[closed] it's a dog-eat-dog world

[lackey]

WHO: Annie Leonhart (lyingheart), Mike Parker (lackey), Will Graham (infomodder)
WHERE: Out and about Heropa + De Chima Residence #002
WHEN: September 1st & 2nd
WHAT: Don't feed strange dogs. Don't do it. Oh no, what have you done? Now with bonus don't take in strange dogs.
WARNINGS: Drug use, language

[Mike Parker had spent his first week in De Chima convinced that the whole 'powers courtesy of the government' thing was bullshit. People don't get powers in real life, he'd reasoned, that stuff only happens in the movies. Like hell he was going to get caught trying to use any of that magic crap listed in the folder they gave him. Not with the government's secret cameras everywhere. They'd see him struggling to get whatever hocus pocus to work and then they'd... laugh or something. (What the exact motive behind telling people they have imaginary powers was, he hadn't been able to guess, but he'd been sure it was something sinister and insulting.)

Then he'd ended up with Will Graham and a talking wolf for roommates and the former had introduced the latter to some random dog and the house they shared had ended up wrecked by wolf and dog trying to kill each other.

A small, dim light bulb had finally flickered on for Mike. Everything around him was ridiculous and impossible and insane. Everything. Maybe the powers were real. He'd put off testing the theory for a while, but a day off work for a holiday he'd never celebrated had seemed like an okay opportunity to give the ridiculous, impossible, insane powers a shot.

Well, the dog one, anyway. That one sounded both safe and simple enough.

And so Heropa is graced by a red Doberman on Labor Day. A terribly uncoordinated red Doberman. Mike Parker had underestimated how strange changing into, and then actually being, a dog could be. The four legs and no arms part? Weird. The tail part? Or the tail nub part... Mike feels a little cheated he didn't get a full tail to go with the dog experience, but still - weird. The no pants part also proves strange, albeit more liberating but funky strange, knowing all you've got is right there out in the open and no one cares because you're a dog.

For all that it's bizarre, though, it's also kind of fun. Everything is intensely smelly but in a good way, he doesn't have to worry about getting shanked because no one shanks dogs minding their own business, and more than one person has given him a scrap of food or a scratch behind the ear.

If only he could score free drugs this way.

He's wandering along the sidewalks when he spots her. Her. Some blonde teenager holding something his nose informs him is definitely edible and probably delicious. It's been like ten minutes since the last handout, time to make a concentrated mooching effort.

Mike walks over as nonchalantly as a teetering dog can and sits down right in front of the girl, effectively blocking her path. He stares up at her with big, hopeful eyes. This is what dogs do to sucker people in, right?

Hey, hey, I'm a dog down here, he'd probably say if he could talk right now. I'm a dog, don't you wanna feed me or somethin'?]

Comments

[lyingheart]

[ Annie has seen that look before. Holding a corndog like she's almost certain it bites, she looks down at the dog who has decided to sit in front of her without so much as a by-her-leave, all big eyes and wagging butt. Wiggling butt. There's not enough of a tail to say its wagging, and Annie tries to apply her slowly growing canine knowledge to pick out a breed.

Not-a-hunting-dog is all she comes up with. Also, not-a-husky, not-a-schnauzer, and not-a-chihuahua.

And very-obviously-begging. She glances around, looking for a responsible party. No one seems to be volunteering to take charge. Will's not even around to naturally gravitate toward the dog.

No one is. Only Annie. Huh. ]

Are you lost?

[ She offers the dog her corndog, not all that tempted to try it herself. The tattoo on her wrist is hidden today, but she'd been found out anyway, and plied with things she doesn't actually want or need. Lacking Reiner or Bertholdt to pawn them off on, the dog gets to benefit. She crouches down, reaching out to run a hand over his head and scratch behind his ears and into his ruff, looking for any evidence of a collar. ]

[lackey]

[Mike's eyes just about cross focusing on the corn dog. Seems like she wants him to have the whole thing? That's how he's choosing to read her moving the food item in its entirety closer to the general region of his dog mouth, anyway. Grabbing the corn dog from her, he drops it on the ground to chew it off its stick. The scratching is ignored until he's finished wolfing it down.

