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In retrospect, John should have known what kind of day it was going to be, starting with the exhausted, pained feeling of wanting nothing more than to roll back over and go back to sleep, to the line up at Dunkin Donuts (what the fuck was he doing at Dunkin Donuts? He'd run out of coffee and gone grocery shopping, only to come back and realize he'd bought everything necessary for life but coffee) and then they'd taken two calls, the first one involving a drunk and disorderly orang-utan and the second one a theft of a cheese sandwich. He should have called it quits and made Sherman eat an unidentifiable taco at the nearest taco cart.
But, really, a shoplifter didn't seem too risky and Sherman had been yanking at the leash all day, just waiting for the chance to chase someone down and tackle so they turned around and went back, and Sherman jumped out of the car and ran.
That was, sort of, when it had all gone to hell.
John had followed, weapon out, cursing younger, dumber rookies with no survival instinct, down an alley, into the back door of a small, drab, neat house.
Or maybe that was where it all went to hell.
Regardless of where it all began, it ends in a scream, a weird twist and a blurring of the edges of Sherman, like everything he was pulled back, and the centre is being pulled out and put on display. Looking at him afterwards feels a bit wrong and bit predictable.
Tangled in a formerly neat uniform, both paws on the perp's back, Sherman cocks his head, and growls.
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John sighs and tries to move in and handcuff the shoplifter (who runs that far from a shoplifting charge?), only to have to yank his hands back when Sherman snaps at him, sharp teeth just inches from putting him in a whole new category of gloves.
John moves on instinct, smacking Sherman upside the head.
"Knock it off."
He drags the perp up, whimpering about werewolves and shit, which is bullshit, because anyone who knows shit about dogs would know that Sherman's a pit-bull. Great, now he's going to be thinking pit bulls all day tomorrow, and Sherman's going to give him some weird looks and they might have to talk about their feelings. This dream is going from surreal to nightmare.
John is a little bit in denial.
It turns out the scream is a little girl, maybe six, who is "really, really sorry" that she turned Officer Sherman into a dog. Her mother, or guardian, John's not sure which, is apologetic but points out that they really should have said something before they came in. Between trying to persuade Sherman that, no, he really doesn't need to try to bite the little punk they've just and telling the little girl, no, it's okay, it was an accident (he can't believe he's saying this, but she's got big eyes and she does look really, really sorry), he can barely find the time to glare at the woman and tell her there's no way Sherman can stay like this.
"Absolutely right," she says, and then pulls a pair of scissors out of her skirt.
He has to admit, Sherman looks a lot happier not tangled up in blue polyester. He prances a little and jumps on John.
"Jesus, get down," John mutters, then looks at the woman. "Look, lady, he can't be a dog."
"Well, there's nothing to be done about it now," she shrugs. "He doesn't seem to mind."
"That's because he's a fucking dog!"
"It seems a lot better than being a llama," the woman says.
John gives up.
.....................................................................
"It's temporary."
The witch that works in Missing Persons (why do they even have a witch working anywhere?) confirms what the woman's been saying that ever since she got here.
"How long?"
Sherman pulls away from the witch and leans on John's legs, whining. John shoves him off, but he's got soft fur and it's even softer on his ears. Sherman sighs, and starts panting, grinning wide.
"A month? A week?" she cocks her head to the side. "I mean, it's not real? Like, a real spell? Those can be permanent. This is just, like, a defence mechanism?"
Sherman watches the witch. She's holding her hands above Sherman's head, somehow avoiding his nose. He keeps trying to tap her palms, making it a game. For some reason, that's bad. She says something about radio frequencies and nods to the captain.
"He's fine? I mean, for now?"
"He's still a dog," The captain points out, rubbing his temples.
The witch shrugs.
"It's probably better than, you know, being a, like, a llama?"
Sherman barks.
John would like to think it's one of those tiny, bitchy remarks that always shocks people a little when it comes out of Sherman's mouth, but really, Sherman's probably just wanting the captain's sandwich and a bowl of coffee.
Sherman paws at the captain's leg and eyes the sandwich tragically.
"Jesus."
He gets the sandwich. They call Sherman's Mom, his emergency contact. She doesn't believe them at first, and then pretty much has an immediate allergic reaction as soon as she gets in the room. John takes her out in the hallway, while Chickie comforts Sherman.
