"Is he guarding you?" your dad inquires. "He's being alert. He's not aggressive, but he's very attuned to his surroundings. Really helps with PTSD, knowing he's got my back." "I'm so glad to hear it," Dad smiles. He sets down a tray of coffee and the little sandwiches his housekeeper always leaves in the fridge so he won't forget to eat. "Can I give him a treat?" "He's a fiend for sandwiches." Dad looks taken aback. "I was just going to give him a scrap of prosciutto." "Believe me, if you give him meat and bread in combination, you will make a friend for life." Chuckling, he hands over one of the sandwiches to you, and then offers one to Erskin. "Rusty! Here you go, what a good buddy, good boy!"
You wag thanks, then take the sandwich firmly in your mouth and trot back to the hearthstones to enjoy it. It'd probably be a more convincing act to spread it all over the carpet but you don't like the idea of soiling this particularly tidy home. Even though you try to take your time, you're still finished long before Bel— the amount of chewing humans have to put in is damn inefficient— so you put your chin on his knee and regard him plaintively. When this fails to get the desired response of more sandwich, you go put your chin on his father's knee and crank up the starvation stare. Your tailtip trembles. You blink a few times to work up a tearful sheen. You make the tiniest puppy "een" noises. It was prosciutto.
"Oh my god, you drama queen," you laugh. "Who had an entire trout and half an enormous pike for lunch, eh? Not you, nope, you're a desperate orphan puppy -- oh Dad, you sucker." "I'm not a sucker, I'm a dad," he retorts loftily as he feeds Erskin most of another sandwich. "I have to feed hungry youngsters, it's hard-wired." "You wanna know how many ginger snaps he ate in the car?" "Oh, that reminds me, Greta left me pecan pie!" He hurries off to the kitchen, leaving his plate unattended. Erskin looks at you. You shake your head fondly. "It's not a test. He's hoping they'll disappear. His housekeeper is German and believes in big meals, and he can't work out enough to develop the appetite for them anymore. Do him the favor. Except this one, this is mine." You grab a half-sandwich and leave the rest to his tender mercies.
You hesitate a moment more, then help yourself. You've finished licking the plate clean by the time Bel's father comes back, and are lounging on your haunches by Bel's feet, looking as innocent as possible. You still can't quite meet his eyes though, a little anxious that Bel was reading the situation wrong. If you have to sleep outside for this you are going to piss on everything.
He looks at the plate and feigns surprise. "You must've been hungry, Bel!" "Ravenous," you say dryly. "Tell me you saved room for pie, I can't eat this all myself." "There's always room for pie." You glance at Erskin. "I don't know if dogs can have pecan pie." "Don't give him any. Better safe than sorry. Besides, I think he's been plenty spoiled for one night. Let me spoil you now." "Weeellll, just the pie kind of spoiling," you grin. As the two of you settle back with fresh coffees and slices of pie, he says, "Planning on staying a while?" "Couple days, if that's okay." "Of course." "Then I was thinking of heading up to the Boundary Waters. I bet the fall color is spectacular up there. Um... do you... is there any chance... I could borrow Mom's camera?" He goes noticeably melty. "Oh, kiddo, it's old, I don't even know if it works anymore." "Of course it does, Dad, you keep it in perfect condition." "Can you even get film developed these days?" "There are a few places." You tangle your fingers in Erskin's scruff, and looking at him makes your self-doubt vanish for some reason. You look back to your dad. "I want to go to Alaska. It won't be what she saw, it'll be winter, and I won't go deep into the park. But I want to go to Alaska and take photographs. I want to... to listen for her. If that makes any sense." Your dad reaches across the coffee table to squeeze your shoulder. "It makes a lot of sense. Take the camera. It ought to be used."
They are having A Moment. You lick Bel's fingers and excuse yourself to go have a look around. After investigating all the rooms you realize the rain's just about let up, and Bel and his father have finished their pie. You lean your forepaws on the big windowsill and look hopefully back over your shoulder at them. Car rides give you all the excitement of going somewhere without any of the accomplished tiredness of doing it yourself. You want to go running.
You're pretty sure you know this one, but you check just in case: "You wanna go run?" He bounces an emphatic yes. "Just when I'd almost dried out," you complain, but you don't mean it. You want to go running too. You clip the leash on his collar, because the neighbors around here do call animal control if you ignore the leash laws. "Dad? You wanna come?" He waves you off. "I jog in the mornings and I'm done, these days. You go have fun. I'll make sure there's towels in the upstairs bathroom. Oh -- you need baggies?" "Got 'em," you say, and then get the hell out of there before you can crack up at the idea of picking up Erskin's poop in a baggie. At the end of the driveway, you realize: "Oh god. I'm going to have to pick up your poop in a baggie."
You crack up, laugh-bouncing too wildly to make any forward progress for awhile. After that though you get your paws sorted and set off in a jangling trot, spending a lot of energy not going particularly fast. Humans go awfully slow for a shape with such big legs. You think you'll take pity on him later, and do your business under a bush or something.
