Prompt 79: "I'll still be here when you're ready." (Janeway/Johnson, Johnson/OC)
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"Yeah, hi. Um … I'm here about the puppies?"
Mark Johnson blinked wearily at the sight of Carla Meissner, his T.A., standing on the front step of his house at 9 a.m. on a Saturday. They had an appointment, but truth be told, he'd forgotten about it until the bell rang, startled the dogs into a round of barking and yipping, and woke him up. He'd always been a little absent-minded, but it had gotten worse over the past year. He pulled the ties on his bathrobe tighter, thankful it was clean and he was wearing pajamas under it.
"Hi, Carla."
"I can come back later if you'd rather … "
"No, it's okay. Come on in."
She sidled past him awkwardly, through the hallway and into the living room. This wasn't easy, as the hallway was narrow and she was a plus-sized woman … rounded where Kathryn was slim, blonde where Kathryn was auburn-haired, dressed in a fluffy ivory wool cardigan that wouldn't suit Kathryn at all, even out of uniform … He really had to stop doing that. It wasn't fair to compare every woman to Kathryn, even if he'd been doing it since he was fourteen years old.
Molly and her five puppies were in their basket in the living room. The young mother barked at the sight and smell of a newcomer, perked up her ears and waved her feathery tail. The puppies yelped and wriggled, catching their mother's excitement, some of them trying to climb the high walls of the basket. Mark hung back as he watched his guest approach them.
He felt guilty. He couldn't help it. Molly had been his lifeline in those first horrible months after Kathryn's ship was reported missing. If not for her – her soft fur, her compassionate eyes, her simple need for things like food and walks and pregnancy checkups that forced him to get out of bed every morning – he honestly wasn't sure if he'd have made it through. It seemed cruel to repay her for all that by giving away her children.
But what could he do? He had lessons to plan, papers to grade, books to write, his T.A. to supervise, academic politics to deal with, friends and family to catch up with before they gave him up as a complete hermit … taking care of one dog could be a challenge sometimes, let alone six.
I'm sorry, girl, he thought, keeping an eye on Carla. But at the very least, I can make sure they go to good homes.
He didn't know Carla well outside of the university, but inside it, he approved of her. She was a solid if uncreative thinker, a responsible T.A., and she'd never once been late or forgotten an assignment. He thought of her as the sort of person who, once they started something, would see it all the way through.
"Oh, Dr. Johnson, they're beautiful!" Carla exclaimed, her voice high and breathy, her pale gray eyes going wide.
A tidal wave of memory almost knocked him off his feet.
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"Oh, honey, they're beautiful!" Kathryn exclaimed, her voice low and smoky, her bright blue eyes going wide. She squeezed Mark's arm with delight as they looked down at the tumbling, rolling pack of Irish setter puppies in the kennel, carefully watched by their mother. It was spring. The air smelled of dogs, clean straw and fresh mown grass.
"They sure are," the dog breeder said proudly. "Take your pick, ma'am."
"Let's see." Kathryn knelt beside the kennel bars and rattled them with her fists.
Most of the puppies scattered, but the smallest one took a running leap toward her, bumped its head against the bars and fell over with a squeak of surprise. It picked itself up and shook itself all over.
Kathryn grinned. "Well, this one's got spunk!"
"She certainly does," said the breeder. "Runt of the litter. Small, but tough."
"Sounds like another redhead I know," said Mark.
"I'll take that as a compliment." Kathryn laughed, warm and vital as the spring sunshine, and held out her hand through the bars. The puppy jumped up to lick her fingers, wagging its thin tail like a metronome. Its soft reddish-brown fur was the same color as her hair.
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"Is it okay if I touch them?" asked Carla in a hushed voice, startling him back into the present.
"Yes," said Mark, "But be careful. They're still very young."
She knelt by the basket, her pale hair and clothes in sharp contrast to the dogs' fur. The light coming in through the window was pale too; it was one of those gray early spring days when nothing wants to grow. Mark realized, for the first time in months, how dark his house was. He'd never been a dirty person even at his worst, but the window blinds were all closed, the house plants were wilting, and the smell of fresh coffee that used to inhabit the place had long since faded away.
But when Carla looked up at him and smiled, holding a tiny puppy in her cupped hands, he corrected himself.
At least one thing in here was bright today.
"This one," she said. "He's so little."
Molly let out an anxious bark.
"They're not ready to leave their mother yet," said Mark. "But I'll remember."
She ran one fingertip along the puppy's back and held it up at eye level, even though its eyes were still mostly closed.
"I'll still be here when you're ready," she whispered.