milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Sometimes the plan changes unexpectedly. Wilford isn't happy about this change in plan, but if this is what it takes to make a point to some people, he's willing to put up with it. Most of it, anyway.

Guppy dropped a name the last time they spoke, and today, Wilford's decided to seek her out. He's not sure where to find her, so he leaves a note with the bar regarding veterinary assistance, and addresses it to "Ray." With that done, he takes the dog over to the fireplace so he can engage in his daily ritual of deleting emails he'd prefer to avoid.

(At some point throughout the day, a new photo appears on the notice board. It's an infirmary scanner, relaxing with a bottle of Budweiser, and wearing a pair of sunglasses.)

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Sunshine has been feeling better since the day spent in the sun with Jay in his world, but is still feeling a bit dragged down by her earlier over-exertion. She has felt up to baking again, at least, and comes out of the kitchen this afternoon with her flour-dusted apron still on. The smell of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls accompanies her.

She is mildly surprised when her cup of tea is accompanied by a note... a note addressed to Ray, even... wait, regarding veterinary assistance?

Um.

Rae looks around the bar for the possible origin of the note - well, that man has a dog with him. And a pink mustache, but that is beside the point. The dog doesn't look like it's doing too well. Seems a likely place to start.

Rae comes over with her cup of tea and the note in her hand, hesitant. "Excuse me, are you Wilford?"

Wilford looks up from his email-deleting spree and notices the note in Rae's hand. Despite what some people think, he is perfectly capable of behaving himself around other people, especially when he needs something. (Pretty much only when he needs something.)

"Hi. You must be Ray," he says. "One of your colleagues said you might be able to help me out with my dog."

The dog, meanwhile, seems to think Rae smells very interesting. On top of bearing the evidence of its game of chicken with a moving vehicle, it's also half-starved, and has a patch of mange on its muzzle. It also can't seem to decide if it wants to investigate the new smell, or stay halfway hidden under Wilford's feet.

"Yes, I'm Rae, but I'm not sure what colleagues you might mean," Rae says, bemused. "I'm a baker, not a vet."

That doesn't keep her from looking concerned when she sees the dog's state. She crouches slightly and offers out a hand smelling of the kitchen to the dog, palm up. "Hey there, you," she says, in the gentle tone of one trying to coax out a reluctant animal. "What's wrong? What happened to you, huh?"

She may have already decided that she is shortly going to be getting this dog some food.

"Uh. Guppy," Wilford says, barely stopping himself from saying 'Flounder.'

The dog cautiously gives Rae's had a sniff, while it's long, curly tail almost wags.

"He got hit by a car," Wilford explains. "Vet says he should be fine, but look at him. He's miserable."

And the dog's misery is making Wilford miserable.

"He's been living under my porch until about two days ago. This is the first I've been able to get close to him."

This is not exactly a lie, as Wilford has tried to get close to the dog in an effort to chase it away.

"Guppy is a friend." The word 'colleague' had thrown her off. But she supposes it fits. They have technically worked together before. "If the dog is hurt, I have... I mean, I can heal minor things like scrapes and bruises and stiffness and such."

More than that would be beyond her abilities even if she were at her best, which she isn't at the moment.

Rae settles carefully down onto the floor, folding her legs under her, and holds out both hands to the dog. "C'mere, you," she urges gently, holding out both hands with palm up, fluttering her fingers. "Let's get you checked out, and once we make sure you're okay, there'll be supper, yeah? Food sound good?"

Wilford half expects the dog to burst from all the people that have been feeding it over the last few days.

"This was your plan all along, wasn't it? If you hadn't been playing in the street, you'd be eating trash right now," Wilford tells the dog.

He gets up and moves out of the way, putting the dog out in the open so Rae can get to it a little easier. There's a brief moment where the dog can't decide what it wants to do, but the lady still smells interesting, and investigating wins out. The dog carefully inches closer on its belly, sniffing at Rae's hands. His tongue sticks out just a little bit, and if he licks her, it is entirely by accident. Maybe.

"Luckily, these cars now days are all made of cheap plastic. It probably bounced right over him," Wilford says.

Sunshine is a feeder of people; it is what she does. That instinct easily extends to cover half-starved animals as well.

"Well, a starving dog will take what it can find, I imagine," Rae says, petting the dog gently and scooting closer. Her fingers lightly scratch behind the dog's ears, her voice still murmuring softly to it. Sunshine's hands are warm, comforting. She can tell that its injuries aren't life-threatening, but are the kinds of things that would make any creature's life pretty miserable for a good while as they heal.

The almost-invisible golden sunlight-web set into her skin and hair glimmers faintly as she turns her head to look up at Wilford. "Lucky it ran into you, then," she says, instead of asking directly how the dog came to be in Wilford's possession.

He's really not coming across as a dog person.

No, really? What gave that away?

Wilford watches as Rae coaxes the dog nearer. It acts like it can't quite make up its mind about what it wants to do, but ear scratches are good. And hard to come by lately, so running away sort of starts to take the back burner.

"At least the neighbourhood won't look like it's in the middle of a garbage strike now," Wilford says.

