A/N: So this was an idea I've been knocking around for the past few weeks, and instead of finishing up the last chapter of "Midnight Of The Sun", I pursued a new story. No Michael this time around. I might continue this in one-shots after "Midnight" is completed, since I've got some cool Tate/dog interactions in mind...we'll see how it goes. I can definitely see dark fluff moments, if there's such a thing. Thanks for checking this out, and I hope you enjoy!
When The Dog Bites
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Somehow he wheedled his way into my dreams. Ghosts aren't supposed to sleep, and they sure as hell shouldn't be able to dream, especially about fucked up things like psychotic ex-boyfriends. But I did. And it pissed me off. Maybe this was the house's way of getting back at me for my suicide. The house wanted me to remember. He didn't haunt me when I was awake. Maybe in a deep, dark part of me, my subconscious – Dad's rationale, not mine – didn't want to avoid him anymore, even though I was happy without him. Whatever the reason was, these dreams, memories, kept returning.
Tate visited me in random blurs: his hand dressed in rubber against my mouth, his tentative smile as he crawled towards me for what would be our first time together, the dark, probing eyes which gave me vertigo. His touch was forefront in my brain, the slow kisses on my collarbone, the way his hands played through my hair and down my hips. How frustratingly gentle he was with me and knowing now that those hands slaughtered people, touched my mother. Sometimes he spoke and his voice opened up feelings in me I had forgotten I could, and did, feel. I woke up shaking from migraines, expecting him to be hovering over me and raging over the fact that I was disappointed when he wasn't. It was enough to consider cutting again.
Tonight was one of those sleepless nights, exhaustion and anxiety playing tug-of-war on my mind as I paced Dad's study. I didn't sleep in my room. Too much shit had gone on in there for an easy rest and the couch made a nice stand-in bed. I pressed my cheek to a window in hopes the cold would calm me down, but no such luck. I could have listened to music on my laptop, read if Dad's books weren't filled with psychoanalytic babble that'd remind me I had a problem. I could have done anything other than walk back and forth. Every move I made sent loud, shuddering creaks under my feet. Mom or Dad would come down if I kept at it. Anyone else cared less for the noise since most had disappeared into a decade-long hibernation. I'd done it a few times after my death when I was really bored, missing days, years of my new existence. Not like I was really losing time anyway...eventually the stubborn part of me that didn't want to forget my old life won out, and I began to live like I was still alive. Another one of the house's attempts to drive me insane. So I stayed awake and fulfilled unnecessary basic needs. Eat, shower, sleep, smoke. Anything to keep me distracted and proactive.
I flopped face-down on the previous tenant's abandoned red velvet settee, the seat exhaling dust at my collapse. I coughed but didn't move. My eyes and arms felt heavy and I would have passed out if Tate wasn't occupying every single thought, churning my insides with guilt. Sleeping pills would do the job if I didn't know any better. I needed a smoke. Last Halloween, I'd bought out the cigarette rack at the local convenience store. I was on the final pack now. So much for cutting down. I willed myself onto the front porch and camped out on the stoop with a freshly lit cig. The temperature was unnaturally cool for L.A. in September. I remembered autumn nights in Boston when I didn't wear a warm enough jacket and the cold tingled through my sleeves and up my scalp. If I could I'd take a red-eye out to New York just for the weather. Maybe next Halloween.
A yelp from behind the house startled me out of my East Coast nostalgia. I sat up, listening in the dead quiet that followed. Barking dogs were a staple neighborhood noise at night, but I hadn't heard one this close. Bursts of laughter rose from the backyard, followed by loud cracks and thuds. I tossed my unfinished cigarette and rounded the house.
The twins were attacking the gazebo, yelling and waving baseball bats. "Hey!" I said. The boys looked up simultaneously, frozen in their squats by a hole in the gazebo's foundation. Dad was better at scolding them than I was. "What the fuck are you doing?" They looked at each other for excuses but didn't care to answer. As I neared I saw the tops of their bats were stained.