She's looking for a collar, but he's not wearing one. In hindsight, might have been a good idea to put one on... somehow. Avoid all the uptight "dogs must have collars and tags or else!" people. People he didn't know existed until he got a job as a dog catcher.

His tattoo is visible, though, and he awkwardly thrusts his leg out to try and show it to her.

You know, in case she's one of those locals crazy about giving stuff to imPorts.]

[lyingheart]

[ The dog seems to like the corndog. She's glad she knows by now it isn't made of dog meat, since that'd be a little outside of her sense of actual humor and onto the morbid. Not that it isn't fun to visit once in a while, but she would rather avoid it when she could.

No collar; no tags then, but Annie isn't attached to the idea dogs needed ownership. She's heard (and seen by now) the examples of "thrown away" lives that came on four legs as well as two. What's surprising is the way he tries to shove a leg out at her, apparently not bothered with her search for the collar that isn't.

Even with his fur, the tattoo of an imPort shimmers through, less of a shine and more of a glimmer that catches her eye. ]

An imPort?

[ Either mute or not able to speak like this, which is what she expects out of dogs, but if that's intentional... ]

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Can't talk, huh?

[ She waits for some sign of affirmation... realizing after the fact how stupid that might well be. Annie straightens up, glancing around. The crowds mostly move as they will. Nothing to set her on edge; nothing weird going on in this section of Heropa. ]

I'm surprised everyone's not feeding you.

[ Annie avoids making it obvious herself, but it can be played up to get instant gratification out of the more generous citizens of this town. City? No... too small to be a city, not after Nonah and De Chima are taken into her consideration. Just right for back home, but she's not back home. ]

[lackey]

[Mike answers her with a high-pitched whine. Sure, he can talk. In Dogish. Doginese. Dogian. Dogsee. Whatever you want to call dog language.

He stands up when she straightens and joins her in looking around.

He's surprised everyone's not feeding him, too. But it is what it is.

With another conversational whine, he leans against her, throws his head back, and opens his mouth wide.

He doesn't need everyone feeding him if he can con one person into buying him more snacks.]

[lyingheart]

[ Buying anything is highly unlikely. Annie spends as much as she needs, and very little on what she might want arbitrarily beyond those needs - even for dogs. She gives his head another pat, exhaling sharply through her nose. ]

How about this? If anyone else ends up giving me something to try from these market stalls, you get to do the honors of eating it. Sound like a deal, Dog?

[ Creative names are overrated. Annie quirks up her eyebrows, looking down at the dog in question. He's an imPort - someone's taking care of him, because the timing is all wrong for a new arrival to be this calm (even dog calm) in a strange crowd filled with strange (or maybe not so strange, who knows where this dog comes from) smells and far too many noises and people to be confused by. She waits for any sign of agreement, feeling part of her is aware of how insane this would have been back home... if she'd been expecting a knowledgeable reply there. ]

[lackey]

[Penny-pinching teenager. Lame. Mike's mouth snaps shut with an audible pop and he squints up at the corn dog giver. Look at how unimpressed this random dog is with your responsible spending.

He has to consider the offer, though. He doesn't need her -- doesn't need anyone -- but so far most people have only forked over tidbits. He probably does have a better chance at a full meal with a person at his side. A person who apparently has reason to believe she might get more free stuff today? Maybe she's another imPort. No way to know for sure with her wrist covered up like that.

Looking up again, he nods. Actually nods. Deal, lady.]

[lyingheart]

[ So begin the totally excellent food adventures, spanning from a deep fried twinkie, to breaded onions (not enough, she's assured, to be damaging to her fine canine imPort companion), to something called French toast, to a funnel cake where she shakes off most the sugar first (sugar can't be good for him), to, most innocuously and yet also most inadvertently dangerous, if his system is sensitive, grapes. Four of them.