"Oh, God!" All of a sudden, John has an armful of rich, white lady. "My poor son!"
There are no words for how awkward this is. At least, not any he can use that won't make the nice kid in HR give him an intensely disappointed look and force everyone to sit through one of those god-awful sensitivity seminars. He pats Mrs. Sherman on the shoulder, gingerly.
"You have to take care of him!" Ms. Sherman wails, clutching at John's shirt. A detective John hooked up with in 2007 walks by, snickering.
"Ma'am, I'm not sure if that's..."
Ms. Sherman has very big eyes. Now John knows how her son got the sandwich, the last donut in Ramirez' daily offering, and out of working double shifts last week.
Shit.
...............................................................................................
"Get off the couch."
Sherman heaves a huge sigh and climbs off the couch, slumping on the floor. His tail thumps against the hardwood quietly.
John goes into the kitchen. Spaghetti, maybe.
Sherman starts barking almost immediately, loud, ringing calls that echo through the house. John thinks about ignoring him, but the neighbours on the other side have a six month old, and Ted's reached that stage where he looks like he's not sure where he is or how he got there, so he has to shut Sherman up, or the baby'll start crying and Ted and Jackie will have separate breakdowns on the front lawn.
Then someone starts knocking on the door, hard, repetitive pounding that doesn't let up. Sherman runs ahead of John and throws himself up against it, growling.
John knows only one person cute enough to get away with that shit on someone else's door.
He opens it. Cesar grins up at him.
"Hey, John!" His eyes light up when he sees Sherman. "Oh, man, you got a dog! How come you never told me you got a dog?"
It's hard to hear him over Sherman's freak out, but John knows Cesar. A little thing like a crazy pit-bull isn't going to do anything to intimidate him.
"It's not really-"
He gets cut off by Cesar tapping Sherman's nose, lightly, once.
"Enough, buddy."
Sherman whines and hides behind John's legs for about two seconds, then comes out and sniffs Cesar's legs all over. He's thorough enough that John starts to worry about the department getting hit with a harassment suit, but Cesar just grins and shoves Sherman away. He's pretty rough, but Sherman eats it up and comes back for more, rubbing his head all over Cesar's thigh and making happy squeaky noises.
"Knock it off, Sherman," John grabs Sherman by the neck and drags him back inside. Sherman takes this as an invitation to play, grabbing one of John's work shoes as soon as he's inside and runs across the house with it, while John swears and makes threats he doesn't really have the heart to carry out.
"You know, it's your own fault," Cesar says, disapprovingly, while John tries to snag Sherman long enough to get his shoe back. "You got to set boundaries for dogs, John. No boundaries, no behaviour."
John finally gets a hold of Sherman and starts trying to pull the shoe out of his mouth.
"A little help here?" He grunts at Cesar, who got a hold of a beer sometime in all the commotion and looks way too good, standing there with the sun at his back.
Cesar finishes his beer off and smirks.
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"You don't got anything for him, John," Cesar's at the table, almost bent over pizza. He always tells John that he had three brothers and two sisters and had to guard his food. John's met his sisters, and therefore has reason to doubt the veracity of those stories. "You don't even have a water bowl."
John shrugs and finishes his pizza. Sherman got a hold of the sausage while they were cooking, so he just tossed on extra cheese and put up with Cesar's disapproving glare. He figures whatever the hell it is in the sausage that Cesar disapproves of isn't any worse than going without, although, what with the Captain's sandwich, he's pretty sure that Sherman's not about to starve.
Okay." Cesar puts his plate in the sink. "Finish up. We're going shopping."
"The hell we are," John says, but he finishes his pizza, anyhow. That doesn't mean they're going shopping.
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Cesar's somehow got the idea in his head that Sherman's a police dog that John got saddled with for some cop reason. He keeps calling the dog "Officer Sherman" and Sherman eats it up, trotting beside Cesar with a devoted grin. John's not jealous.
He's also not shopping.
Sherman's paying him back for this.
The ladies at the pet store think Sherman's the cutest thing they've ever seen. They keep falling all over themselves to ask if there's anything they can do, anything they need help with.
"John!" Cesar comes running down the aisle with something that looks like it started out life as a duck before getting skinned and dipped in that stuff ravers put in glowsticks. "Check it out!"
John stares at it. He feels kind of vaguely nauseated.
