Summary:No more working, Kent! Work is for squares! Log Info:Storyteller: Ambrose |
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*
From around the corner of the doorway, a small canid form appears in the office room. Pale as cream, warmly browned as a toasted marshmallow from dome of head to rump and tip of tail, the jackal flits across the room as silently as a ghost. He leaps up into Kent's lap, regardless of what the man is doing, and circles around three times in delicate balance upon legs. Then, with a quiet murrrrf of a sigh, Ambrose settles in.
I was cold, says he in the kythe with a rolled glance of eyes up towards Kent. His own are muddy-blue as always within this form.
*
Kent is working at his desk, in his office/library. The one real room he claims upstairs - the others are for the children, and Ambrose's own, and a spare for a guest room. Not surprised to find the jackal. Were you now, my dear? he asks, affectionately, already scratching the beast's ears.
*
Yes. The room downstairs may be warm when the sun falls within it, but cold does sink down the stairs. He shifts his weight so a long hindlimb half-falls from Kent's leg. A lift of his chin and he places it on the desk, eyeing what his fiance's up to. You practically radiate heat, my heart. I am already, by all accounts, warmer for your presence.
A sniffle and then he starts lipping at the nearest important thing, his whiskers brushing and tongue sticking to any paper lying around.
*
A pen that Kent keeps on his desk - a fountain pen in a stand. Not expensive or fancy, just reusable. Working on incense blends, by the notes in the notebook. Now being lipped at by the jackal. Kent doesn't try to take it from him, merely tickles under that fuzzy chin. "It's summer, my furball. You're not too warm, oh desert creature?"
*
The scritching beneath his jaw is enough to make Ambrose cease in his juvenile attempt to gain attention…for now. He tilts back his chin to expose his pale throat and lays back his ears, crinkling his whiskers slightly in delight.
I can never be too warm, not here in these climes. I swear the chill of winter lingers in my bones long after they claim it's spring around this city. I cannot wait to lie out on the back patio in the sunshine until I'm baked through more than camel droppings in the Kalahari. His eyes slip mostly shut towards Kent and sweetly-grateful affection wends through the kythe towards the man.
*
The image makes him chuckle soundlessly, and he gives the little fuzzy head a thorough scritching. I should make you rub my belly until I flail my paws, later. He's less likely to seek affection in his own fur form - that he tends to leave more for battle or tracking I should get you a heated pad, or one of those blanket that reflects heat, against next winter. But then, you are a child of the sands.
*
I am indeed a child of the sands, in my way. I don't remember England overmuch. The shimmering heat of the desert? Yes…it is in my blood. Ambrose closes his eyes entirely now, making soft murring sounds. It's not quite a purr given it's not every exhale, but it's awfully close. A heated pad would be a wonder. I'm not certain I would wander from it on days when the snow fell. There's a sparkling of wry humor from him. Of course he's going to wander. After all, 'wander' and 'lust' comprise two important distinctions within the Jackal.
As for flailing… You need simply ask, my heart, and I will scratch your belly until you've strings of delighted drool wrapped about your muzzle.
*
I will get you little booties and a little fleecy coat and walk you and take you to petshops and you can pick out all the treats you like. Maybe a little bed to have a den in. Yeah, he's kind of enjoying the prospect of Ambrose's Winter Wonderland. Just wait until Sterling takes them both to a dogpark in the wee hours of a snowy morning so they can roll on and bite the snow before anyone else dirties it. Down to stroking the Jackal's fur, lightly, soothing him.
*
Having settled himself fully in Kent's lap now, he blinks contentedly towards the upstairs bedrooms upon hearing one of the offspring rustling about. I've no idea about a denning bed…though, it does appeal to me on some level within my mind. Kent might be able to catch it, the basic positivity of the idea in the jackal-tinted brain. Booties, yes, I hate the feeling of ice between my toes. He wrinkles his wee brown nose. And…yes, a coat, but for the love of all things holy, something masculine, I beg you. Fleece-lined is fine.
