FSE

Furry search engine

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Gunther fought the temptation to look over his shoulder as he left the busy tuber station and walked down the street that led to the dingy hotel where he and Vincent now lived. It had been just two days since their hurried departure from his lover's flat but Gunther already felt they were pushing their luck. Vincent's handlers were not going to accept his sudden resignation without a fuss, at least not without enforcing a very permanent non-competition clause against their former employee, and their best hounds were certainly on their track night and day. Leaving the city by plane or train was not an option, but fortunately Gunther had found a truck driver that would let them hitch a ride tomorrow with no questions asked. The man had sensed their desperation and priced his offer accordingly, take it or leave it. The deal would take a significant bite out of their limited stash of money but the sooner the two of them could leave the city, the better.

It was already getting dark, and one by one the neon signs along the street flashed to life to lure in passersby with promises of happy hours and fried food. The rottweiler stopped at the first eatery that didn't look like it would make you sick just by sitting on a chair inside and grabbed two large boxes of assorted sushi and two bottles of beer. He doubted the tuna sashimi and salmon rolls would be up to the standards of quality the panther was used to but Vincent loved sushi, and he felt his friend could use some cheering up. The normally cocky and assertive feline hadn't left their hotel room since they arrived, silently letting the more street-savvy dog take the lead and arrange their escape plan. Part of Gunther felt a sort of mean satisfaction at seeing the cat taken down a peg or two, especially after what he had done, but he didn't like the idea of Vincent pacing their tiny room all day like a lion in a cage, alone with his thoughts and without anything to do. Tomorrow he'd need Vincent to be alert and focused.

He took a detour on his way to the hotel, just long enough to make sure nobody was following him. The hotel was in a slightly out of the way neighborhood, and with the light turning grey and gloomy its surroundings became empty, the night-time crowds congregating in busier areas like a herd seeking safety in numbers. He nearly bumped into an old woman as he rounded a corner, and as he abruptly swerved to avoid her the pain in his ribs where Vincent had stabbed him reignited. Mistaking his groan for a growl of anger the lady gave him a frightened glance and trotted away. Gunther paid her no attention. The crisis of the last forty eight hours had left him with little time for introspection but with the immediate question of their escape settled his thoughts now turned towards the man who had caused him the wound. Vincent had tried to kill him. When time had come to choose between his job and comfort on one hand and Gunther on the other his first instinct had been to choose the former. Gunther would bear the scars of this attack for the rest of his life yet here he was, worrying about his mate's feelings and even buying him a treat. He suddenly felt the urge to throw the food on the pavement and stomp on it.

"Why do I even need him?" the thought flashed into his mind, "I could just walk away..." He stopped and imagined Vincent in his hotel room, left to face the consequences of his actions alone and frightened. One by one the hours of the night would anxiously tick by and then there would be a knock on the door and a gunshot.

Somehow the mental picture did not give Gunther any satisfaction. In fact it made him sick to his stomach.

When he arrived in sight of the ugly concrete building the dog was alone, and the faint sound of distant traffic and the rustling of food wrappers caught up and blown along the ground by the wind provided an almost soothing background to the evening. As he crossed the deserted street Gunther closed his eyes and allowed himself a deep sigh. Yes, he would bear scars the rest of his life, but a scar is a healed wound. A new life together in a new town. Perhaps everything would work out in the end?

The noise was so faint that Gunther barely registered it at first, but the low buzzing caused him to open his eyes and look around him in annoyance. This was when he saw it, a small quadcopter drone hovering lazily above a nearby roof like a fat mechanical bee.

Except this bee was carrying a payload under its belly.

And it was now moving towards their hotel.

"Vincent!" Gunther shouted and began to run. He dropped the bag that contained their dinner and reached for the gun hidden in his jacket's inner pocket. Unfazed, the drone continued on its track, and it was clear that whoever was piloting it was aiming for their room's window. Gunther dropped to one knee, aimed his gun as steadily as he could and pressed the trigger. The flechette whizzed past its target and made a small crater in the wall. Vincent was right, Gunther swore internally, this was a shitty gun. He aimed again and discharged three more rounds in quick succession.