"What is that?" I said, though I already had a pretty good idea. One twin flashed the bird at me as they poofed away. "Really?" I said to no one, though laughter echoed somewhere on the other side of the property. "Shitheads." Something scraped against gravel, a scrabbling of claws beneath the arbor. I stepped through the overgrown grass – the mower had died a couple months back and we had to wait until Halloween for a new one – my hands knotted under my armpits. There was a strange mix of anticipation and fear inside me, bunching up my muscles as I approached the gazebo. I bent over to look, but couldn't see anything inside the hole. The area reeked of urine, and blood marked the edges of the torn latticework where the animal had gotten stuck.
"Hey, it's okay," I said, like I was talking to Hallie, our old dog, during a storm. She'd cower behind my bureau when the thunder got real bad. I whistled softly through the little pang of heartache and was answered by a broken growl. "Come on, come out." Dogs didn't do well with the supernatural. Strays were few and far between, and none of them stayed for long. This one was hurt and scared, maybe someone's pet. I couldn't just leave it there.
A half-second later, I was at the foot of the stairs, calling up to my parents. Silence. Even in death they were unavailable. "Mom," I said a little louder, kneading the railing. "You have to come down here." I was distinctly aware now of time passing, valuable seconds of something's life ticking away. "Moira?" I tried. I decided to go up when a familiar voice stopped me.
"What's wrong?"
I spun on the bottom step to face him, my mind still slow to register. He wore a yellow sweater with a jagged black stripe across the chest. Charlie Brown turned grunge. I would have smiled if my face wasn't so numb. Go away, my conscience nudged, but the words refused to come. This could have been a dream for all I knew. It was hard to measure the amount of time gone by since I'd last seen Tate when he was standing there, unchanged. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were large and expectant. We stared.
"...There's a dog," I began, wondering why I was even responding at all, "outside...in the backyard." Tate nodded once and the tendons of his neck tightened. "It's hurt."
"Okay," he said tonelessly. "Do you want to show me?" And then we were in the back, Tate on the ground and aiming a flashlight under the gazebo. When had I consented? I didn't remember giving him the OK to come with. I stood a few feet back, gnawing on a hangnail as he looked for the dog. I watched the curve of his back, the subtle rocking on the balls of his feet. He was here, right in front of me, and I couldn't settle on the right thing to say. The nightmare incarnate. I opted for silence. "Hey buddy," Tate said and I could hear the grin that prefaced the greeting. I went on my tippy toes to see, but his shoulders blocked the entrance. The dog yelped and Tate leaned back, wiping his hands on his jeans. He turned to me. "He's in bad shape." I swallowed back a "How bad?" and looked at the grass. I imagined he'd have to be put down. Did ghost dogs exist? "But I'll see what I can do." My head snapped up. He'd see what he could do. Who was he, Dr. Dolittle? Tate held out the flashlight. "Hold this please? I need both hands." I stepped forward unwillingly, making sure our fingers didn't touch when I took it. Tate turned back to the gazebo and started tugging at the bottom latticework.
"What are you doing?" I said.
"Gotta make this bigger," Tate huffed as he cracked off a piece. I suppressed a hiss at the cuts on his palms.
"You're not going in there," I said, disbelieving. "It might have rabies or..." Tate glanced up at me, blowing back a tousled blonde lock from his forehead. I had the urge to run my hand in his hair like I'd done eons ago. In the beam of his flashlight his eyes turned black.
"Ghost, remember?" I nodded vaguely at his humor, trying to ground myself in this new reality where he hadn't disappeared forever. When the hole was big enough for him, he asked me to shine the beam towards the left-hand side, where the dog was. I knelt next to him, suddenly dizzy over our proximity. My body pulsed with adrenaline as I caught a whiff of his perspiration, reduced again to the girl I hated. I switched my focus to the task at hand and flashed the beam in the direction of the dog. There was a distinct burning in my eyes as I looked it over. It was a pretty big breed, curled in on itself on the other side of the gazebo. The dog's back hair was ruffled and the side of its body was matted and wet. One leg lay awkwardly, stripped of skin above the paw. The eyes glowed white in the yellow light as it whined at us. No bared teeth, but that didn't mean it wouldn't bite.
"Good thing I'm not claustrophobic," Tate said as he flattened out and began pulling himself through the hole. I didn't know if he intended to be funny and I didn't want to ask. Focus, my conscience repeated. I maneuvered the flashlight as far as I could above him but his body kept getting in the way and shadowing the dog. When Tate was waist-deep and the dog's growls were so deep they shook the ground, a scuffle started. It dragged on for a few minutes until Tate finally yelled a pained "I got him" and began to inch out, his feet slipping on grass. Tate had one arm wrapped firmly around the dog's injured back legs, while the other eased him back out. The sleeve of his forearm was torn, the skin underneath sporting a shallow gash.