Any sign of vomiting, dehydration, or less attentive (and not distracted) behavior will get her notice, especially as she offers a bit of grilled chicken on a stick, free of the sauce it would have been covered by before if she hadn't mentioned it was for the canine imPort she's watching for the day. ]

[lackey]

[Mike has had some quality food adventures in the past, most of them courtesy of weed, but this is indeed shaping up to be a totally excellent experience. Sure, his escort makes a few questionable choices, such as shaking the sugar off that beautiful funnel cake, but free food is free food.

Everything goes swimmingly for a time, too. Nibbling on grilled chicken, Mike gets to wondering how he might go about finding this girl's name or number to thank her later. Rude as hell not to thank people who feed you this much. The least he can do is send her a quick text.

"thnx 4 helpin feed dog cool of u"

But alas, all good things must come to an end and thoughts of texting go out the window when indigestion rears its ugly head.

In Mike's experience, an upset stomach is to be blamed on the last food you ate and so he's eyeballing what's left of the chicken. Then he peers up at the girl, his head tilting slightly to the side. Dude, is that a little raw or somethin'?

He finally decides to cut the whole food adventure short when grumbly gut turns into something more painful and nauseating. He could just walk away at this point, but girl's been his ticket to free food so it stands to reason she may also be his ticket to doggie antacid. They make that, right? He sits slowly and tries to muster up a whine.]

[lyingheart]

[ Like she knows what an antacid is...

Annie ducks down next to the dog, resting a light hand on his head. ]

Are you feeling sick?

[ He's an imPort, so he should understand the question. His ears can probably pick up on the genuine concern in her voice, and the way her scent shifts to support that concern, for all her face mostly remains a calm mask of observation. The hint of worry around her eyes is about the only visual cue, past the rounding of her shoulders.

If he's sick, who does she take him to? The vet? Is there even a veterinary office nearby? Most the doctors she was aware of were all human doctors, not animal doctors. Still, with pets so prevalent in this town, and this country, there had to be somewhere...

Annie glances up and down the street. Apollo's Emergency Veterinary Care is a small sign poking out over tent tops down the block. Okay. There's a plan of action if he's ill. Pick the dog up and cart him over to the veterinarian. If they're both revealed as imPorts, they might get a discount on services, but if not, well. Is he registered? The government should cover that cost if so - if not. Annie would figure it out. ]

[lackey]

[Yes indeed, a mistake was made using this girl to get food.

Mike understands the question and communicates his answer by lying down and slowly rolling over onto his back. He throws in a groan for good measure. This is him, maybe dying because of the poison fed to him. He's pretty sure at this point that actual poison was involved, not just undercooked chicken.

His little dog eyes are filled in equal parts with pain and blame. Actually, might be slightly more blame there at the moment.]

[lyingheart]

[ Blame that barely seemed to register with Annie. ]

If you weren't feeling well, you should have stopped eating.

[ But most of that is said while not looking at him - with a human, she'd have a better idea of how to respond. Worse come to worse, shove a finger down his throat and hope that whatever's unsettling comes back up if he can't endure the stomach pains in the meantime. What if it's deeper, in his intestines that something's going wrong? What about ulcers? What about actual poison?

The unidentified grapes laugh in their slowly digested way. ]

Come on, lying here won't help anything.

[ Annie ducks down and Mike is either going to have to squirm away or find himself scooped up in the surprisingly strong arms of a petite young woman who's going to have to steady herself before moving with his unfamiliar weight in her arms... toward the veterinary clinic. ]

[lackey]

[Mike's not feeling so poorly he can't roll his eyes at her comment. Boy, he'd have something to say to this... this dog poisoner if he could say anything right now.

He doesn't squirm away from Annie when she goes to pick him up, but he does lie completely limp. Passive resistance. He figures there's no chance she'll get him up, anyway.

... And he's wrong.

Damn, she's stronger than she looks. Maybe she lifts in her spare time?

Where does she even think she's taking him? He turns his head to look in the direction she's headed. There, in the distance, is the sign. The v-e-t sign.

Oh.

Actually, that might be a good place to get doggie Tums.]