It means he's stuck feeding the dog, but even that is preferable to waking up every morning to pick up trash. Or kick it into the neighbour's yard.

"The vet didn't seem too bothered, but what's your second opinion?"

Sunshine keeps up the ear scratches, trying to let the dog relax some.

"I can heal its physical injuries - they're mostly the kinds of things that would simply make one sore and stiff and miserable, rather than anything life-threatening. It's been on its own for a while, it looks like, so the ingrained mistrust of people and the resulting nervousness will take much more time and work to overcome. Dogs go feral, though, not wild, so it is doable."

Domesticated dogs don't turn back into wolves, no matter how many generations it's been since they've lived with humans.

So let her be direct. "Why do you have it?"

The idea of this scrawny dog turning back into a wolf would make Wilford laugh. There's nothing wolf-like about it. Not in the way it still can't quite decide what it wants, even if it does seem a little more determined to find what the food smell coming from Rae is.

"It's already been living under my porch and eating my trash. If I'm gonna be feeding it, it might as well be something I don't have to clean up every morning."

There's more to it, but he keeps that to himself.

"So long as you take him outside regularly to do his business, you shouldn't have to," she says, dryly.

Sunshine ruffles the dog's ears, sinking her fingers into its fur - however dirty it might be - and giving as good scritches as she can. The sunlight-net set into her skin and hair glimmers golden as she focuses. The warmth from her hands spreads into the dog with a sensation like slipping into a warm bath, gently easing away pain and stiffness, healing bruises and scrapes, restoring energy lost by however many hours of stress and nervousness.

Though she hesitates, her magic also takes care of the causes of the mange, and sets the skin and hair follicles on their way towards recovery.

"Here's hoping he's housebroken."

Well, ain't that something? Despite magic being a Thing where Wilford is from, he rarely comes into direct contact with it. It's something rare, and often hidden away lest it be exploited by people like him. He watches curiously as Rae does her thing, resisting the urge to ask any questions. He wants to know what kind of magic she uses; what its driving force is. But those are questions for another day, when he's not having to put on his best face.

The dog, meanwhile, isn't sure what to make of any of this. His huge ears go from pressed back against his head to pointed forward curiously, and back again. Wilford half-expects the dog to give up and run, but finds himself more surprised the longer it stays put.

"If he's had an owner before, he might be. Or might remember how to be, with some help," Rae murmurs absently, her concentration on the dog. Her fingers ruffle its fur, petting its back in slow, calming strokes. She can't find anything else to fix about it - or at least, anything else her magic might be able to fix.

"There now," she says in the light sing-song voice people who are fond of animals use when talking at animals. She gives it good ear-scritches as the light-web in her skin fades back into barely-there quiescence. "Good dog. Such a good dog, so patient. You feel better?"

The dog half-wags his tail again as he sniffs at Rae some more, convinced she's hiding some food somewhere. If she is hiding food, he's determined to find it, while keeping a safe distance away at the same time. It's a very delicate balance that isn't really working.

"That sure is a handy skill to have," Wilford says, watching the way she's petting the dog. He'll keep the dog around as long as he has to, but he won't be doing anything like that with it.

Rae knows hungry, food-seeking behaviors in humans and animals alike. Grinning, she leans over and waves down a passing waitrat, requesting a bowl of food for the dog.

"It really is useful," she says, amused. "I can take care of superficial stuff pretty thoroughly - cuts and scrapes and bruises and general aches and pains, stuff like that. I haven't really... gotten a chance to try my hand at broken bones, and if it's a major, life-threatening injury I can maybe keep the person alive long enough that they can get medical attention, but that's about it."

The rats are a very interesting thing to the dog, because they also look like food. He hasn't bothered trying to chase any of them down before, but this one is close enough he might be able to ambush it when it leaves.

Wilford, luckily, has been in near proximity to the dog for long enough that he recognises when it looks like it's going to take off again. He grabs it by the collar before it can go do anything dumb, like get him in trouble for attacking one of the rats.

"You must be pretty good at it, because he sure seems a hell of a lot better."

Usually, the dog only wants to run away to get away from people; not chase after something.

Sunshine shrugs, with a slight grin for the practiced motion of Wilford catching the dog by the collar. "Had a lot of practice."

She pats the dog again, seeking to distract it as the waitrat flees for the kitchen. "Patience, dog. They're not food - they'll bring back food."

"...Does he have a name yet?" Calling him 'dog' just feels a weird.

"Not yet," Wilford says. Not unless Bonehead counts.

He lets go of the dog again as soon as it doesn't seem like it's ready to tear off like a fool. But there is a leash on a nearby table, just in case the dog tries again.

"Haven't put much thought into it, to tell the truth."

"He'll have to have a name to go on his record if your city's Animal Services department requires you to get a license or proof of vaccination or such," she says.

"Some cities require all owned dogs to be spayed or neutered, too."

Oh god, that is something he's going to have to do, isn't it? The whole point is that he's supposed to be keeping the dog, and the idiots at the studio that started this whole thing will expect receipts like that.

"Guess I'll have to start thinking about it."

The dog inches its way toward Rae, just a little bit closer. He still isn't sure what to make of her, but if he can find the food she smells like, he might be persuaded to make up his mind.

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