[Author's Note: So I'm back sooner than expected, but I'll explain that later. For now, suffice it to say that Navy recruiters are liars. I wrote this story from the Separations unit of basic training, and now that I'm home I'm transcribing it and uploading it. This is a thank-you to pitchpearlgirl and alphaonefourzero, because when I left for basic they wrote me an awesome going-away story. I can't tell you guys how much that meant to me. (Also, I tried to write something fluffy, since my stories tend to get gloomy.)]
Someone had left a puppy on his doorstep.
Andy stared down at the cardboard box, and at the tiny bundle of grey fur contentedly snoring away inside, next to a laminated but well-chewed note that read, "Hello! My name is Paws! Please take good care of me." Picking up the slobber coated paper, he spotted another note on the back.
"Dane—thought you might want some company."
He looked up at the sky, then down at the puppy. It was getting dark, and by the looks of things it was going to start raining soon. The furball was still snoring happily. It rolled over, a squeak announcing the presence of a small toy in the box.
Dropping the note on the ground, he went back inside, leaving the box and its contents on the step. It wasn't his problem.
It started to rain. The puppy sneezed.
The door opened back up, and he picked up the box, grumbling as he carried it back inside.
…...
He had to admit, it was cute. The pup was still pretty close to newborn, its paws and head awkwardly large on its small, fuzzy body. He grabbed a towel to dry it off, and it regarded him sleepily with icy blue eyes.
Andy smiled slightly. "Our eyes match," he mumbled.
The puppy yawned.
Leaving the little puffball on the towel, he went to the kitchen and grabbed a random bowl from the cabinet. Then he opened the fridge, and debated what dogs usually ate. He couldn't give it beer, so that meant water was the only liquid option. There were some leftover wings—no, dogs couldn't eat chicken bones. Beside that, there were grapes—dogs can't eat those either, plus they're carnivores—and half a snickers bar.
He really needed to go shopping.
Instead, he ordered a pizza, balancing his cell phone on his shoulder as he filled the bowl with water, grabbed a beer, and went to find the puppy.
…...
It wasn't on the towel. He checked in the box, and around the front entrance. After a few minutes of frantically checking the house, he found it curled up—still slightly damp—in the middle of his bed. The puppy had fallen asleep again, snoring happily.
Goddamn, it was cute.
He sat down next to it, and scratched behind its ears. The fuzzball twitched slightly, but didn't stir. Who in all of Halla, he wondered, thought that Andy Mitchell could take care of a baby animal? He wasn't even sure if he could take care of a grown animal. Although, he reminded himself, he could run a pretty capable cult. Minus a few flaws, of course.
And that note. Whoever did this knew him; it had been years since he had heard the name 'Saint Dane'. But that just made it all the more confusing—who in their right mind would give a puppy to a megalomaniacal shapeshifting demon who had tried to take over the universe?
Thought you might want some company.
It had to be Bobby. Either Bobby, or Press, or both of them working together. They were probably laughing about it right now.
He picked it up, and it yawned, watching him curiously with bright blue eyes. Then he put it down on the floor, placing the bowl of water in front of it. The pup sniffed at the water tentatively, and stuck a paw in the cool, rippling surface.
"Drink it," he said. "It's water, not poison."
The puppy continued to sniff cautiously.
"Drink it."
It circled the bowl.
He sighed, and cracked open his beer. The puppy looked up and ran over to his ankles, its blue eyes wide. Oh dear god, he thought. It's begging.
He shook his head. "No. You can't have this."
It continued to beg.
"No. There's only one underage drinker in this house. Come back when you're three."
He took a swig of the beer. The puppy continued to watch him, unblinking. It whined a little. Andy sighed, and poured a bit of the beer into the bowl of water. The puppy, tail wagging, sniffed at the bowl and sneezed as the carbonation tickled its nose. Then it lapped up about half of the bowl, and sat down on its haunches, looking pointedly at Andy.
"That's all you're getting," he said. "Lush."
…...
The word "adorable" was not a common word in the vocabulary of Andy Mitchell, and especially not in that of Saint Dane, unless he was being facetious. But as he sat on the couch and watched the puppy attempt to carry an entire slice of pizza in its mouth, it was the only word that came to mind.
He still had no idea who left the fuzzball on his doorstep—though most likely it had been Press—or why they had thought to give him a puppy of all things. But as the puffball settled down into the task of gnawing through a piece of pepperoni, he couldn't help but smile.
Maybe he had wanted a little company.
[Author's Note: That's all I got. I'd originally planned for this to be longer, but I think it works best as a one-shot. Just something short and cute as a thank you.
So, explanations. When I joined the Navy I'd had some medical stuff in my history that was supposed to be disqualifying. My recruiters said it would be fine, and MEPS waived me through, and then I got to Illinois and found out it was still disqualifying, so I got to spend the better part of a month in administrative separations before they sent me home. So that happened. And now I'm back. I have no idea what I'm going to do now, and I wish my recruiters had been honest so I wouldn't have wasted several months, but it is what it is, I guess. The only thing I can do is move forward and hope everything works out alright.]