[lyingheart]

[ They're both thankful he can't talk right now. What kind of imPort dog is smart enough to make a deal, but not smart enough to know what he can eat? Annie finds it ridiculous, which means she does think this could be serious - who knows. He might be an alien dog, eating Earth food for the first time. Something might be toxic!

The clinic front room is empty, with a young man sitting behind the counter. He looks up, surprised to see Annie carrying a dog in through the door. The conversation that ensues is to the point, announcing both their status, glossing over the particulars when asking if there was any openings in the doctor's schedule. A few polite questions back in the offices, and he returns, nodding. ]

She can see you in room three in about ten minutes. Can we get him weighed? What did you say his name was?

[ Annie sighed, moving toward the door opening into an interior hall as the young man beckoned her and Mike in. ]

Ask him later. I've been calling him Dog.

[ There's something of an incredulous look before shes indicated to set Mike down on the walk on scale. Now down on all four legs again, Annie watches him to see if he'll be easier for her to move again toward the room they're supposed to wait inside.... or if he can walk himself there by now.

She glances at the red numbers listing his weight in pounds. Huh. ]

[lackey]

[The trip back to De Chima is not an especially long one thanks to the existence of magic moving technology, but Mike Parker will never be able to look any of the government employees working at De Chima or Heropa's Porters in the eyes again.

Not that he was much looking them in the eyes in the first place but still.

If only he could talk as a dog... would have saved him so much trouble...

After Mike's concerns about changing back to a person in public are confirmed, he opts to make the rest of his trek home as a dog.

He just wants to get back to the house, man. Just let him get back to the house and his room, let him get some boxers on, some pants, a nice shirt. He'll smoke a bowl, everything will be fine again. He's just got to get back.

(And once he gets back, he's never, ever, ever doing the dog thing again. Ever.)

It's evening by the time Mike spots the house in the distance with his weird can't-see-colors-right dog vision. So close and yet so far. His feet hurt and there's four of them now so it's double the suffering and he still can't quite walk straight and shit, he can feel a whine coming on.

He staggers on in the direction of the house, making terribly pathetic noises every step of the way.]

[infomodder]

[Will is as yet unaware of how wrong he seemed to Mike Parker in their first meeting, but he's sure to either solidify that or worsen it without being aware of it, all because he just really likes dogs. Dogs and their ass sniffing.

He's coming around the side of the house with a toolbox when he spots the dog, a toolbox that is a box of tools and nothing sinister. A box that gets set on the ground slowly, Will taking in the stagger, the way the dog seems not far off from a whine of actual physical pain instead of just pathetic little ones, and well—what else is he supposed to do, really?

He's careful in his approach, steps shorter than usual, a small baggie of dog treats pulled out of his pants pocket like they were always there (they were, actually). The way his face lights up is wrong, because Will never looks at Mike Parker like that. He never looks at people like that. It's an odd, dog (or dog-like creature, Ace and Bader taken into account) smile, one that's reserved for momentous occasions like welcoming a new dog to the house. Gunther's getting a little lonely, is a bit dumb, it is time for a second helping of dog.]

Hey boy. [Mike can tell a girl from a boy just by looking at them, gold star. Will can tell with a dog if he tilts his head the right way, how wrong is this? He pauses at the edge of the yard with his magic bag of dog treats and squats, as harmless as he can possibly be.] You lost? You need to take a break, have a drink of water?

[The tsk, the way he pats his leg, he is trying to lure the dog in without even holding out the food. It's just there. It's like, hey dog, come here, oh, food? Yes, I have food, but I'm also a really cool guy, you can sniff my ass all you want. And he seems so happy about it, too. What a fucking weirdo.]

[lackey]

[Mike stops when he sees Will coming. His ears perk up and his nub of a tail wags a little of its own volition.

Whew, roomie, yeah, come get me, c'mon, hurry up. My feet are killin' me, man. Yeah, yeah, jokin' around, yeah, knock it off, will ya? Why you smilin' like that, anyway? Jesus, that's kind of creepy.

Then Will tsks at him. Tsks at him, pats his leg invitingly, and squats down. Mike's dog brain supplies him with two thoughts: hey, he's way less threatening now and oh.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Will has no idea it's him. Will thinks he's talking to a real dog.