The third flechette hit the drone just as it was about to crash through the window and a ball of fire appeared where the flying assassin had been. In a split second a blast of hot air threw Gunther to the ground and showered him with fragments. When he opened his eyes all he could see was thick dark smoke and a gaping hole where their window had been.

"Vincent!" he shouted again as he struggled to his feet. His face was bleeding and his jacket was torn yet he felt no pain, and he crossed the debris-covered street and reached the hotel's front door in a few adrenaline-fuelled strides. The building's interior was a pandemonium of staff and patrons running madly toward the exit or screaming hysterically, and the dog had to shove his way down the corridors and up the stairs to reach their room. The door had been blasted open by the explosion and the inside was engulfed in smoke but the form sprawled on the ruined bed was impossible to miss.

"Vincent... Oh god please no..."

Vincent shifted and made a gurgling noise. He laid on his back, eyes open but staring blankly into elsewhere. The entire left side of his body was lacerated, charred and bleeding from dozens of shrapnel wounds, and when Gunther bulled his way closer he realized that not all of him was present.

"Ohshitoshitohshit," Gunther let out a prayer and hesitated, frozen by his helplessness in the face of the carnage. Then Vincent moaned again and he snapped out of it, and rushed to his lover's side. He grabbed handfuls of shredded linen and tried to staunch the worst of the bleeding, but they became soaked through with bright red blotches almost immediately. Gunther growled and barrelled to the bathroom to snatch a military grade autoinjector filled with morphine from the medikit, one of Vincent's personal stash, and returned to administer it with shaky hands.

Vincent gasped, but then started to breathe easier. From the distance a sound of sirens carried to their ears, and he reached to grasp the lapel of Gunther's jacket.

"No cops," a gravelly whisper left between his cracked lips.

"But Vincent-" Gunther started but was cut off.

"No. Cops." He sighed and his fingers grew slack as he lost his consciousness again.

Gunther stood in indecision in the fire blackened hotel room, smoke stinging his eyes and the sound of rapidly approaching emergency vehicles tearing at his ears. Should they give up? Vincent would die without medical attention. He would die if he was found. Gunther roared from the pit of his stomach at the unfairness of it all, his cry filled with rage and despair in equal measure, and then made up his mind. He tossed a duvet over Vincent and wrapped it around him to hide his maimed body, then lifted him over his shoulder and hurried out of the room and onto the streets.

Just outside the hotel was an abandoned car, its doors left open and lights left blinking, and Gunther stashed Vincent unceremoniously on its front seat before getting on the driver's seat and flooring the gas pedal. After making distance between themselves and the crime scene he eased down to a less suspicious speed and burned through his options in his mind. Vincent's breathing was becoming uneven, and he couldn't just drive around until he expired or they were caught. Now he had wheels, but the route to his hometown would take over a day of travel, and Vincent had an hour at best. He did not have any contacts on his prepaid phone. He gripped the wheel harder. There was still one number left, one that he could remember very well, but it was the worst number to call.

He dialled it anyway.

"Who's this? Where did you get this number?" The voice sounded annoyed and slightly distorted by the high latency network the cheap phone used.

"Please, Martin, you have to help me," Gunther blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. There was a pause at the other end so he hurried to continue. "Vincent's dying and I don't have anyone else to turn to. Please don't hang up, please..." His voice cracked, and he felt hot tears welling up, then turning into an ugly cry. He swerved the car to the side and stopped it on the sidewalk before losing control, grief bleeding out of his eyes between halting gasps. "Please please please don't hang up..."

There was silence, a long one, broken up by a quiet whisper. "...holy shit." When Gunther did not provide more than sobs the borzoi picked up the conversation again. "There's someone wounded with you? Meet me at the Clinic, now."

"Is it safe?" Gunther breathed out hoarsely.

"I'll toss around enough money until it is. Get there."

There was a click and then Gunther was left alone with the dying man and a thin, golden line of hope. He swallowed his snot and tears, and turned the keys in the ignition again.