Turning, he idly licks at the man's hand once, as if to taste the skin and make sure it's fine. I don't understand how you tolerate the snow, my heart. You'll have to teach me its wonders, I suppose.
*
"I grew up in England," he says, softly. "Not the coldest part of it, but….colder than Iraq." There's that musing look in his eyes, as he gazes not at the Jackal, but at some blank middle distance, into the fields of memory. "I was thinking….one of those beds like a little box. So it would be very warm and cozy, but you could keep your nose out for fresh air. A plain coat, then. Definitely heated pads. I could have one, too." So his enormous dog self has a big warm pillow to sprawl on.
*
Ooh, yes, my heart. One large enough for you would be more than enough room to me to join in. Between the matting and your own body heat, I'd be content. He stretches out both front paws from his donut curl upon Kent's lap, displaying toebeans and blunt claws alike, and then leaves them to hang into free space.
Do you know, the first time I saw snow was in Pakistan. They called the place something else then, but I do not remember. The snow was so clean. Cold. Beautiful. It melted rather than gritted in my palm. I stood there to my knees it in, bewitched, and…I wept, because I could not tell a soul of my discovery, not without risk of harming them. I hated it afterwards. It reminded me of loneliness. A sigh from the Jackal and he leans his head heavily against Kent's torso.
*
"The frontier territory," Kent says, softly. "I had a cousin who served there, around the end of Victoria's reign." Stroking fingertips over the silky fur of those ears. Why is that? he says, softly. what do you mean, reminded you of loneliness? Even after all these years, they have secrets from another. Not deliberate….but corners undisclosed.
*
Rotating his skull, the jackal offers up more of his ears and scruff to those impossibly-soothing passes of hand and fingers.
The world goes cold and quiet when it snows. It becomes muted and silent. No one goes out unless they must. When one is alone…it isn't a balm, to realize this. I watched men go home to their families while women cooked at the fire and the children played by the hearth. I hated them all. I hated seeing the snow kicked off of boots. I hated the gleam of icicle like teeth. I hated seeing my goddamn breath every single time —
The mental snarling goes silent as he catches himself. Hackles risen slowly begin to fall and he burrows his nose deeper into Kent's shirt. You will have to teach me to like it, comes the far more gentle wisp of a thought.
*
Oh. Oh, it's like that. He scoops up the jackal, nuzzles into the fur of his nape. Now you will have a warm hearth to lie by. It'll be like the old days in Shanghai, you and me, an island of warmth, secure here while the cold is outside. Food sweet and rich. Think of it - lying in our bed, making love, the city hushed in the quiet of early morning. Evenings with the four of us upstairs, having dinner. Playing games, watching the children dance to that ridiculous music Sterling likes.
*
Melting into the embrace, Ambrose nuzzles his nose now up against the pulse at Kent's neck. It's a cool nose, a little wet, but pufts of warm breath follow against the man's skin. He shifts weight to lean closer yet, ears sleeked back to fit the dome of his skull beneath Kent's chin.
I swear to you, Kent Talbot, sometimes, this seems as a dream to me — this existence with you, and I cannot help but pinch myself. I never imagined… Even his mental voice fails in the face of the painfully-expressive deluge of gratitude that washes through him. «Azizam», my heart, my love — He can't even fully express it and a soft whine escapes in lieu of grateful tears.
*
It certainly seems like a strange dream to me, being married to something that looks like the bastard offspring of a fox and a cat, Kent retorts. But even in the mental speech, his tone is tender. I shouldn't criticize, since I in turn become something that looks like a bloodhound made love with a bear. But yes…..time beyond time, here we are, in the strangest possible future. But we are happy, are we not? I love you, and you love me.
*
A huffing murr is a jackal-laugh. I am the happiest I've been since I was born and yes - I love you, and to the death, my irregular bastard, the master-thief replies as he pulls back to lick a stripe up Kent's face without an iota of shame. And then another. And another unless stopped. I even have the children I thought I'd never enjoy and…we skipped that ridiculous stage where they are not more than demanding mouths and troublesome naivity. Some people have all the luck.
He stops his affections and curls up tightly again. We…have all the luck.
*
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