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The End

"The ending isn't any more important than the moments leading to it." My da' used to tell me this when I was impatient for something. Christmas, my birthday, growing up, getting a car; didn't matter what it was, he had his favorite quotes and lines of his own just waiting for me. I always thought they were so cliche and hackneyed that I'd end up ignoring him whenever they inevitably came out. Now I have a few of my own that I think he'd be proud of.

Not like I have anyone but myself to tell them to anymore.

I wouldn't quite call this "the ending" but it's for sure not the beginning. It may not even be one of the moments leading to the ending either. It feels more like a completely different branch, somewhere I'm not supposed to be. Which is kinda crazy, right? What part of your life isn't actually a part of it, right? Call me crazy, but that's what it is to me.

I mean, you'd be right to call me that. I've heard it so often over the past few months, I've started to believe it. You can only talk to yourself in public for so long before people start getting the wrong idea. Well, maybe it's the right idea. It's so hard to tell the difference anymore, these days. I hear so many things. Like what I believe to be my name, called by someone behind many doors on the other side of the building

The words around me filter through a layer of sleep deprived haze after hitting my ears. Each time I'm addressed, it sounds louder, but still muffled. Then I get a firm shove and suddenly I'm finding out what the floor of my most recent napping place tastes like again. They washed it recently. Huh.

Maybe it wasn't just sleep deprivation. My eyes peel open and the light assaults them as if it was meat day at the soup kitchen and my eyes were the soup. I groan, but the sound barely leaves my muzzle before the light is blocked and my reason for the noise is removed. Instead, I get a frisson of fear shooting down my spine.

Standing above me is a big wolverine. And when I say big, I mean big. The guy has a three barrel chest, the gut to go with it, and enough teeth to make a shark jealous. I swear his arm is thicker than my waist. A little thought jabs at me that I'd love to feel that arm around my waist, but I push it away. Where did that come from? I'm too miserable to be thinking like that.

In my delusional, half asleep and mostly hungover stupor, the wolverine looks to be smiling. It takes me more than a moment to realize that he's talking at me, and it's not a happy voice. I mumble a hazy statement back and get to experience the very head clearing growl that he has. It gets me upright in a hurry, rubbing at my eyes and ears even quicker. "Sorry, sorry. Mind repeatin' yerself?"

"Get out."

Short, but skipped sweet and went straight to the point. I forgo a bow and bend over to gather up my way too long tail into my arms because I can't feel the thing right now. An unfortunate part of being a cacomistle, I suppose. It comes in handy just as many times as it doesn't, though. I can't be too upset with myself about it. "Right then, I was just on my way," I mumble to almost no one. The wolverine very obviously doesn't care about anything but me getting my ass out of his bar and nowhere else. How sad for me.

It's not like you'd get anywhere with him in the state we're in. I could barely get anywhere with the state we're in.

"Shut up. You don't exist," I murmur to myself, trying to shut out the voice as I had the lascivious thoughts just a few moments before. It never works for very long. This time, it only lasts until I stumble out the front door of the closed bar and into the early morning chill.

I exist as much as you do, mon ami. You're the reason we're in this mess. I'm just trying to get us out. The voice sounds annoyed. It always gets annoyed when I ignore it. Or at least, it has since I started hearing it a few days ago.

But when you talk to yourself as much as I have, you don't get quite as surprised as other people would when you respond. Or rather, when someone who says that they're in your head responds. I'm just surprised it's starting the conversations now. Maybe it gets lonely in there.

I wrap my scarf around my neck and then hang my tail around it as well. Thank Artemis that they are both so warm, as it seems I forgot my coat at the hole in the wall I call a home. I suppose I should return to get it.

"Today's not the worst it could be," I mutter, of course, to myself.

Of course not. You could have actually woken up in a puddle of your own vomit. Of all the voices I could have in my head, I get the smart ass. My luck, after all.

"I haven't done that in months, don't be silly," I reply, without thinking. I get a sideways glare from the rag-bundled coyote across the street, eyeing me with a look that tells me what I already know. Yes, you flea-bitten mongrel, I'm crazy. I get it a lot.

Even hungover and stumbling, my fingers are as nimble as ever. I stumble on a crack and a decently dressed hyena catches me. What a nice guy. As I lurch into him, my paws deftly snag the folded piece of leather from his jacket pocket. With a practiced motion, the wallet goes up my sleeve and I slur a thank you to the nice guy. Even hungover, old habits and instincts that have kept me alive this long are as easy to repeat as ever. Everyone keeps their wallets in that pocket.