Mike's not sure if that makes the Christmas-has-come-early look on Will's face that much better or that much worse.

He stares at him for a moment, ears flattened on the sides of his head like airplane wings, his expression one of pure canine disbelief.

... Aw, to hell with it.

With a huff, he limps straight to Will. Aren't you happy now, you weirdo? Rather than go for a sniff of treats or ass, he throws himself down in front of his roommate to lie flat on his side. Then the whining resumes, except now it's not just whining, it's whining and grumbling and a bit of howling and the occasional yip and bark and then more whining, all strung together into long, miserable dog sentences.

You don't know how bad yesterday was, Will! It was so awful, Will! There was this girl, Will! There was this girl and then there was this dog doctor!

He drags a front leg over his snout, hiding his eyes with his paw. Whine yowl whine.]

[infomodder]

[Christmas has totally come early in the form of a new dog, a beautiful dog that he's already thinking up names for because there is no collar to be seen and no one can accuse him of stealing dogs off the side of the road if they aren't owned, not now. It falls when the dog just flops over, concerned if there's something inwardly wrong with him.

That's why he stuffs the treat bag into his shirt pocket and gingerly reaches out to run a hand over his side and down his stomach, applying just enough pressure that anything too pressing would stick out. He's careful enough when he gets closer, kneels, puts his other hand to scratch the top of the dog's head, not yet getting right next to his snout.]

What's all this whinin' about, huh? Stomach hurt? You eat something bad? [He's more worried about what's got the dog in such a state than he is with the idea that said dog could turn on him at any second, that much is obvious. He looks at the paw over his eyes, squinting.] Been a long walk today, is that it? You tired, your dogs are barkin'?

[Did Mike have any idea Will was this funny before? It is a mystery. But he's not about to just haul up a dog he doesn't know, not without proper warning. Not without patting his flank like he's just another dog to make sure he's cool with everything so far.]

Wanna be carried?

[So generous, that Will Graham. The downside is what might be referred to as the worst punishment know to mankind by at least one person, which would be having to listen to Will Graham talk. And talk. And talk.]

[lackey]

[There any lakes around here, Will? I need a big lake or a river or the ocean might work... Mike's whining trails off slowly. He shifts his paw down to keep an eye on what his roommate's doing. The prodding and the scratching are okay, weird but okay, but God and the spirits help Will Graham if he produces a thermometer from that pocket he put the dog treats in.

He doesn't, thankfully. Just goes on being his wrong self.

Dogs barking.

Jesus, this guy.

Mike heaves a sigh and whines again.

Yeah, I want to be carried. Get me inside. I need my pants.]

[infomodder]

[That's all he needs to shift, stuff his arms underneath the dog and pick him up like it's no big deal, like Will frequently carries just as heavy loads...just as heavy loads close to his chest like this dog is his own, similar to parents with their newborns. Protective and loving, really, shifting so that the dog's head isn't a limp noodle and putting everything into it so that it's comfortable. Jesus, this guy really likes dogs.]

You're a little skinny, huh? [Talk talk talking to the dog like he can answer, carrying him back to the house without any problem, ignoring whatever he was doing before as he carries the next member of dog family over the threshold. He's done this often enough, handles the doorknob with ease.] Welcome to the jungle, buddy. [This dog is not leaving the house, this dog is now home.] You look like you could use a bite to eat and a nice drink and some time with the t word.

[T as in tub, as in bathtub. As in the tub Will has in the back yard but has yet to use since the house's reconstruction, the tub that he will break in with this new glorious dog. This dog he's talking to as he walks through the house like there's no issues with it, no problems at all, Will frequently carries big dogs around in this way, there's nothing wrong here. Nothing at all, not even when he goes into the main room and puts the dog on the couch like people generally lay their babies down for a nap. What? It makes it easier for him to inspect those poor little feeties and see if there are stickers or something stuck in the to mess up the dog's walk, squatting down again and looking them over, touch gentle as he pulls doggie toes apart. Doggie toes he's in love with. Or something like it. Man, he won't stop smiling.]