"What the hell is it?"
"It's a rubber chicken, man!" Cesar looks him like he's insane, or possibly just deprived. He throws the chicken in the cart.
That's it. They have a cart. He might as well give up now. If Sherman ever turns back into a boy, he's going to be paying back more than money, because John's just sold his soul for a neon chicken.
Shit.
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Sherman loves the chicken. He's apparently decided that it's his new best friend. He carries it in the house himself, and curls up with it on his new bed as soon as they put it down, yawning widely.
"Good dog," Cesar is really better at dealing with Sherman than John is. John thinks it has something to do with not knowing that less than twenty-four hours ago Sherman was a trainee police officer.
"Ready for bed?"
He's tired, all of a sudden, exhausted by the day. He really wants to go to bed, wrap his arms around Cesar while the other man grumbles about him being an octopus and lie under cool sheets until the day comes in.
Sherman snuffles at the chicken and makes a low, musical noise. When he sees John looking at him, he grins and pants.
"Oh, hell." John points at the dog. "Don't you move from that bed, kid."
"He's a dog, John."
"Sure, for now."
"What?"
"You want a beer?"
...............................................................................................
There's a scraping on his door. It's loud, it's obnoxious and he's going to kill the neighbours for letting their dog out unsupervised again. Worse yet, he'll have to see Sherman and it's going to be weird beca-
Wait. That's right.
"Sherman's a dog."
"That's right," Cesar rolls over and grabs his pillow. "He's a dog that wants out."
John groans and pulls the sheet up.
The scratching gets louder
"John, get up and take the dog out."
"Jesus."
Sherman throws himself on John as soon as he sees him, panting and whining and generally acting like an idiot. He also pisses on John's new rhododendron as soon as they get outside, but honestly, it was free and he wasn't expecting it to last that long, anyhow.
"You done?" He asks Sherman, who just barks again and runs around the yard, sniffing everything that looks even the slightest bit interesting.
"Hey, John, you going to take that dog for a walk, or what?"
John glances over his shoulder at Cesar, who's leaning out the door, holding a spatula in his hand.
"What if I say, "Or what?"" He asks, mostly out of curiosity
"Then you don't get pancakes," Cesar grins as he says it, even wider than usual.
John considers it.
Hell, he likes pancakes.
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Sherman hates the leash. He chews on it, until John yanks it out of his mouth, pulls on it, tries to slip out of it backwards.
They're supposed to be trying to impress the K9 unit rep, who's supposed to be checking them out, to see if Sherman's safe to be working with the public. It's not the normal route police dogs take, but everyone's agreed this is one of those special circumstances.
If John were in this guy's place, he'd be pretty pissed. Detective Jones mostly looks like he really can't believe this is his life.
"Mind you," he says, with the voice of those resigned to their fate. "It doesn't seem as bad as being a llama."
His dog barks at Sherman, as though she finally can't stand it. John has to admit, Sherman is a lot less professional now than he was before. He doesn't know how Sherman the dog got so cute and cocky, but he's kind of missing the old, stoic Sherman, not in the least because he didn't have to pick up that Sherman's shit.
John wonders if the whole "turned into a dog" thing has switched Sherman's personality, too, but the kid sits quiet through the rest of the tests and the people talking over his head, just like he used to, and does what he's told, with the added bonus of not shooting his mouth off, not that the old Sherman was that mouthy.
John's just trying to stick to the positives here.
The day gets marginally better, bit by bit, until he's in the car, on the street and it's almost like normal, except Sherman talks a bit less
It's really not bad, John realizes. Except for the nightmarish surrealism of it all.
...........................................................
"Do you think it sucks?" Chickie and he are watching her new partner secure the crime scene with Sherman. Sherman's being professional, following Officer Jiminez around, inspecting everything he does and occasionally barking at too curious passers by
John shrugs.
She nods at her partner. "Manny said it had to be better than being turned into a llama."
John grunts.
"I don't know how he'd know, though," Chickie adds.
John shrugs again.
"You want to get lunch after this?" he asks, feeling kind of like an asshole.
"Sure," she says. "I know this place that lets you keep your dog on the patio."
........................................................
"Get off the couch, Sherman!"