You going to use that to actually get us some food, or do I need to take over for a while to make a smart decision?

"Please, we got food in the fridge. You and I both know what we're out of." Now I'm the one responding consciously to a voice in my head. As I said: crazy with a capital C. I really just need to get home.

You ate the food last night, right after you finished the last of your shit whiskey. Please, just buy a burger or a sandwich, then you can use the rest for alcohol. I don't want to wake up to an empty stomach again. It actually sounds concerned. Is it really just a voice?

"Fine, I guess. I'd rather not argue with myself. It'd be embarrassing if I lost," I concede. There's a convenience store around the corner and a quick look in the wallet says that I'll have more than enough for a six of okay beer and a couple sandwiches. A veritable feast, as it were. So that's exactly what to do before I pull the rest of the cash out of the wallet and search it for ID.

Lucky for me he's one of the pretentious types that leaves an "If Lost, Please Call This Number" note in the folds of his wallet. I hang onto that and tug the rest of the bills from the fold, stuffing them into the back pocket of my cargo pants. I'll call the hyena from a payphone a little later, after I've properly mussed up my scent with the beer and jacket I've got. I suppose maybe a smoke or two would help my case. Don't want him to recognize me when I do my good deed and return his wallet. I bet he even has a cell phone. Maybe I'll even get a reward. That'd be nice.

Don't bet on it. That hyena looked pretty nice, but I don't think he's up for a rundown maniac like us.

I huff a breath through my nose and shake my head, turning onto my street. "Not that kind of reward. Though it has been ages since Dominique visited." I think back briefly on the last visit I had from the suave fox. A warmth passes through my body with the memory and I forget that the voice in my head is there for a moment.

That moment passes, and it talks to me again. I can dream, can't I? I mean hey, you're stuck with me now, so I figure I'll have my fun through you.

That doesn't sound as friendly as I've heard the voice be. It sounds less like a voice in my head and an actual person. Since I'm on my street, I'm more comfortable engaging the crazy for longer. The old wolf next door and the squirrel who lives in the "apartment" above me both know that I'm an odd ball.

"I'm not a huge fan of talk like that, buddy. I have a life, y'know." I turn and push through the only door at street level that's completely intact. I'm happy about that, because it still has a lock that works sometimes.

I'm not a huge fan of the way you run that life, but we all have to make exceptions. I didn't exactly have much of a choice.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I ask myself, flopping onto a half decrepit couch and tearing the packaging for my sandwich apart. A bite gets crammed into my muzzle and I savor the crisp lettuce and cold turkey. As I wait for my explanation - or more likely, for the sky to open up and my perfect soul mate to drop into my lap with a couple million dollars on the side - I set my claws to the cap of a beer and crack it open. It's not good beer, but it's cold and that's enough for me right now.

It means that I'm stuck in your head and I'm gonna be a bit more vocal about how shitty you are. And I'm gonna make you absolutely insane when I figure out how to move your arms. He sounds almost sarcastic, but the very thought of it sends a chill down my spine that makes me remember to grab my jacket from the bedroom.

"That's not very reassuring, mate. I'm fairly certain I'm already crazy, and you're just confirming that." I push my arms through the sleeves, then pat the pockets to make sure I've still got the lighter from my older brother and my mostly full pack of smokes. Good, they're both there. I stuff the rest of the sandwich in my muzzle.

Not supposed to be reassuring, pal. I'd rather not be occupying this cramped, booze addled space you call a mind. I get the vague mental image of a cacomistle that looks remarkably like me shaking his head, paws on his hips. But I fucked up where I come from, so you're my second chance.

"Alright, I'm gonna say something here that I don't say often, so listen good. We need to shut the hell up before I put a gun to my head to get us out of it." I stop, think about those words, then nod and take guzzle down another quarter of the beer. Thank Artemis that the voice listens to me, this time. My fingers are a little twitchy with the thought.

Crazy has never kept me from sticking to my plans before.

And for now, that plan is a nap. I don't need to call the Boss tonight.

I collapse back onto the couch with beer still in paw and pass out. I'm pretty damn good at that, still. It's one skill that I have worked to never let go of.

When I wake up again, it's still cold, the voice is still quiet, and I'm thinking about finishing up my little con for the day. Makes me feel less off my rocker.