Got some paw cream in my room. Looks like you need it.

[Talk talk talk to the dog, goes on being his wrong self, just another day in the life.]

[lackey]

[Will Graham is stronger than he looks. Stronger and nuttier. Guy loves him some dogs, that much is crystal-fucking-clear now. Was he raised by dogs or something? Mike is practically being cradled like a baby and he is not a baby, he is a dog. What makes a grown-ass man want to cradle a dog like it's a baby?

Not that Mike is resisting the cradling here. On the contrary, he's a willing and well-behaved passenger, resigned to deal with the weirdness since it's getting him what he wants.

Yeah, I could do a burger and a beer. What's a t word? That trainwreck I'm gonna be smokin'? You been snoopin' in my room? You better keep out of there, man. Swear we're gonna have a talk when I can talk again. Grumble grumble whine.

Only once he's safely inside the house does he begin to squirm against Will's hold. He tries to point out the way to his room with a paw and then his nose. That way, Will. You can leave me on the bed and... goin' the wrong direction, Will.

Will's not listening. Will's too busy talk talk talking. Is this karma for the rambling about dog butts? What goes around comes around and it's a hell of a smack upside the head when it does make that return trip?

Rather than being carted to his room or even just put down on the floor to do his own thing, Mike finds himself gently placed on the couch and subjected to a thorough doggie footsie examination.

He fixes Will with the best dude, not cool look he can manage as a dog. Okay, guy's not getting the picture, gonna have to take some action.

Fidgeting, Mike tries to place his paws against Will's arms or face or whatever he can reach to push him back. If he can get enough space, he can probably roll off the couch and make a beeline for sanctuary.]

[infomodder]

[The dude, not cool look doesn't register as what Mike means to be, because Will loves dogs and dogs loves Will and that's really just how it is. That's the end of the line with the dogs and Will discussion, the dog will love Will, it is known, so shall it be written, so shall it be done. Will has never looked at Mike Parker like this before, has probably rarely looked at anyone like this before, this odd adoration reserved only for the furry and four-legged. Why would he just drop him off in his roommate's room and leave? Mike didn't seem like the guy who'd appreciate coming home to a room with a new dog just thrown in there.

While he might think Will a bit ridiculous (or a lot, and totally wrong), it's not the worst method, handling the belly, the paws, the vulnerable spots as he talks to him, establishes voice and, yes, dominance. New dog requires special handling and the quicker he gets in the more subtle hints at who pack leader is, well by God, the better this'll go.

The fidgeting, the squirming, the paw pushing, nothing is a deterrent. One hand gently goes out to his side to keep him in place while he finally takes the plunge and grabs under the chin so he can look him dead on—another vulnerable spot with the bonus of eye contact.]

Actin' like you need to go to the doctor. [Because flopping all over the place and whining and now squirming, it doesn't lead Will to think "oh this dog is my roommate" as much as it leads Will to think "there is some pest that has overtaken this dog's insides or he has some organ that's not acting right" which is why he's looking him over as much as he is. He's good with dogs. He is not, however, a veterinarian.] Can you lick? Show me your teeth?

[Will shows his teeth, nods his head, like this, buddy, what's your name? Need to get you one. You can only have so many Buddy Grahams. Gun names are popular. He can grab the chin and get closer but he's not going to stick his fingers right in the mouth without some warning.]

[lackey]

[What a fine mess. Will doesn't understand anything Mike's trying to communicate because Will's not psychic, and Mike doesn't understand anything Will's trying to communicate because Mike knows next to nothing about dogs and people this excited about dogs. Except that people should probably never be this excited about dogs.

Mike's struggles lessen as the futility of the situation sets in, but he does sneak in one last frustrated kick with a hind leg. Then Will's got him by the chin and he's stuck staring the guy in the eyes.

Again, his dog brain readily supplies him with both a more instinctual thought (oh, hey, this guy's the boss) and a proper Mike Parker thought (J-Jesus, I'm not into guys, man!). There's a bonus not goin' back to no dog doctors, Will in there somewhere, too, but the concern Will is ready to plant a wet one on the end of his nose is, at least temporarily, more pressing.