He doesn't even have to look to know that Sherman's going to pop his head up, look around to see if there are any other Shermans on the couch and drag himself off, looking like the most tortured soul in existence. John doesn't care. His couch is dark and Sherman has some kind of shedding gene that deposits caramel coloured fur all over anything even slightly resembling black and it's not like John actually cares, but this tiny little desk jockey with big glasses and bigger eyes had sniffed at his uniform and handed him a lint-roller ceremoniously. It's not like Sherman actually needs the couch, either, his bed is fine. He just likes to push it, sometimes.
"That's better," he says, over his shoulder when Sherman comes in, claws clicking on the linoleum. Sherman ignores him in favour of his water dish and laps, messily. His kitchen floor is going to be a permanent pond if this keeps up.
Sherman goes into misery mode as soon as they clock off, tired and bored. John doesn't know what to do, or if he should do anything, When Cesar comes over, or they go to his house, Sherman can play fetch with him, or just sit and be petted, but John's never got the energy for that crap after work, and he's not into fondling rookies, even the kind that get themselves turned into animals.
Which doesn't explain why he sits down in front of the tv that night and rubs Sherman's ears while the kid chews on the chicken.
What the hell. It's better than having a llama in the living room.
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John thinks they've reached a weird kind of equilibrium. They get up, they have breakfast, he takes Sherman down to the park, if Cesar's there they go together, then he and Sherman go to work. They do the job, they come home, if Cesar's there they go to the dog park, or they collapse together in the living room for an hour, then John gets up to do some gardening, or other house shit, and Sherman plays with his toys, ripping some to shreds and hiding others in varyingly inconvenient places around the house.
John's a little nervous letting the kid loose in the pack of dogs that rule the dog park, but there hasn't been a problem, so far. Sherman's pretty good with the other dogs, if a little shy. He's got a protector, of all things, a cross between a lab and an elephant, and a few special friends who come running to meet him every time he's there.
John and Cesar have made friends, too. The first day, Cesar got mad at him because he told this tiny woman off for letting her little fucking mop chew on Sherman's face, but she'd been there the next time and greeted them with a huge grin. Her name was Nina and she was in the process of civilizing her mutt. Nina and Delilah know Andy and Freakshow, Andy and Freakshow know Tim and Sally and Rosie and Rosie's Sherman's new best friend and that's how it all cycles back in the end, to John and Cesar.
Now John's panicking again. He and Cesar are suddenly one of THOSE couples, the kind that have a dog and take the dog to the park and even worse than this, it's not even a real dog, just some dumb-ass rookie who doesn't have the sense god gave a Chihuahua and might turn back any day now and when that happens, his ass is so much grass.
Sherman jumps into the car and leans out the window, licking John's face.
"Jesus, get off me, kid!"
Sherman barks at him and grins when John frowns, the way that used to make Sherman flinch, or freeze, or pout. Clearly, he's lost his touch.
He's going to have to do something about this.
………………………………………………………
He looks like a dog. It's worrisome in a whole new way, because usually John can tell himself that there's something human in the way Sherman tilts his head or grumbles in response to his jabs. Then there are those moments when Sherman is all dog and John restrains himself from hunting the witch's mother down and making her change him back. It's been almost a month and he's been relying on that promised six weeks ending this thing, but then there's moments like this, when John can see the dog on Sherman's skin, heavy and happy in a way the boy Sherman never was.
He thinks, fuck. What if he doesn't want to change back? What if he's better off this way?
Then he realizes he likes this, likes getting up and going places with Sherman, likes having dog hair on his couch and toys in the crawlspace. Shit. He likes that Cesar knows them so well, he can bring John his coffee and Sherman a whole package of beef jerky to rip apart.
This is too much personal revelation. He needs a drink.
………………………………………………….
A few days after the dog thing, Sherman's Mom had apparently bought out an entire pet store's worth of toys, clothes and miscellaneous and definitely proceeded to have the whole thing shipped to his house. John managed to choke something out to Cesar about her being Ben's former owner, but Cesar seemed too amused by the way that John tried to block the door on them to really pay attention to how fucking strange it was.
Now, they're on the couch and John has his head resting on Cesar's shoulder. They're not cuddling, John's just had a long day and he's resting. Cesar took all the pillows, is all.
Sherman is switching between his chicken and a rubber octopus that his mom sent over, like he's not sure which one he wants to carry over to his bed more. Finally, he solves the problem by taking the octopus over and hiding it between his bed and the wall, and running back for the chicken. Everything secure, he lies down and starts eviscerating the octopus.
