90 It
"We can't keep it. It might belong to someone. And it might have fleas. I'm not going to let it sleep in our bed. It has to go. Now."
"B-but..."
"Get it out of here." Arms crossed over a muscular chest and a puff of smoke floated up to the ceiling before being obliterated by the fan.
"Would you stop calling him that?" Fuery had a look of disgust on his face that the Second Lieutenant rarely saw. It was enough to catch him off guard.
"What?"
"'It'," Fuery hissed, "he's a boy-dog. Not an 'it'."
"Either way, get it out of the house." Havoc stared down at the pup in Fuery's arms. It was a brown, dirty, ragged, scrawny, ugly thing of a mutt, and Fuery was absolutely in love with it. Him. Whatever.
"Jean, just for the night? Please?" Havoc sighed. It wasn't often the younger man addressed him so informally. He relented.
"Just the night, and it's er…he's going to stay on the floor."
"Thank you!" Fuery stood on his tiptoes and pecked Havoc on the cheek, careful to avoid the cigarette dangling from the other's lips.