Be that as it may, as I pull a menthol cancer stick from the paper pack in my pocket and light up, I don't think I've ever descended this far into crazy. Having a voice in my head talking to me as if it were another person from somewhere else? Little strange, don't you think?

Then again, my da' used to tell me all sorts of strange stories that came from wealthier sides of town, where people would get "news." All we ever got since mom left was bills. Well, up until he vanished with my brother. Or wait, no, I vanished. That's right. It's all a little fuzzy.

I take a drag of my cig and blow out the smoke through my nose, watching it curl around the beer in my paw. Seeing it again instead of my memories reminds me that I need to finish it, so I pound the rest of the malty delight and pop open a second. I need to have enough of the smell on my breath underneath the smoke for this hyena not to be able to recognize my scent. Which is easy enough. Two beers and a couple of smokes, one on the way to the payphone on the corner, maybe a third on the way to wherever Mr. Hyena wants to get his identity back. I'm hoping it's not on the other side of the city.

Considering he was walking on this side of the city though, I figure it's probably safe to assume that he's living in the wealthier section of the slums. He seemed decently well off, if the cash in his wallet was any indication, so he can't be from this neighborhood, but there's some nice ones within walking distance. Maybe from belltown or the highlands. I know that Emerald Heights finished up some construction not too far from here, and the hyena was a newblood to the city for sure. He didn't know what walking through the slums would do to him. I suppose we all have to learn that lesson at some point.

With my smoke and second beer finished, I depart from my humble abode for technically the first time today. It's lighter out; Probably mid afternoon now, nearing evening; maybe 6? I wish I had kept my da's pocket watch.

His jacket will have to do for now. I let my tail hang out the bottom but keep it off of the ground. I may be a rundown psychotic thief, but hey, I have my cacomistle pride still. My tail is as pristine as possible.

I slide another nicotine stick from the inside pocket and snick open the metal lighter from the other pocket. A quick puff and I pull it from my muzzle to exhale a long line of the smoke. It looks thicker in the slightly colder air out here, and I've always enjoyed watching the way it coils and curls around.

The payphone looms on the corner, empty as always. It's almost like my personal line with how few people have the cash to use it around here. I have some past experiences that have let me be at least mildly successful. I'm not hungry every day, at least. I can afford smokes, trips to the bar, and my own little stash of booze, though sometimes I go overboard on the last two and forget to budget for food.

Whatever, not a big deal. I've got a nice wad of cash in my pocket and some change for the payphone in my jacket. I snag my smoke between my pointer and middle fingers and dig into my peacoat pocket for that change. Once retrieved, the phone goes up against my ear and I pin it against my shoulder as I put in the quarter and dial the number listed on the hyena's tacky little calling card.

The moment it starts ringing, I pull the phone back into my paw and lean against the side of the booth, taking another pull from my cig. The smoke burns going down, but the cool mint feeling is nice. Some of my neighbors think I'm nuts for preferring menthols during the winter, but they're both right and stupid at the same time. I don't listen to them that much.

Three rings in, I get a polite, if guarded answer on the other side of the phone. "Hello?"

I pause a moment, adopt a slight British accent, then continue forward with my plan. "Hoi, this Carter?" I take to addressing him by last name, thinking that first name would be too intimate.

"Yes, it is. May I ask who I'm speaking with?" His voice is no less guarded, but there's some interest there, since I know his name.

"'Course, mate. Y'can call me Parker. I answer to it well 'nuff." I take a drag from my smoke and exhale, waiting to hear him start to ask what he can help me with. The fact that I can hear the question forming tells me that he's exactly the type I thought he was. Good for me. "Listen, I don't wanna take up all your time, so I'll make it quick. Found a scrawny lad lookin' over 'is shoulder a bunch and turns out 'e got somethin' that may belong to you. Figured I'd do my good deed and see 'ow I can return it to ya." Another drag, another pause.

I hear his sigh loud and clear, despite the poor fit of this handset for my head. "Oh thank the good goddess, I was terrified I'd lost it forever. Thank you so much, yes, I can meet you... well, what part of town are you calling from?"

I check the cross street out of habit, despite knowing it by heart. Helps me play the part. "Fourth an' Patterson. I don't mind a walk, mate. What's good f'you?" I pin the phone to my shoulder with my head again and examine my claws, then flick the ash off my smoke. This is always easier if they're in a comfort zone.