"Jesus," I said, though I knew it wouldn't last – no physical injury ever did. The dog's upper half writhed and tried to snap back as Tate wrangled him out into the open. It left claw marks in the upturned dirt and its teeth clicked together as it tried to bite Tate. "What should I do?"
"Get a muzzle," Tate groaned as he reached out to close the dog's jaw shut. I returned with a bungee cord from the shed which Tate twisted around the snout three times and hooked together. The dog sighed when Tate was finished, but didn't move to get up. "Good boy," he said, patting the dog's neck and sitting back, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Girl," I corrected. "It's a girl."
"Oh...," Tate said, raising his eyebrows and blushing. "Thanks."
"Should we take her inside?" I touched her side and counted the protruding ribs. The poor thing was trembling. "She's so cold."
"She'll be all right," Tate said, but he didn't sound convinced. He got to his feet.
"Do you need help?"
"Nope," Tate said and bent to scoop the dog up. He cradled her like an oversized baby, his Adam's apple bobbing as he strained to stand upright. I held the door open for him and his shoulder brushed against mine, the heat of him settling onto me like a second skin. I trailed behind into the dining room, rubbing him off my shoulders. The dining table, also left behind by the previous owners, was rarely used but kept in pristine condition, thanks to Moira. She'd laid out an ornate tablecloth on which Tate placed the dog. He flipped on the overhead light, a flowery, colorful Tiffany lamp which had been around since Nora and her husband. We stood over the mutt whose light brown eyes flicked around in their sockets. She had the elongated snout and long legs of a Labrador and the black and brown coat of a German Shepherd. Her ears pointed up but curved inward at the tips. She didn't look like Hallie, but when Tate touched the wound on her leg, she made a soft "yip" like Hallie used to. I stroked the bony head, a small mewl in the back of my throat. I felt for a collar beneath the scruff of her neck and didn't find anything.
"You're safe now," I said and met Tate's eyes. He watched me with an intensity I hadn't seen since before we parted ways.
"My father brought home a dog for my fifth birthday," Tate said. "A Golden Retriever puppy. Constance was pissed. I remember hiding with Addie and the dog under my bed because she said she'd take it away. She said I was too young and Addie wasn't smart enough." Tate mashed his lips together and his gaze left mine. "Dad kept her at bay for a little while. Constance told us not to name it, because once it had a name, it was ours. We'd have a connection, y'know? It'd be that much harder to say goodbye. But Addie and I did anyway and one day we came home from school...and it was gone." Tate forced a laugh, and rubbed his face. He seemed to realize he had an audience because he cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders. "The bitch was right about something." Tate had never really discussed his family with me. I knew he held some awful grudge against Constance. Addie and he'd been close but I never saw them together. Was he aware she'd died?
The house sensed a new addition because Charles Montgomery appeared in the doorway, pulling on surgical gloves. "What do we have here?" he said, approaching the table. He'd botched Mom's twins' birth, so I wasn't exactly sure he was the right ghost for this job. Garden shears weren't suitable medical tools for any procedure.
"Violet," Tate said and the sound of my name him felt like a kick to the head, "found her under the gazebo."
"I think she'll be fine," I said. Both men shot me a questioning look.
"She requires an examination," Charles said. He frowned at the state of her leg.
"But you're not a vet," I pushed.
"I assure you I have experience with animals." Of course he did. Tate pursed his lips, splaying his hands on the table. A long time ago he'd told me the story of Charles' Frankenstein complex, his obsession with creating hybrids.
"She's not gonna turn into one of your science experiments," Tate said. "Doctors don't do that shit today."
"If you are apprehensive of my qualifications, you may observe or assist in the examination," Charles said stiffly. "Time is of the essence."
"I want to stay," Tate said, glancing at me for confirmation. Was this his way of getting close to me? Or was the house playing tricks on my good sense? My skin crept with renewed anxiety and I felt like another cigarette. The dog was a welcome distraction if Tate wasn't hovering beside it. What was his ulterior motive?
