"Why... did you put pizza under the bed, Erskin? Please don't hide food indoors, we'll get ants and roaches." But you're not really upset. You'll probably beg a slice from him when he goes to eat it. Stairs are evil.
"Mmm. Extra toppings." When he goes to tweak your ear again you catch his wrist in your mouth. "Haha, slow. I'm keeping this."
"But then how will I scratch my ass?" you say plaintively. You're starting to have trouble keeping your eyes open. "Painkiller's working now. Do you need one? Can't take oxy in wolf form tho I bet."
"No, too sleepy," you demur. "Can't change. I'll be fine, I've had worse." Pain doesn't keep you from sleeping— just the opposite, it makes you want to curl up somewhere safe— which you are— and sleep it off until you're done. The pizza break was excellent, but you're more than ready to get back to the business of being too unconcious to think about your perforations.
"You sure?" He's sure. "Okay. Hang on, lemme just..." Reaching the lamp on the bookshelf is enough of a stretch that you feel it through the painkillers, and you consider just leaving it on -- you're certainly tired enough to sleep without darkness -- but in the end the pull of routine, the sense that leaving the light on is Not Correct, pushes you to reach anyway. You find yourself glad you did. The windows that seemed so black while the room was lit now glow with purply-pinky-orange snowlight, and you can see thick flakes tumbling through the light that spills from the kitchen windows below. "Maybe tomorrow," you muse, "with some help, we can go outside and make a very slow and awkward snowman."
You're in the kitchen the next morning, Alex kindly and patiently walking you through how to wash dishes, when the door swings open and something huge and white and loud thunders through. You think polar bear, drop to all fours with a menacing snarl, and bolt out of the room and up the stairs to the comparative safety under Bel's bed.
What a way to make an impression. Colonel Kadros asked for you specifically, probably had to pull a lot of strings too because you're kind of expensive to replace, and then you show up your first morning and lose control of your dog. And then fail to recapture her because. Because... what just happened? "What just happened, sir?" "Morning, Sergeant," the old man says, unphased. "Brought your dog to meet Bel's, I see." "Uh. Yeah, but there was a guy here? And then." "Go on up, talk to the boys." "Boys plural." The Colonel just nods toward the door the dude/dog and Logan absconded through, so you just say bemusedly, "Yes sir," and follow them. You only knew Bel on base, you've never been in his house before. But it's not hard to find his room, because Logan's happy made-a-friend barks are audible through the whole house. You follow the sound upstairs, and take in the tableau: Bel, with eight months' growth of hair and a week's growth of beard, lying in a comfy bed and not actually hooked up to any of the medical monitors beside it, looking confused and embarrassed but surprisingly tanned for a civilian. Logan, tail going like a wind turbine, bouncing and happy-barking at the dog under the bed. Rusty, flattened to the floor and growling, guarding several dusty pizza slices. You straighten up from looking under the bed and grab Logan's leash. "Sorry about that, Cap. She got away from me while I was juggling bag and door." "She's a cutie," he says in a raspy voice, a shadow of the baritone boom you remember. "But Rusty needs some space." "Yeah, I dig." Gently tugging the leash isn't doing any good, and you're not about to strangle her by yanking on it, so you just pick her up. She makes a disappointed 'wuff', and Bel laughs as if she told a joke. Which reminds you: "So... when I came in, I'm pretty sure your dog was a dude, doing dishes. If I imagined it, maybe someone can explain the pair of pyjama pants on the kitchen floor." "Um," says Bel. (posting as troll pancho for now, will make human pancho account later)
"FRIEND WHEN I GET DOWN I'M SAYING HI" the big white dog yells. "GO FUCK YOURSELF" you yell back. "WE'RE BUDDIES" "I WILL TEAR YOUR EYES OUT!" "SUPER PALS" "GO FUCK YOUR MOTHER!" You carefully line up the doorway, then kick a slice of pizza across the floor and onto the landing. "FREE FOOD," the dog cheers, and there's scrambling noises as it tries to thrash free of its owner and go get it.
"Did your dog -- who was, I reiterate, in the kitchen wearing pyjama pants, washing dishes, when I came in -- just throw a slice of pizza out the door to distract my dog?" "It's kind of a long story," Bel says wearily. "Is it related to how I heard the murder hobo was using silver bullets?" "Um. Yes? I do intend to tell you, it's just -- there's barking." "Bel, are you dating your service dog?" "... 'es." "Cool." You set Logan down and let her grab the pizza, then shut her out of the room in case she decides to return to making friends with Rusty -- whoever he really is. Bel grins thankfully. "How are you so mellow?" "Guess I'm just a quality human being," you shrug.
You peer cautiously out, your ears flattened back. You're too rattled to parse much english, but she's not being loud or looking angry. Still, when she meets your gaze you can't help flinching back under the bed. You're very aware of how small the room is, and how long human arms are.