"How about outside Damen's? That's down on-"

"Twelfth and 'arrington, yeah I know the dive. Alright mate, I can be there in 'bout twenny. Sound good?" I hold the phone again, knowing that I'll be walking the moment he drops the call.

"Yes yes, of course. I need to finish up my work but I can be down there soon. Meet me there in half an hour?"

"No worries, I'll stick around."

"Thank you, thank you so much," he says again, then hangs up. I actually heard the click, so at least I know that he's not rich enough for a cellular phone. Those are pretty pricey still.

Well, I've got a bar to get to and thirty minutes to kill. I set off towards my "good deed" destination with a spring in my step and a curl to my tail. I figure that since he won't be meeting me on the street, I'm safe to drape my carpet of a tail around my neck for warmth again, and I get into an even brighter mood when I do. The smoke vanishes and I decide that I'll have one more out of celebration. It helps to pass the time, too.

The other "homeless" peter around the streets, in various states of disrepair. They almost mirror the buildings that they wander around, and I find a bit of artistic justice to the scene. It makes me feel better about their all too familiar faces and stories. You don't just live on Patterson street and not get to know the regulars in the area. It's the only safety you have.

The twenty minute walk disappears under the steady rhythm of my feet pat pat patting across the sidewalks and crosswalks until I push open the front door of Damen's Meeting Place, a little dive bar that's kept dim and hazy, just the way the cigar-puffing badger behind the counter likes it. A couple pool tables are off to the side, but the lack of sticks tells me that you gotta see the bartender on duty for those too. Probably for good reason. I don't make a scene as I enter, but I can feel more than a couple not-so-friendly gazes swing over to me. I shake off the shiver and approach the bar.

A pair of bills go on the bar the moment the surprisingly cigar-less badger approaches. "Scotch, on the rocks," I say, voice gruff but still touched with the accent from earlier. You can't drop the act until you get out, and I don't break these rules. A glass gets slid over to me once the bills get pulled and the badger trundles off. "Thanks, boss."

A pair of eyes drills into my back and I do my best to ignore the big bear in the corner that they belong to, but it gets a little hard to do so. I just hope he doesn't recognize me from any of my previous jobs or assignments. It's a hard life at the bottom, but you're bound to make some enemies by the time you get there. If not, then in the mad scramble to get out. I don't like enemies, but I like going hungry even less. We all gotta eat, after all. And some of us need to drink, too.

So I tip back my mediocre single-malt and keep my eyes on the bar and behind it, my ears tipped back and careful. This is close enough to my old neighborhood that I should be wary.

I'll watch our back, so to speak. And don't worry our pretty little head, I'll stay quiet from here. Just wanted to reassure you.

So wonderfully reassuring. Here I thought I'd been hungover hallucinating the voice. Guess I was wrong. I have to work not to respond to it though, so I cover up the urge with another swallow of the whiskey. The door opens behind me and the cold sweeps in with the wind.

The feeling of being watched leaves me in favor of the new newcomer, because he's far more out of place than I am. I at least look like I belong in here, but just a single glance back at the pressed slacks, the nicer overcoat, and the vest beneath it, confirms that he's of a different world. He doesn't belong. He's an outsider.

Or so I thought. He raises a paw to the bartender and pads over to the corner of the bar, where the badger meets him with a smile before they start talking in hushed tones. Maybe he's a regular, or just knows the owner, or something. I'm pretty sure the badger is the owner. I haven't been in here enough to be certain, but it feels that way. But then the badger points him over at me and hands him a dark bottle. I get a little thrill watching the hyena leave the badger and stroll over towards me, because I hadn't noticed that despite the bulk of his clothes, he's got a good tone to his body, despite not being super tall. He has to have a gym membership with whatever job he does. The only reason I haven't gotten fat is because I work construction gigs now and again and half starve myself. The diet of champions.

His bulk slides onto the stool next to mine and he eyes first me, then my drink. He leans a little closer then, his nostrils flaring to take in my scent, as if trying to be polite. Etiquette. I haven't experienced that in a minute. "Parker?" He soft voices my last name, gray-green eyes relaxed.

I blink like I haven't been surreptitiously watching him since he came in and let a smile crease my muzzle in two. "Hoi, you mus' be Carter, then. Good t' meet ya," The accent slips in again, playing the part it needs to. I doubt he'd recognize me regardless, due to how likely slurred I was in anything I mentioned to him when I lifted the wallet, but hey, this is fun. The smile gets a little more genuine.