John smiles. Under him, Cesar is laughing, noiselessly, just a quiet shaking of his shoulders.
It's beautiful, idyllic and quiet. Of course it all goes to hell tomorrow. The timing couldn't have been better.
……………………………………………………
John occasionally wonders what it is about losing your job that makes you come home and shoot your whole family. He wondered about it after Memorial Day and that shithead detective who had to go and tempt fate and a .32 and he's wondering about it now, while the lone survivor, a seven year old girl with eyes that are way to big for her face sits with her hands wrapped around Sherman's neck.
Sherman doesn't move, except once, when they pull the father by, to growl and snap at him. Usually John steps in at that point, because the last thing they need is to put Sherman down before he turns back into a real boy, but he figures the kid's safe to take a few pieces out of this bastard.
He doesn't talk about at first. They have to drag the little girl away from Sherman and he tries to follow her into the ambulance, until a particularly brave EMT shoves him out and shuts the door.
"You guys should switch to alpacas," she adds, leaning out the driver's side window. John flips her off.
"What's an alpaca?" A spectator behind the yellow tape asks.
""Kind of like a llama, but, you know, miniaturized?"
Sherman's curled up in the seat, head tucked under tail. Every so often he lets out a long, soft moan. John's reminded of that first night, the kid staring at his hands like he'd never seen them before. That had been worse, the first kill, but this was pretty bad, too, hiding in himself from the world.
"You'll get over it," John says. He hesitates, then reaches out and covers Sherman's head with his hand. "It takes a while, is all."
Sherman sighs, but pulls himself up, and leans against the window. The rest of their shift, what's left of it, goes quietly, and at the end of the night, he and Cesar let Sherman get up on the couch with them.
Sherman's heavy against his thigh, but it's not bad. John pretends he isn't rubbing the dog's ears and feels the image of little kids, brains scattered like halos, pull away some.
………………………………………
"John?" Cesar pokes his head into the living room. It's dark and the tv's off. John thinks about getting up and changes his mind.
His back actually hadn't been so bad, not since Sherman changed, but something about yesterday and today has just sent the entirety of Los fucking Angeles over the edge and he's been up since dawn on six hours sleep. He leaned over to attach Sherman's leash to his collar today and something in his back clenched and what used to be manageable on two or five or ten pills is suddenly locking him down and every time he tries to move, it pushes him back.
Cesar flicks the light on, then back off when John winces.
"You okay, man?"
John takes a breath to speak, but nothing comes out. Fuck it.
"Here."
John lets Cesar help him into bed. Normally, he'd pull the will out of somewhere, but today it's like he's walking through molasses.
It still hurts, in the bed, but he can put his hand over the edge and Sherman's there. Cesar isn't sure what to do, whether to touch or not, but he brings in pills when John asks for them and lots and lots of weird tea that he says his sister swears by. John figures if it's poison, he's happy to die and if it's not, at least it tastes good.
The sun hits his face in the morning and he rubs his eyes. There's a soft thumping noise from the corner of the bedroom.
He tilts his head up. Sherman grins like an idiot and runs to the bed so he can lick John's fingers.
"Okay, kid," John reaches up and taps the dog on the head. "It's okay."
"John?"
He looks up at Cesar, who's standing in the doorway.
"He's a dog."
"Yeah," John lets his hand drop. "I know."
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"We're out of coffee, too."
Cesar leans out of the kitchen while John puts on his shoes, adding, "Put it on the list, or you'll forget it."
"I won't forget fucking coffee," John huffs, but he takes out the list and puts "COFFEE" at the top, right above "CHEESE".
"Sherman and I are going to the park," Cesar tells him while he's looking for his keys. "We'll probably be back before you, though, unless we run into Rosie. You got your phone?"
"Christ, I'm grocery shopping, not hiking through the fucking redwoods."
Cesar rolls his eyes, but lets it go. John nods, kisses him, and leaves.
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When he gets home, the house is grey and quiet, the way houses are on summer days, when everyone else is outside. He's used to it, so he goes into the kitchen to put away the groceries. It's not until he's almost finished, cheese in hand, that he sees Sherman lying on the couch.