You have your familiar routes around here, different ones for different occasions. There's the straight shot down the county road and back for when you just want to go fast as hell. There's the meander around the neighborhood for when you feel like enjoying humanity-at-peace. There's the parkside route for when you want relative privacy -- it's a popular park on the weekends, but on weekdays it's pretty empty except for Morning Jog Time. And then there's the side-streets-to-Excelsior route, for when you feel like treating yourself. It's only about five miles round trip, but in amongst its overpriced boutiques the little town has some really good cafes and restaurants. After a brief detour down to the lakeshore so he can go under a pine tree and kick needles over it, you find a coffee shop that's still open. You order a hot cider for yourself and a bowl of steamed milk for Erskin, and settle down at an outside table to watch the moon rise over the lake. You're the only one outdoors; you guess it's a little chilly and the chairs are a bit rain-speckled for most people to enjoy. "Traveling's great, but it's nice to have a home to visit once in a while," you muse.
You agree with him, leaning against his leg, then get distracted from the bland, watery milk by his shoelaces and spend the rest of the time at the cafe attempting to untie them and pull them out of his shoes. He does them back up again when it's time to go, ruining all your hard work, and you feign deep offense for a few blocks. He's awfully fun to tease. When you get back to his father's home, you shake off on the porch and then stand in the entrance-way uncertainly. Will there be games? Is it time to bed down? Are you expected to do much of anything?
You check the time on your phone. It's only about nine-thirty, but with how early you got up and how active you've been all day, bed sounds fantastic. "I'm gonna have a hot bath and then go to bed. You're welcome to join me. I'll even go easy on the soap for you."
You leer at him, happily, then follow him upstairs for the bath. The water is initially a lot hotter than you'd like but it's eventually tolerable. Bel turns out to be a filthy lying liar who lies, and sticks a wet bar of soap between your ears, then has a good fucking laugh about it. It's very hard not to shake off afterwards and get him back for it good and proper, but it's not really his bathroom. You stand there very stiffly, vibrating just a titch from the effort of suppressing the shake-off, and let him scrub you down with a towel instead. You bite and pull on his tangled hair as often as it swings in range, though, and serves him right. Later, after goodnights are made to his father, you hop into bed, prick your ears for the sounds of any last-minute son-visiting, and then make a push for a human shape. It's difficult and uncomfortable, and the final result feels oddly precarious, but it wasn't torturously unmanageable like before. "Hello, there," you whisper at Bel, extremely pleased with yourself. You wrap a clumsy mitt around some of his hair and give it a pull.
When he starts to change, you're more anxious than pleased, but he manages human form without any apparent agonies. Wrapping your arms around him and kissing his face feels fantastic. "Doing okay?" you whisper back. "No achey bones?"
"A few," you admit. "Still sore. Don't think I can stay long." You kiss him back, fumbling and uncoordinated, but increasingly eager. "There's one sore bone in particular you could help me with," you say, and your hopeful look is probably ruined by snickering.
"You are so suave," you whisper, stifling giggles as you strip down. "I'm swooning." What you're actually doing is groping his butt. It is even nicer than you remember.
You mumble something incoherent but very pleased and arch against his hands. There's some awkward rolling around and shuffling with clothes before you manage to pull his hips flush to yours and grind up against him, then shamelessly reposition yourself to steal his pillow. "Ah, the luxuries of civilization," you grin, then go "Ah!" in an entirely different tone when he grabs your cock.
"Ssh," you remind him, and keep his mouth busy with kisses for a while. Then you duck under the covers, and luxuries of civilization indeed, it's like heaven, the scent of clean bedlinens and freshly washed warm bodies. The faintest hint of salt on his skin is there because of what you're doing to him. As you begin giving him a leisurely blowjob, you let your hands wander, making the most of this brief time in human skin.
It's strange and awkward to keep quiet during this sort of activity, and soon you're biting the side of your hand to try and muffle yourself, the pleading whimpers as you try for more of his mouth. But it's nice, though, the slow build, and you resign yourself to combing your nails through his hair and tracing the stiff, round rims of his ears while he holds you down. Between the softness of the mattress and the gentle way he's treating you you're starting to feel dazed, unreal. Overwhelmed.
Under the covers like this, he can't see your face, so you can let yourself really feel: possessive, cherishing, head-over-heels. You want to laugh at yourself. That didn't take long. You're going to get your heart so broken. You can't help thinking it's going to be worth it. You get a hand tangled with his, and he squeezes your fingers when he comes, swallowing whimpers. Your heart feels swollen. Moving back up, you kiss his sweaty neck and whisper, "You're so cute."
You get your arms around his chest and cling like a monkey, burrowing your face under his chin. He smells good, and it feels good when he holds himself over you like this, sturdy and protective. A walking one-man den. You huff a breathless, shaky laugh. "Have I mentioned yet," you whisper at him, "that you are very good at this? I just want to let you know. You are very good at this."