"The pleasure is mine, Parker. I wasn't sure I'd know who you were, so thank the good goddess that Sam was in today, hmm?" Sam must be the bartender. Maybe he's not the owner, then. I meet the hyena's eyes for a second and see the pleasant warmth in them. I'm glad that this is the kind of guy that I'm returning this wallet to.

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that. Seems I got just a smidge distracted 'ere, let time get 'way from me." I raise the glass to him in apology, but he just clinks his beer against it and laughs it off.

"Please, don't worry about it. I'm just happy that I have the excuse to come here today. The good goddess knows that I need it. Between the poor kid who nabbed my wallet and the sorry sod who asked for a meal after that, I only barely managed to stay above water at work. But you came from Patterson, so you know what I mean." His eyes still hold that warmth and I feel my own eye twitch. A real bleedin' heart, this one.

And I can't say I know what he means. I live amongst that filth, see how little they try to get done, and only feel pity for the ones like old lady Rogers who is too nearsighted to do any work at all, but doesn't have the funds to get glasses, or Natty Livingston, whose parents abandoned him down here and he got turned away from the orphanage because they were full. Given, I don't do much for them either way, but at least I won't kick them out of my way if I'm in a hurry. The soft don't last long in my line of work. Any of them, actually. But I can lie convincingly enough. "Sure do an' it's a bloody shame. Rough world outside of these cozy walls. We do what we have to."

He considers this, takes a swig from his beer, then leans back against the bar. His eyes take on a far-off look. "Sometimes, yeah. I suppose you're right."

I figure this is as good a time as any. I pull the brown folded leather from my pocket and tap him on the leg with it. "Here, before I forget. This is yours." I set it in his paw that he stretches out to me.

"Oh gods, oh goddess, bless your kind soul. I cannot thank you enough for returning this." His eyes are earnest and true. I think of actually asking for a reward, but that's just poor manners. It's also against the rules.

So I go with witty instead. "How about answerin' if Sam there lets us light up in here?" I jerk a thumb over my opposite shoulder towards the badger at the other end of the bar. I know that he does, from having come in once or twice and seeing the fresh smoke floating in the air, but it sounds like the right thing to ask.

He blinks at me, bewildered, then lets out a laugh that's a little louder than most would be. "You're a good one, Parker. I like you. Yes of course, I could use a smoke or ten after all of this. You need a light?" He's already pulling out a slim case and flicking it open. Fancy.

I tug a smoke and lighter from my inside pocket with a shake of my head. "No worries, mate. I came prepared." I hold up the lighter for him and he leans forward to get a cherry on the end of his own cig.

"Thank you again, good sir. You are a gift straight from heaven, today." He leans back again, beer in one paw, cig in the other, with his elbows on the bar. He looks completely at home as smoke seeps from between his shiny white chompers.

And for some reason that's utterly beyond anything that I can comprehend on this dimension or the others, I feel bad for lying to him. Even my little voice kinda wakes up for that one and gives me what I can only describe as the mental image of the stink eye. You don't feel bad about jack shit, Dakota. What the fuck is this? But I don't have an answer for it. I've left myself speechless yet again. Well, not quite speechless."Come now, I don't think heaven would take a tail this long. A ring for every sin, my mother used to tell me." I smirk at my joke, though it burns a little fire inside of me. She used to tell that to my father, and by tell, I mean scream at him whenever he came home late from the office.

"You must be quite the naughty ringtail, then. I don't think I've ever met a cacomistle before." His tone almost makes me perk up again, but I restrain myself to only sliding an odd look over to the hyena. He's in the same position, with the same smile, same cig, same beer. As I watch, he brings the smoke to his muzzle for another pull. "But I mean what I say. You've probably saved me the biggest deal of my life, my friend, and I would be forlorn, nay, destitute without it. I made the mistake of keeping some vital information in the folds, you see." His posture is relaxed and at ease; totally trusting and at the same time, totally trustworthy. I could tell him what I do for a living and feel like he wouldn't judge me.

But of course, that's not true. So I keep up the facade. Follow the rules. "Good luck, then, that I caught the little pickpocket who snatched it, eh?" I lift the glass to him again and tip back the last swallow. It tastes a little better than the previous sip. "Call it fate or whatever, I jus' never see that little sneak up to any good."