The cheese is covered with very fine condensation and when John's fingers loosen, it slips out of his hand and thumps softly on the linoleum. He keeps looking for a moment, then picks up the cheese and puts it and the rest of the groceries away. When the coffee's in the freezer, he goes into the living room.
Cesar, or someone, after Cesar ran away screaming, managed to get a pair of sweatpants on Sherman, whose legs are poking out from under the blanket John's mom made him when he moved in with Laura and that he kept because Laura's allergic to wool. They're grey and probably way too big for him, but better than nothing, John guesses.
Sherman looks good. He looks human, at least, and he seems to have everything in the right order, as far as John can see.
"John!"
Cesar's voice is a bizarre mix of panic and relief. John glances over at him as he rushes in, and tries to look like he knows what he's doing. Really, he just feels sick to his stomach.
Cesar stops a foot and a half away from him, suspicion shadowing his face.
"You knew," he says, softly.
John wants to say something, deny it, something, but there's nothing there. Of course he knew. He was there, but what the fuck could he have said? It sounded crazy. It still sounds crazy, for Christ's sake.
Something of that shows on his face, because Cesar's lips tighten and he nods, then turns, heading for the hallway.
John can't help but follow.
"Cesar-"
"Not now, John. " Cesar cuts him off, pulling his shoes on. "I can't deal with this now."
"What the hell was I supposed to tell you?"
"Oh, I don't know," Cesar laughs. "Maybe, "he's not actually a dog, he's a werewolf", so then I could call the nice guys with the white coats to take you away. I don't know."
"Well, if you know why-"
"John!" Cesar straightens up and grabs his jacket. "Right now, I am going home, I am calling my sister, and I am not taking your calls until I've cooled the fuck down."
John opens his mouth to say something, and a crash sounds in the living room. While John is running in to help Sherman off the floor, he hears the door open and close, but there's nothing he can do about it now.
"Hey," Sherman resists a little when John picks him up. "What are you doing on the floor?"
"Not allowed on the couch," Sherman mumbles, eyes unfocused. He keeps sniffing the air like he's looking for something. "Cooper?"
"Yeah," John just shoves the kid back on the couch. "You can stay there, it's okay."
"Okay" is the magic word. Sherman lies back down, but he doesn't take his eyes off John.
"You're okay?" He asks, after a minute.
John laughs. "I'm fine."
Sherman looks away at that, into the hallway. "Cesar."
"That's none of your business."
Sherman seems to pull back into himself at John's tone, teeth showing a little. Not a smile.
"Go back to sleep."
………………………………………………
He phones in the next day with the news and gets the okay to take a few days off. Sherman sleeps most of the first day, occasionally getting up to stumble to the bathroom, or eat something. The second day, John drives Sherman up a winding road surrounded by trees to a house that's way too nice for either of their salaries. When John says this, Sherman just shrugs.
He gets Sherman inside and sits around in the living room while the kid showers and changes. He tries calling Cesar. It rings one and half times, then goes straight to voicemail. John calls again, then once more, just in case, then finally leaves a message and closes his phone up.
"Um."
Sherman stands in the doorway, wearing a t-shirt and jeans and carrying the sweats He wore on the way. He holds them up a little higher as he speaks.
"Did you want these back right away? I was going to wash them first, but if you..." He trails off, shrugging.
John shakes his head. "It's okay."
He gets up and they stand together in the dim room, awkward and stiff.
Finally John just takes the pants and tells Sherman to call him if there are any problems. Sherman says he will, but there's something disappointed hiding in the back of his voice.
John leaves. The passenger seat of the truck feels empty.
…………………………………………
They're swamped the first day they go back to work. Word spreads pretty quickly and they wind up spending a half hour before and after work fielding questions about things that are no one's fucking business.
Sherman nods and shakes his head to most questions, even the ones that, technically, weren't yes or no questions, and sticks to John like glue. There's only one question he answers, from Chickie, over lunch.
"What was it like?"
John's a few feet away, dialling Cesar's number, leaving a message and trying once more just in case. He can feel Sherman's eyes on him from the table.
"Peaceful," Sherman says.
"Probably better than being a llama," John pokes at him when he sits down again. Sherman just rolls his eyes and smiles tolerantly.