He could just change back right here, right now, show Will his human teeth and see what he has to say about that, but he's come too far to give up now.

... Besides, if Will tries to smooch his schnoz, he can bite him as a dog. Maybe. What a comforting idea that is, even if he isn't sure he could pull it off.

Begrudgingly, with that dude, not cool look making a second appearance, he sticks his tongue out. There is no tongue lolling, this is strictly blowing doggie raspberries. Not even a flash of teeth.]

[infomodder]

[Will's not psychic like this, at any rate. Now, if Mike as a dog had been found standing over a bloody, dead, mangled corpse, Will might stand more of a chance at figuring something out of the norm was going on. He also might have a chance if he noticed the tattoo through the fur, but as neither has yet to happen, alas. Will's just very excited about dogs.

The kick lands but doesn't seem to truly register, seems to be something Will's dealt with on more than one occasion. Not every dog who came to be a member of the Graham household came as easily as Winston, and there's quite a few who were adopted out that came with nothing approaching ease. He's both boss and not into guys, but he can't pick up on that second, Mike Parker thought as he keeps his hand on his chin and watches him, well, rather like a hawk.

It's the display of understanding that has him pulling a face, tongue but no teeth, a dog neener neener neener-ing at him. There's a moment where he looks taken aback, confused, cogs turning to figure out this puzzle—and then, for a first, he actually laughs. It's brief but joyous, like a normal person, not like the guy who made the first impression he was a serial killer with a fish-covered umbrella.]

Always preferred to take shit from a dog. [Quiet, not something he'd say if anyone else was around. Maintaining that grip on his chin, he lifts his other hand slowly enough that Mike can see it coming. It's nothing but a quick glimpse under his lip to get a view of teeth and gums, two seconds at most. If Mike thought this might be some sort of routine, something Will's done so often before it's on par with brushing his teeth or putting socks on, he wouldn't be too far off the mark there. He doesn't even mind the odd squat he's in, doesn't groan or look uncomfortable by the position.] You look fine. Good gums, structured, no fleas. Just a little skinny. [Which means one thing.] So, dinner first?

[It's not lobster but it's fancy by dog standards.]

[lackey]

[For a couple seconds there, Mike had thought Will was going to figure it out. Figure it out, let him go, and hopefully never talk about this again.

But nope. Will just laughs. It's a happy laugh, too. Oh, Mike could so bite him.

Too bad Mike's dog teeth don't show the kind of decay his human teeth do. Might have connected the dots for Will. Hey, this dog looks like he's done a lot of meth... Cursed shiny dog teeth. Cursed dog body.

Mike tries to throw his head to the side and bury his face against the back of the couch in response to the question. His next whine sounds distinctly like no. Or nooooooo, anyway. Probably just a coincidence. Couldn't be that the new dog's thinking you're going to poison him, poison him like that girl did yesterday, and drag him to some other horrible, evil vet.]

[infomodder]

[God, this dog is a mess. Perhaps if he wants his dog teeth to be as bad as his human teeth, Mike should try the meth as a dog. That won't go over horribly at all, no sir.]

Why are you so whiny? Haven't even got you in the tub yet.

[Yet. Yet. Yet. There will be bathing. Fun, soapy, rubdown bathing. Just two guys hanging out, one bathing the other as a dog and being really happy about it. Like normal guys.

The head gets tossed and Will lets it go, watches the dog with so much fondness it's like they've already been friends for ages, but something in the dim lighting catches his eye when he looks down. He's careful when he takes a hold of the leg, turns it over to make sure he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing, and then it's a momentary look of Will realizing that there's something not quite right going on here.

That's what has him withdrawing, falling back to sit, get out of the dog's immediate personal space, and stare.]

You've understood every word I've said, haven't you. [Fuck you, dog. Fuck you fuck you fuck you, lying not dog dog.] Blink once for yes, twice for no. Unless you can talk, then go ahead and talk.

[Ace can talk. Bader can talk. Surely they wouldn't bring in a dog who couldn't in some way. Surely.]