-

Jimmy's Clinic was a drab, prefabricated three story office building, between a massage parlor and a building used as a church by the New International Gospel Society. This was alright with Gunther. Unlike his father he had never been big on religion, but right now he felt Vincent could use a miracle or two. The panther, or what was left of him, was sprawled on an operating table while a goat in a surgeon's gown stood over him. The man worked quickly and efficiently, keeping a vigilant eye on the screen that tracked Vincent's vital signs while his gloved hands moved seamlessly from one emergency to the next. Martin was next to him, an oversized mask covering his long snout, and the borzoi obediently passed the requested instruments as the doctor fought to staunch bleedings, stabilize organs, extract shrapnel and reattach tattered flesh.

"Jesus fucking Christ..." had been Jimmy's learned diagnosis upon seeing the lacerated body more than two hours earlier. Even now it seemed impossible that Vincent could survive. His left arm was little more than a charred stump with nothing below the elbow, and his chest, abdomen and left leg looked like they had been thoroughly chewed by something very mean and very hungry. As to his face, Gunther could only hope he would retain at least one eye. Worse than everything was the feeling of utter powerlessness the dog felt while he anxiously watched from behind a plexiglass window. Eventually he could take it no more and rushed into the room, as if his physical presence could somehow protect Vincent from death.

"Get that stupid mutt out of here," the goat said, without even taking his attention away from his work.

"But I want to..." the rottweiler blurted.

"Gunther, this isn't helping," Martin said and shook his head.

The dog opened his mouth and then closed it, conscious of the futility of his gesture. He walked stiffly back behind the partition, collapsed on a chair and then dropped his head on his closed fists.

-

It was way past midnight when Jimmy and Martin left the operating room. Martin went to change back to his own clothes while the goat took off his blood-soaked gloves, slowly walked to a water cooler and filled himself a cup. Gunther stared up at him for a few seconds and bit his lip, both wanting to know and fearing what he would say.

"Is he going to live?"

Jimmy drank half his cup and let out a sigh. "I have no idea... which I guess is good news. One hour ago I thought he was a goner."

Gunther looked at the goat and then at Martin for guidance, but the borzoi had not returned yet leaving him feeling lost and alone.

"If he makes it until tomorrow morning, then the chances are good that he'll survive. Until then the odds are fifty-fifty," Jimmy said and finished his cup. The man could have been in his sixties, but his thin frame, off-white hair and bearded chin probably already made him look old when he was a kid.

"But there must be something more we can do..." Gunther pleaded.

"Yes actually, you can make some chamomile tea," the goat said.

"What?"

"For me. It's two in the morning and I need some sleep," he yawned and turned to leave the room.

Gunther jumped from his chair and put his hand on the door handle to block it off. "Where do you think you're going?" he growled.

"To bed. Do you need to have your ears checked?" the doctor said, looking both startled and irritated.

"No, you stay here. What if Vincent needs you tonight?" Gunther responded.

"What if he needs me tomorrow and I can't keep my eyes open?"

"Gunther, please..." Martin interjected. He had slipped in the room and had been watching them silently.

"I don't fucking care how you do it, but you're staying with him!" the dog barked and stabbed a finger at Jimmy.

"Gunther!" Martin shouted and crossed the distance between them with just a couple brisk strides, and gave him a hard slap across the face.

The rottweiler fell silent and rubbed his cheek where the borzoi's palm had hit him. His hand dropped limply from the door handle and came to rest at his side.

"You... You got a lot of gall, threatening me in my own clinic," the goat began and then shook his head. He rested his hands on hips and looked the much larger male over from the tip of his sneakers to his heavy-set jaw. "Alright. I won't hold it against you this time, but I think you need some rest too."

"I'm staying with Vincent," Gunther replied with a voice that was on the verge of cracking.

"As you wish," Jimmy said and turned towards the borzoi, "Martin, there's a couch in the waiting room. You know where to find me if something goes wrong."

With a barely audible mutter to himself, the goat moved past Gunther and left the room, leaving the two dogs alone.

Gunther sat again on the folding chair and clasped his hands as if to pray, and rested his elbows on his knees as he pressed his forehead against them. At first he did not look up when Martin spoke to him.

"I'm going to get a juice box from the vending machine. So, uh, do you want one too?"

Gunther lifted his head slowly and gave him a tired look. "Sure. Thanks Martin."

"If they don't have grape in there then what flavor do you want? Like, pineapple or blueberry-"

"Who gives a fuck about juice flavor right now," Gunther growled, but then he grimaced and pinched himself between the eyes. He exhaled and hung his head. "I'm sorry Martin. I'm being a dumb idiot again."