……………………………………………………………
He comes home and Cesar's sitting on his front steps, something that looks like it might have been brown before someone dipped it in a tar pit huddled between his legs. It jumps when John closes his car door, but John doesn't really register anything except Cesar. Cesar's sitting with his chin in his hands, elbows on his knees, grinning up at John like he hasn't just disappeared for a week. He's the only person John knows who's cute enough to get away with this shit.
"Okay, so I might have kind of been a jerk," Cesar follows him in and takes the beer he offers. The little animal he brought turns out to be a dog, and stays at the door, whining a little. "I didn't overreact, though, and you were an asshole."
"In what world does blocking someone's calls not constitute an over-fucking-reaction?" He asks.
Cesar waves his hands. "Details, man, details. I'm still pissed at you, by the way."
John rolls his eyes. "Did you get my messages?"
"All seventeen of them. I particularly liked the last five."
That was the point at which John finally lost his temper and started in on Cesar's ancestry and sexual history.
"Sorry about that," he offers.
Cesar shrugs. "Sorry I ran off."
"'T's okay," John nods in the general direction of the door. "What the hell is that, by the way?"
"Oh," Cesar's grin gets even bigger. "That's Tara."
"Tara." John's pretty sure Tara's got more filth on her than your average hobo. "Whose is she?"
"I was thinking," Cesar shrugs, looking perfectly innocent. "You might be lonely without Sherman, right? So, I brought her here to keep you company."
"Oh?" John puts his beer down and heads back to the hallway, where Tara's found a corner to curl up in. "What made you think that?"
Cesar follows and from the tone of his voice, it's clear he thinks John is dumber than dirt.
"John, please. I know you, man."
Tara's pretty small, but John thinks some of that is the fact that she's clearly not full grown, and the other is that apparently, she hasn't been fed in a few weeks. She's also terrified, going limp as soon as he picks her up. He hasn't held anything this small in months, but soon he's got her curled up against his chest. At first, she's stiff as a bag of rocks. The she starts to relax, and soon she's licking his neck, just under his ear.
"Okay, enough of that." John tries to stop her, but she transfers her attention to his hand. "Hey, I am not the dirty one, here."
"She was wandering around on the freeway," Cesar keeps talking, following John into the bathroom. Tara's suspicious of the tub and cries when she slips and falls on her butt. "I looked around, but if she has an owner, man, would you want to give her back?"
"Could have been stolen," John points out, soaping her up. "Run away, something like that."
"Maybe," Cesar allows, but John can hear the doubt in his voice. "You really think so?"
"No." John sees dogs like Tara all the time, usually past their best buy date. Last year, he and the animal control officers were all on first name basis.
There's a knock from the front hall. Tara barks, and then casts a look of terror at John.
"I'll get it."
He hears talk, soft conversation, in the front hall and finishes rinsing Tara off. When he finally has her wrapped up in a towel and as happy as she can be while soaking wet, he goes to find Cesar and who ever the hell decided to drop by after work.
Cesar's in the living room, with Sherman, trying to get him to get off the floor. Sherman's grinning, has a beer in his hand, but he's seated cross-legged against the couch. As Cesar urges him to get up, he shakes his head, and then twists so fast mid-shake that John's sure something must be broken.
"Hi," he says, nose twitching. "You got a dog."
Tara wriggles, trying to get down.
"I got puppy food," Cesar says, pointing out a nearby bowl with a handful of kibbles in it.
John makes sure Tara's eating before he ruffles Sherman's head. Sherman pulls back, looking affronted.
"Affronted?" He scoffs when John points that out. "What, you get a word of the day calendar, or something?"
"Shut up," John says, sitting down.
Tara finishes eating, and takes small, mincing steps over to them. Sherman lets her sniff him without moving, then pulls her down from the couch, where she's trying to get into John's lap.
Hey," John reaches down and picks her up. "Puppies are allowed. Dogs aren't."
Sherman draws his knees up under his chin, pouting just a little. Cesar laughs at him. John tries to get Tara to stop eating his t-shirt.
"You know," Cesar says, slowly. "Ben here brought us a casserole."
"A casserole?" John can't quite believe it. "Well, thanks, Lucy."
"Shut up," Sherman mutters. "My mom made it for me and I couldn't eat it all."
"It's in the oven," Cesar says, before John can ask why the fuck they aren't eating already, "Come on, Ben, let's go get the table set."
They both take off. Tara starts chewing on John's fingers.
John's almost out of coffee. He'll need to pick that up tomorrow.