You tilt your head at the dogdude under the bed. "He understand English when he's like this?" you ask Bel. "Yeah, but he can't speak it. I can translate...?" You shake your head, and address the dogdude directly. "Listen, bro, I dig that this is a Very Big Deal, like me having this information? And I don't want to halfass it. So how about we talk after I do the job I came here to do." To Bel: "Cap, you got lit up like a Christmas tree three days ago, how long you been off the drip? Okay, I'm not gonna assume anything then. Lemme check you out." You set your medic bag on a chair and approach the bed with a stethoscope, ready to stop if dogdude flips out.
You don't flip out, just shuffle back against the wall and tuck your paws close together, panting with the come-down of terror. This is Pancho, the medic you've been waiting for. Shame you made such an awful first impression. You'll come out and make a proper introduction later. When you're not going to bite anyone. Awful first impressions can always get worse, especially when you bite someone.
Out on the landing, Logan must've finished her pizza, because she's starting to make querying barks at the door. You hear footsteps on the stairs, and flush for shame. "All right if I tie her outside?" Colonel Kadros calls. "Yes, sir, thank you. I'm so sorry." At least he doesn't sound angry when he talks to your dog. Bemused, at worst. "I was going to tie her out before coming up," you tell Bel as you pump up the blood pressure cuff. "But, you know. SNAFU, I guess." "Relax, Dad's chill. So was your tour up?" "Not quite. Got a month left. The paperwork's gonna be weird." You nestle the stethoscope bell under the edge of the cuff and fall silent, listening for the pulse and watching the numbers. The result you get, along with the quality of his skin and the color of his mucous membranes, makes you shake your head. "Okay, if you came in out of the field like this, I'd give you a unit of blood. But since you've got as much bed rest as you want, and are apparently a werewolf with like... Healing Factor X... I'm just gonna try and hydrate you. Whoever took you off the drip this early was -- prooooobably you, wasn't it." Bel blushes adorably. "There was pizza. And Erskin's hot dad. He's like Sean Connery but more so, Pancho." "Good reason to risk a blood clot," you drawl. "Who's Erskin? Oh, dogdude? Wolf boyfriend. Hoarding the pizza. Please ignore the growling of my stomach, I swear I ate breakfast today."
"I'm not hoarding, I just cached it, and it happened to be where I ran away to when charged by that fucking polar bear," you grump, injured. You'd share if asked! But they won't even ask because it's floor food now, which most humans are opposed to, so whether or not you're hoarding is fucking irrelevant. You're not sure how much of this can be conveyed through a mattress, but you're sure Bel's heard your indignant snort. You kick another slice out from under the bed, so it fetches up against Pancho's boot, and snort again when she doesn't eat it. See?
You share a look with Bel. He looks utterly charmed. Huh, he really is dating his service dog. "Can't eat right now, bro, I'm doctoring," you say lightly. "But thanks."
SEE. You paw one of the slices up to your front end and start chewing on it. It is great, and tastes fine, so there.
You're capable of focusing on your patient while in the middle of a firefight, so if dogdude thinks he's going to get your attention with his harrumphing and eating noises under the bed, he's got another think coming. You take Bel's vitals, examine his injuries and change the dressings, prop him up with pillows, and move the water where he can get at it. "I'm gonna go get you a squeeze bottle when we're done here," you say. "There's no reason you should have to juggle a cup with your fingers fucked up." "There should be a few in the top cabinet over the sink, in the kitchen." "Cool. You want something besides water? No coffee or pop, but if you've got a caffeine withdrawal headache I'll sign off on some green tea." "Juice maybe. I'm craving sugar pretty bad, think my blood sugar's low." "Think you're probably right. Did you have any abdominal pain after eating pizza last night? That wasn't there before, I mean, you know what I mean. Nerd." "Nah, I got super lucky, none of the bullets dinged my stomach or intestines. I can eat normally." "Okay then, let's feed you up." You go to put away your instruments, then squat on the floor, hands loose over your knees, to check out dogdude. "You got shot too, right? Wanna let me look at your stitches?"
Well, it couldn't hurt. Maybe she'll take your stitches out, it's been a few days and the stubbly prickle of your fur growing back in has made it an agony not to chew on them. You scoot out from under the bed, paw a few dusty bits off your coat, and climb on the mattress to stand at a more comfortable height for her.
"Your name's Erskin? I'm Dakota Pancho. Pleasure to meet you. Okay, I'm going to press along the area and you let me know if there's any sharp or sick pain. Dull pain is normal, but I want to make sure there's no infection in there." He stands calmly while you palpitate his side, and doesn't indicate any sharp distress. "Cool. Looks like those stitches could come out. Have a lie-down." You pull on a fresh pair of rubber gloves and get out the requisite instruments. Bel says, "How about my stitches?" "No, you've got another day or two. Are they itching?" "Little bit." "Good sign. Try not to scratch, and with any luck I can take at least some of them out tomorrow."
You blep smugly at Bel, then have to stifle a yip when Pancho pulls on a stitch. You bite a fold of blanket and go nrrrrr, plaintively.
