milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Wilford hasn't actually heard back on his business back in Los Santos, but he has good reason to assume everything is going to be fine. Which does mean he'll be moving back to Los Santos eventually. Which means that his dog is going to need to learn a thing or two about proper behaviour if he wants to live a long life.

So he's out back near the firing range with a box of grenades and a plate of chopped bacon. Unfortunately, every time Wilford throws a grenade, Buster wants to chase it. And then when it explodes, it's about a 50/50 chance between whether Buster wants to attack whatever he thinks caused the explosion, or run toward it. Which is why Buster is on a very short leash, tied to a post, and every time he sits his butt down and stays there, he gets a piece of bacon.

So far, it's not going very well. He's slipped his collar twice, and has started trying to chew through the leash, and has got exactly zero pieces of bacon so far. It's going to be a long day.

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Explosions never used to bother Baze. They were startling, sure, but they didn't get under his skin. But since he died, he's been... Not scared, necessarily--Chirrut Imwe has never caught the scent of fear off of Baze Malbus--but nervous.

He's going to conquer this nervousness if it kills him again, damn it.

Baze brightens when he sees who's holding the grenades. He waits until Wilford throws the one currently in his hand, and saunters over to him, ignoring his own flinch when the bomb explodes.

"Hello, Asshole! May the Force of others be with you! I should have known you were behind this racket. What are you up to?"

Buster seems to decide that Baze caused the the explosion, and launches at him with all the fury he can manage, until Wilford grabs him and wrestles him into sitting down.

"Trying to teach this dumb fucker how to behave," he says, avoiding being nipped by his dog.

Buster gets the point - or else just forgets what's going on - a few moments later and starts trying to find the bacon that is clearly nearby.

Baze probably should have jerked back when the animal lunged, but the Guardian simply stares the creature down, unruffled.

"That's a good goal," Baze grumbles, folding his arms.

"How do grenades factor into that, again?"

"He likes to chase them," Wilford says.

He looks over at his box of grenades and nods toward it.

"You mind giving me a hand?"

This is probably a two-person job. A second pair of hands will probably help control the situation.

Baze has never seen grenades like this before, but they're not too difficult to figure out. Pull the pin, throw the bomb. Oddly enough, he doesn't flinch as much when he's the one throwing them.

He hefts another grenade, feeling the bumpy texture in his palm. "So why are you getting your dog used to explosions?"

Wilford crouches down and holds his dog down to keep him from running after what he obviously thinks is a ball, and then from running out to attack the explosion. "Sit still, damn you," he grumbles. For such a skinny thing, he sure can put up a fight when he wants to.

"I don't want him getting out of the yard when we go back to LS."

He nearly gets bit right in the face, which gives him a bit of a shock.

"Knock it off," he hisses, grabbing Buster's muzzle and holding it closed before he manages to get his teeth in something.

Baze is really not looking forward to being bitten. He waits until Asshole has control of the situation, and then hurls another grenade, resisting the urge to cover his own ears when it blows. He avoids looking at the explosions directly, merely catches them out of the corner of his eye.

"LS? That your city on the west coast you want to move to?"

With enough brute force, he gets Buster to sit mostly still and not take a chunk out of his skin. It's good enough for a reward, so he waits until Buster calms down and reaches for a piece of bacon to give to the dog.

"That's the one," he says, cautiously giving Buster a bit of room. He's too involved with his bacon to think about anything else for the moment. "It's nothing but noise out there, even in the quiet neighbourhoods."

"So, correct me if I'm wrong," Baze says, dry as Jedhan dust as he palms a grenade, "but this city is like death trap central?"

Wilford thinks about this and shrugs. "I liked it when I was there last time. I was never bored."

Yes, he did get killed a lot, but he had fun doing it.

"Oh, right, life isn't sacred to you," Baze says, tossing another grenade.

"I keep forgetting."

Baze's remark comes with such poor timing that Wilford is too busy trying to figure out what in the hell he means by that to focus on keeping his dog under control. Buster fights against the leash, slipping his collar again just as the grenade explodes.

"Fuck!"

Wilford scrambles to his feet to chase after his dog again. When he catches the dog, he holds him under one arm, with his legs dangling toward the ground, and marches him back inside. A few moments later, Buster is in a harness with a chain leash that he can't chew through.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" he grumbles at the dog as he ties the leash to the post.

"Of tbe three dogs I've met, yours is the dumbest," Baze informs Wilford when he returns.

"And yet, he can follow simple commands like 'go find a rat.' That makes no sense to me."

"Yeah, well, he's an idiot. You can't expect much more from him."

He gets Buster properly tied up again so he can't slip out and go running straight into danger like a moron. He may have completely misunderstood Baze's remark.

Baze shrugs. He picks up another grenade, pulls the pin, and flings the bomb as far away from them as he can--which, considering the power in his throwing arm, is pretty damn far.

"I don't know much about dogs," Baze admits, once the dirt has settled from the latest explosion.

"But I don't think they know how to go get waitrats, normally."