"Ah, then a drink for your good eyes, then another for the save, if you have the time to spare." He waves down Sam, surprising me with the amount of attention that the badger pays to this guy. He must be either really loaded, or they're friends. I'm gonna go with both, just from spending more time around the hyena. "Hey Sam, get my savior here another drink and put the rest of the night on my tab, okay? He deserves it."

You deserve it? Is this guy more delusional than you? The voice is incredulous, and I don't blame it. The hyena's words drive a knife into my gut.

"We'll stick with the scotch on the rocks for now, Sam. Thanks, mate." I direct the last part to my new companion, who just waves it off.

"A drop in the bucket, Parker. I said that I cannot say thank you enough and I meant it. I pay my debts in full, lad." He looks right at me and I see in his eyes the sincerity to his words. It's damn unnerving.

But hey, free booze and probably a meal too. I'd be crazier than I'll admit to if I passed this up. I don't need to call in for another mark tonight. I've got enough cash still in my pocket to last a few days, plus whatever I can weasel out of the hyena's goodwill tonight. Hungover decisions have never been so beneficial for me.

The moment I get my new drink I raise it to the hyena. He eyes me up and down for a moment, but I only have on my impenetrable grin. "To good fortune," I prompt when he looks lost.

And that gets him up and animated in a moment. He snuffs out the last bit of his smoke as I do the same, then he taps his bottle to my glass. "To good fortune and new friends," he amends, then downs his beer like a champ. I'm truly impressed that someone in his hoighty toighty world can drink like a slum kid. I tip back my scotch for a swallow because it'd be a crime against myself to finish it all in one go.

The bartender impresses again with how quickly that beer is replaced and we both quickly light up and sink into similar positions against the bar. We talk, drink, talk, smoke, then talk some more. Before I know it, I've drained another two glasses of whiskey and am leaning against a pool cue across from the hyena, who has at this point lost the jacket and set it on his stool. "You ever play, Parker?" he's asking me.

Not while this hammered. Don't get me wrong, I can handle my whiskey, but I'm still a small guy. Not as short as the hyena, but definitely thinner. Also, I only ever play when I'm sober, and usually for money. "Once or twice, mate. I'll rack, if you don't mind breaking?" I grab the triangle and the balls from their shelf under the table.

"I'll warn you, boy, I'm pretty good. Ask around." His smirk at me is one like we've known each other for ages. I could lose myself in those comfortable eyes.

Sam keeps the drinks coming, though I insist that he switch me to beer instead, both out of a sudden conscience of how much the scotch must cost as well as the fact that I think I've already had three glasses of the strong drink. I'm nearing my breaking point and beer will help me stay on pace. "Show me what your made of, Carter." I almost say us. I shake my head to get the thought out.

"If you think you can handle it!" We laugh and start the game.

And then another. And another. The bar gets dimmer and hazier as we continue smoking and drinking until I'm out of cigs and feeling too ashamed of the hyena's goodwill to ask him for one. Snacks and a meal come out and disappear, beers pass between paws and I find that he's got the same taste as I do in them: smooth and wheaty, with just enough hops to taste the bite, but not enough to be bitter.

And then we're outside. I've got my jacket on and my tail looped around my neck and the hyena's arm is around my shoulder. "Tha's so cool tha' you can do tha' wit yer tail. Such a perty tail too." I don't know how he's farther gone than me, but I'm not the steadiest thing on the planet right now either.

"Carter, y'gotta stop complimentin' mah tail for a minute and tell me where ya live. Walkin' back to mah place is a bad idea this time o' night." I shake the drunk hyena just once, because any more than that could get messy.

Instead of directions right away, he passes me a pair of cigs instead. I take them gratefully and light up for both of us, then pass his back. "Right gentlemanly thing o' you t'do, Parker. Oh, um, home, right." He squints up at the nearest cross street, then stumbles away from it. "'S over this way, few blocks I think." He stumbles again, and looks up with a paw raised to shield his eyes from the streetlight. "Maybe longer than tha'."

I grunt as I try to pull him more upright and only partially succeed. My head dips with the exertion and I can feel a pressure between my ears that threatens to either make my eyes close or make the world spinning. I take another drag from my smoke to help keep me centered. "Never met a 'yeen 'at could drink 'at much, ye ken?" My accent has long since faded, and random others come out at times. It's been making the hyena laugh, so I kept it up for a while. I think it's subconscious by now.