Tate turned up again an hour later. I was on the high wall of the backyard's porte-cochère, dozing and surrounded by extinguished cigarette butts.
"Violet?" His head hung low and his hands were fisted in his jeans pockets. Probably expecting me to send him away. I shifted my legs, pushing myself more firmly against the stone and hoping I'd be the one to fade.
"Hi," I yawned, groping in the half-darkness for another cigarette. All I came away with were ashes. He didn't answer, which led me to believe he was still doubtful of my mood. "How's the arm?" I said, because I couldn't think of anything else to say to a serial killer/rapist.
He held it out. "All better." Despite the dried blood on his shirt, his skin was unmarred. I didn't know if he was trying to smile or what, but his mouth twitched. He realized I wasn't a threat to him, for the present moment anyway. He stepped towards me, kicking a pebble across the cement. "So I heard you're keeping the dog." I nodded, tight-lipped. "Your parents don't mind?"
"As long as I keep an eye on her she stays." During Charles' check-up they came downstairs to see what the keening was about. I didn't tell him they didn't approve at first, that Dad pounded into me my sole responsibilities as a dog owner. Mom was a little softer, probably because she remembered Hallie.
"That's great," Tate said. He shrugged. "I'm happy for you, Violet. Really." He rocked on his feet for a long second.
The "What do you want, Tate?" line I'd rehearsed came out as "Thanks for getting her." I smoothed my tights and bit my lips. We weren't supposed to be having a conversation. All the progress I'd made since we broke up seemed to be falling apart. I broke it off for a reason. I broke it off because it needed to be done. I should have ended things when I saw his face plastered on all those Westfield High Massacre sites. Tate cocked his head at me, his brow knotted together over glazed-over eyes. I almost forgot how often he cried, and the part of me that still loved him ached.
"You're welcome."
I stared at my upturned palms in hopes they'd give me some semblance of escape. "Why?" I said quietly.
"Why what?"
"Why did you help her?" I lifted my eyes to his again.
"Because it was right."
I sighed. "Let me clarify: why did you help me?"
"No one answered you," Tate said, his hands digging deeper in his pockets.
"I wasn't calling for that long." God, I needed a fucking cigarette.
"You sounded frightened. You haven't sounded like that in awhile." He frowned, hunching his shoulders.
Stop asking him, stop pursuing it, my conscience pounded. "I didn't think you'd be around. The house has gotten pretty quiet..."
"I was around," he said. "So, are you gonna try dog training?"
"Yeah," I whispered, confused over the subject change. I pulled my hair behind my ears.
"What if it doesn't work out?"
"Then it doesn't," I shrugged. I couldn't control if she'd run away or if she didn't want to listen to me. I'd try my best. I had patience, shit, I had an eternity. For now, it was nice having something to take care of, something living and breathing. "If I've learned anything from this house, it's that most things don't last." I didn't have to look up to know Tate was staring at me. "I learned the hard way, but...c'est la vie, I guess." I blinked back tears but they slipped out anyway and clung to my eyelashes. I slipped from the wall, hoping he'd understand the conversation was over. "Good night, Tate."
"If you'd let me, could I help train her?"
I didn't care to ask about specifics. If training meant being close to him... I had lasted the past twenty odd years without Tate. I could last another twenty if I truly wanted. "I don't know if that's such a good idea, Tate."
"I know, but," Tate murmured to himself for a moment, "can you at least sleep on it? I've missed – talking."
What the fuck are you doing to me? I wanted to scream at him, the house. Please leave me the fuck alone. Please.
"Fine," I whispered, pressing my palms into my blurred vision. Everything in my body was vibrating with things left unsaid, but I was tired and it'd be dawn in a few hours and I had a new tenant to tend to. "Fine," I repeated on an exhale. "I'll sleep on it." Don't promise anything. Not yet. Even though there shouldn't be a 'yet'.
I willed myself into Dad's study, onto the settee. The stray stirred on the pile of blankets by my feet but didn't wake. Even if she did she wouldn't be able to run anywhere. Charles had made a makeshift cast out of Ace bandages to keep her leg straight. I curled up and brought my knees to my chest, too drained to worry over dreams or what would happen tomorrow. "You don't win," I said to the four walls as I drifted off. "Not this round." But the house must have been pleased, because for the first time in years, sleep came easily.
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