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I can’t help it, this Cassian/Bodhi thing has gotten out of hand. I did finally manage to introduce K2. And Cassian has managed to admit to Bodhi that Jeron isn’t his real name, though he hasn’t told him what his real name really is.
“What about you?” Bodhi asked. Jeron looked up, puzzled. “Don’t you deserve better?”
Jeron’s expression went crooked, and he looked down. “I– what I deserve is the kind of question I don’t know how to answer,” he said.
“I think you’re probably a good person,” Bodhi said, leaning his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand.
Jeron laughed, looking down and away sadly. “The only one who knows me and still really thinks I’m a good person is my dog,” he said.
“You have a dog,” Bodhi said, surprised. He didn’t know much about dogs.
Jeron grinned. “I do,” he said. “He’s been with me a while. Few years.”
“Big dog?” Bodhi asked. “Or small dog?” He hadn’t envisioned Jeron as a dog person at all, and this was new information he didn’t know how to assimilate. “Please tell me he’s a tiny teacup thing that you carry around in your parka.”
Jeron laughed at that, so hard he threw his head back and rocked back in his seat, sharp shoulders angling in, arms curled, a full-body laugh. “No,” he said, when he could speak. “I can’t– can you really imagine– me with a tiny– little dog in a–” He laughed so hard he sputtered. “In a purse-thing! Can you see it!”
Bodhi was laughing almost too hard to speak too, but he managed to choke out, “Little kerchief on his neck,” and after a moment of wheezing, went on, “Color-coordinated to your outfit,” and Jeron lost what composure he’d managed to recover.
They both laughed for a long time, and when they’d finally stopped to catch their breath, Bodhi squeaked, “Collar matches your manicure,” and Jeron guffawed helplessly, looking at his long-fingered hands with battered knuckles, nails cut short, bruises on the one thumb, bandage wrapped around the index finger.
“No,” he said finally, when they were both gasping and twitching in recovery, “no, he’s– he’s a hundred and ten pounds, German Shepherd.”
“Really,” Bodhi said, then made himself laugh again. “Named Fifi!”
That set Jeron off, and they both laughed again until they were helpless. “No,” Jeron said finally. “His name is a stupid pun though.” He had to stop, and breathe. “You know how dogs are canines, right?”
“Yeah,” Bodhi said, and he was watching how the exertion of laughing had pinked Jeron’s cheeks, bringing up some color under the pallor of winter. He was stunning, he really was, and what’s more, he had good teeth, well taken care of in youth, straight and white like nobody raised in poverty would have unless they were insanely fortunate.
“So– he’s a failed police dog, he did some of the courses and he was just too much of an asshole,” Jeron went on. “So instead of a K-9, like they designate the dog units, he’s a K-2. Like, he fell really short.”
“K-2,” Bodhi said.
“I just call him Kay,” Jeron said, “most of the time.”
I can’t help it, this Cassian/Bodhi thing has gotten out of hand. I did finally manage to introduce K2. And Cassian has managed to admit to Bodhi that Jeron isn’t his real name, though he hasn’t told him what his real name really is.
“What about you?” Bodhi asked. Jeron looked up, puzzled. “Don’t you deserve better?”
Jeron’s expression went crooked, and he looked down. “I– what I deserve is the kind of question I don’t know how to answer,” he said.
“I think you’re probably a good person,” Bodhi said, leaning his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand.
Jeron laughed, looking down and away sadly. “The only one who knows me and still really thinks I’m a good person is my dog,” he said.
“You have a dog,” Bodhi said, surprised. He didn’t know much about dogs.
Jeron grinned. “I do,” he said. “He’s been with me a while. Few years.”
“Big dog?” Bodhi asked. “Or small dog?” He hadn’t envisioned Jeron as a dog person at all, and this was new information he didn’t know how to assimilate. “Please tell me he’s a tiny teacup thing that you carry around in your parka.”
Jeron laughed at that, so hard he threw his head back and rocked back in his seat, sharp shoulders angling in, arms curled, a full-body laugh. “No,” he said, when he could speak. “I can’t– can you really imagine– me with a tiny– little dog in a–” He laughed so hard he sputtered. “In a purse-thing! Can you see it!”
Bodhi was laughing almost too hard to speak too, but he managed to choke out, “Little kerchief on his neck,” and after a moment of wheezing, went on, “Color-coordinated to your outfit,” and Jeron lost what composure he’d managed to recover.
They both laughed for a long time, and when they’d finally stopped to catch their breath, Bodhi squeaked, “Collar matches your manicure,” and Jeron guffawed helplessly, looking at his long-fingered hands with battered knuckles, nails cut short, bruises on the one thumb, bandage wrapped around the index finger.
“No,” he said finally, when they were both gasping and twitching in recovery, “no, he’s– he’s a hundred and ten pounds, German Shepherd.”
“Really,” Bodhi said, then made himself laugh again. “Named Fifi!”
That set Jeron off, and they both laughed again until they were helpless. “No,” Jeron said finally. “His name is a stupid pun though.” He had to stop, and breathe. “You know how dogs are canines, right?”
“Yeah,” Bodhi said, and he was watching how the exertion of laughing had pinked Jeron’s cheeks, bringing up some color under the pallor of winter. He was stunning, he really was, and what’s more, he had good teeth, well taken care of in youth, straight and white like nobody raised in poverty would have unless they were insanely fortunate.
“So– he’s a failed police dog, he did some of the courses and he was just too much of an asshole,” Jeron went on. “So instead of a K-9, like they designate the dog units, he’s a K-2. Like, he fell really short.”
“K-2,” Bodhi said.
“I just call him Kay,” Jeron said, “most of the time.”
