "I don't believe so."

bone canis [closed]

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