Wilford practically tackles the dog to get him to stay still. He considers it a success when the dog is still pinned underneath him, and rewards Buster with more bacon.

"Then what's the point of it?" he asks.

"Given that I've never had a pet, you're asking the wrong person," Baze says, holding off on grenade tossing at the moment.

"Companionship? Pest control? I don't know."

Wilford sighs as he watches his dog try to get to the bacon that is well out of reach. "They're more trouble than they're worth."

And yet, here he is, sitting in the dirt while trying to train his dog to do the same.

"Then why do you own one?" Baze asks, clearly amused, if the slow smile curling his lips is anything to go by.

"Because it was dropped in my lap by some dick who thought he was being funny."

It's true, even if the reasons for keeping the dog are less clear.

Buster finds no bacon close enough to steal, so he licks Wilford's face instead.

"That's the initial reason, sure," Baze says, pulling a face at the licking.

"But that doesn't explain why you didn't just abandon it by the side of the road."

"It might be bad luck," Wilford says. "I know killing one is, but the vet didn't seem so sure about the rest. It's some kind of special breed or something."

So Wilford is ostensibly stuck with the dog. Even though there are plenty of other ways to get rid of it if he really wanted to.

Baze is less than convinced. He points a finger at Asshole.

"You love that dog. Admit it. The Wilford I know is clever enough to dump anything unwanted onto his friends, or get rid of it some other way. Bad luck doesn't seem like it would stop you. There is no reason for you to keep anything except that you enjoy its company."

Base is wrong, only on a technicality. Wilford is attached to the dog, yes. But love doesn't factor in, only because it's not something Wilford is even capable of the way most people are.

"You've never had to deal with bad luck, then."

"I've dealt with it plenty," Baze says, nothing with smug satisfaction that Wilford's words aren't a denial.

"There's no shame in loving something, especially not something as harmless as an animal."

"I honestly don't know what you're talking about."

And he has no shame about admitting that.
he's known this about himself since he was a kid.

Baze gives him a long, hard look, and then sighs, relenting.

"Oh, Wilford. Never mind, then. Should I continue throwing grenades, or are we about done teasing your dog?"

"Shut up and throw the damn grenade," Wilford says, without much bite. He hates this dancing around bullshit. Baze can either outright ask, or drop the subject.

Baze pauses, then does as he's told, throwing the grenade several feet away. He waits until the bomb explodes and Wilford has control of Buster again before turning to them.

"I've missed something, somehow," Baze says, blinking at Wilford.

"Either you want me to continue the conversation, or I'm misreading you. But I don't know what to say."

Buster seems to be getting the point at least, and only needs to be wrestled a little bit before he calms down and gets his treat. Once Wilford gives him his bacon, he sighs and turns back to Baze.

"I don't know what you're talking about, because nobody's ever been able to explain it to me. And believe me, people have tried."

And at this point, he's sick of trying to listen.

"You... don't know what love is?" Baze says, awareness dawning on his face slowly, and by turns.

"That explains so much. I don't even know where to begin. Did you want me to try?"

Wilford rolls his eyes. He hates this. The pity when people think he's somehow missing out on something vital to existence.

"No," he says. "Save your breath."

Buster licks his face again, which Wilford simply tolerates. It's just a thing that happens, and that Wilford is forced to live with if he wants to have a dog.

Love is the crux of Baze's existence. To not know love... To not want to know it... He's quietly horrified.

And sad. He can't possibly understand Wilford, can't possibly fit into his shoes. Baze wants to, but he doesn't know where to start. He can't wrap his head around someone who rejects what to him is the ultimate comfort, especially in the dark of the night, when nightmares keep him awake.

"I want to understand you," Baze starts, his tongue thick in his mouth.

"But I don't know where to start."

Wilford shrugs. He's not horrified, or sad, or any of the above. This is normal. It's the only normal he's ever known. He's tried to figure it all out, a long time ago when he first realised that blending in and being normal was an important skill to have, but faking it was just confusing and infuriating and ended in a lot of trouble he didn't need. It was easier to stop pretending and just get on with his life.

"Don't know what to tell you," he says.

He decides to test Buster on his own, and gets up to toss one of the grenades as if this isn't some mind-blowing conversation to be having. Buster doesn't try to chase it, but he does wiggle and whine like he wants to.

"Knock it off," Wilford warns.

He keeps whining, but he does sit still. That's good enough. He gets some bacon.

Baze knew Wilford was messed up, but this... The Guardian isn't sure he can fix this. Not that he was planning to fix Wilford before, but still. Baze also doesn't know if he can be friends with someone who can't love.

He draws a nreath through his nose. "I've got to go think about this."

And he's off, his staff bouncing on his back as he walks away.

Well, fuck. Wilford liked Baze. He's fun to fuck around with, but now it seems like he's not going to want to do that anymore. Usually he has to actually do something dickish for this outcome, but now he's just confused.

Whatever. He has work to do, in the form of throwing grenades for his dog's benefit. He'll try to work this out later.

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