He just grins up at me and likewise pulls another lungful of smoke. "Never met a ringtail tha' could keep up!" I drag him more to his feet and we lean on each other to keep from collapsing. We stay more or less quiet, nearly rolling along the sidewalk in our haze. Vaguely, I can hear the voice in my head pointing me in the proper directions. Right at this intersection, he said. C'mon champ, get us there safe. I almost want to thank the voice. I'm not sure I could keep it all straight with how much my head is buzzing.

Turns out home for him is up in the new Emerald Heights complex, like I had thought. We took a roundabout way of getting there, if I'm thinking properly (which you're not, but you're right) so at least we didn't have to stumble through the slums themselves. I would have been robbed blind and not even have a clue where to start tracking down the ones responsible. Nor a right to. I've done it my share of times, too, when things were hard early on.

I get him to his apartment door and he pulls me through it once he figures out how the lock works. I protest, he pulls harder. "'Ey, you said yerself tha' you shouldn' be walkin' through yer neighborhood like this. I don' want my savior to get 'imself 'urt like tha', okay?" His eyes are wide and concerned, and damnit if whatever attachment I've made to him isn't what finally lets him pull me all the way into his apartment. Not that it's a bad apartment, it's just far more posh than what I'm used to. Landscapes on the walls, phone next to the fridge, even a PC set up in the corner! A really, really nice one! I'm suitably impressed, show it via a whistle, then get dragged through another doorway and into an equally posh bedroom.

There's hardwood floors, a plush carpet that my toes sink into enough to nearly make me stumble and a king sized four poster bed as the crown jewel amongst the mahogany and oak furnishings.

Well, the real crown jewel ends up sprawled on that bed, half out of his shirt in the time it took me to take in the room. I resist the urge to shake my head, and instead shakily make my way over to the struggling hyena. "'Ey, no sleepin' in a shirt 'at nice, y'hear me? C'mon, up, I'll help ya out."

He mumbles something, but sits shakily up and works with me to pull his vest the rest of the way off, followed by a general fumbling of fingers over the buttons of his shirt. But it's worth it.

His dusty tan fur gives way to spots along his shoulders, back and sides that disappear into the waistband of his slacks in a way that is absolutely mesmerizing. Before I can think about it, my paws are running around the line that his slacks leave on his hips and waist. "I didn' know ya 'ad spots, Carter," I murmur down to him. I don't even consider that what I'm doing might be invading his personal space. I mean, come on, he's been doing everything short of telling me that he wants to bend me over all night. I think.

"Shirt covers 't'all, silly," he murmurs back, his tone matching mine. I'm pleased that my inebriated guesses weren't wrong. His breath, hell, everything about us both, reeks of alcohol still, and I know what's going to happen in the morning. I even know what's going to happen tonight.

I push the shirt off of his shoulders, lingering over his arms to feel the muscles like corded steel in them, then shiver. "Water?" I ask, needing a distraction.

He nudges me to the dark doorway on the opposite side of the bed. "Glass is 'n there." I take a step away and I can feel his eyes on the base of my tail where it spills out of my cargo pants. It makes me warmer than I want to be right then, but I feel okay. A little floaty, but I'm coming back down, slowly. A splash of cold water from an arched, brushed brass faucet brings me out of it a bit more, then a full glass of it travels down my throat to help the morning's results. I down one more glass before bringing the glass out for my... friend.

It feels weird, having someone who I could call a friend. I don't remember any childhood friends and I haven't had any since I came to live in the slums either. It's a surreal experience outside of anything that I could really imagine. It's relaxing, not having to look over my shoulder. I can feel safe here.

I set the glass of water on the little oak stand beside the massive bed and am about to turn away when one of those thick arms snags me about the waist. I thought he'd passed out. "Mmnnh," he grumbles to me, nearly falling out of bed with how fast he moved to pull me closer. "Y'r not gittin' away from me tha' easy, ringtail."

I squirm against the arm, but it feels as nice around me as I hoped it would. "I... I can sleep here?" I ask, tail arching up behind me.

"Tha's what 'm sayin'. Get tha' big tail of yours unner th' covers." He's mumbling, so it's hard to tell exactly how serious (or conscious) he is. But I barely need any encouraging. I stumble around the bed, strip my outer layers off, then slide right under those ohmygod warm blankets. I feel the mattress shift under the hyena's weight, the that same arm drapes itself over my side and pulls me right up to his chest. "Much better," he whispers, but when I look at his eyes, they're shut.

I don't think I've ever fallen asleep so content.

Maybe that's what makes the next morning such hell.