"Yea, yea you fucking are." Martin sounded annoyed and hurt, but Gunther still braved to give him a sideways glance.

The borzoi was wearing slacks and loafers without socks, and a sleeveless shirt with horizontal stripes that clung loosely on his lean frame. He wore a pastel chiffon scarf around his neck and a bunch of thin bracelets on his slender arms that clicked softly as he dug out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. Gunther realized that during all their years working together he had never seen him in his free time, and that the ratty druggie hoodie was his business uniform.

Martin inhaled deeply, and blew out smoke like a sighing dragon. The way he held the cigarette seemed feminine to Gunther. "I'm not going to coddle you and tell you that you shouldn't be so hard on yourself, because you fucking should be. Even after everything I've done for you, you still treat me like an inconvenience to be tolerated."

"I know... I'm just exhausted-" Gunther muttered, but Martin stopped him.

"You always do this! You get in trouble, and I have to drop everything to help you out, and the instant you're in the clear I have to literally leap aside or get trampled as you rush to get as far as possible before having to show gratitude!"

"Christ, Martin! What do you want me to say?" Gunther had risen to a half sitting position, but slouched back on the chair after his outburst. "I'm sorry, I really am. For everything." He shook his head. "If I could, I'd take back hitting you. It was one of the shittiest things I've done in my entire life."

Martin stood silently for a while, looking like he wanted to extinguish his cigarette on Gunther's forehead, but then stepped aside to use the ashtray under a no smoking sign instead. His arms were long and thin, as was everything else about his body, and Gunther could see the sharp angles his bones made under the skin as he moved.

"That's a start." He suppressed a shiver, and Gunther realized that he must've been near the point of exhaustion too. "Now, do you want grape, pineapple, or blueberry?"

"...grape. Or pineapple. I hate blueberry, it tastes so fake."

"It's a garbage flavor."

"Thank you." Gunther gave Martin a slight nod.

"Sure." Martin wrapped his arms around his midriff, and walked out to the lobby deep in his thoughts.

--

A little while later they sat side by side on the waiting room couch. It had a low metal frame and thick leather cushions, putting it in the uncanny valley of being uncomfortable but soft. The room was more dingy than clinical, but there were dog eared magazines and health posters strewn about to give the place a veneer of respectability. In the dead of the night the room's subdued fluorescent lighting was a little too dim, and gave everything a slight bluish tint. A potted ficus swayed its leaves ever so slightly in the breeze from air conditioning, but otherwise the only other sound was the inevitable ticking of a wall mounted clock.

Martin handed him his drink, and sipped his own one with a straw before speaking up.

"So, he's important to you," he said softly, like a jazz singer starting a story about a murder.

"Yeah." Gunther turned the juice box around in his hands. "I'm in love, Martin. I don't know what I'll do if something happens to him."

"Hoo boy," Martin sighed and sat in silence. He twirled his long, flowing hair between his fingers before turning to look at Gunther, and gave him a sad look. "You always have me."

Gunther shook his head. "No, you were right. I've been selfish and used you, but I don't want to be a burden to you anymore."

Martin touched Gunther's arm. His slender fingers barely covered the rottweiler's bulging bicep.

"It's not a burden if my affection is freely given," he said quietly.

Surprised, Gunther looked at him with a puzzled expression. "What do you mean?"

"Take a guess," Martin smiled faintly. "Why do you think I never told you to fuck off despite all the shit you gave me? Why do you think I never changed my number?"

"I don't know..." Gunther shrugged. The burly dog had the air of a frat boy trying to focus on an important exam after a night of hard drinking. He narrowed his eyes, thought about the riddle some more and a wince of concern came over his face. "You mean... you were afraid of me? That I'd be angry if you stopped taking my calls? I'm so sorry."

"Oh you silly..." Martin laughed a little. He ran his hand down the rottweiler's arm, fingertips caressing each bulky muscle. "That's just how I like them, big and dumb."

Gunther passed a weary hand over his eyes. Not so long ago Martin's words would have made him see red but right now big and dumb was exactly how he felt about himself. He gulped the rest of his juice and stared inside the box's dark depths before putting it down on the table. On the front of the box a small cartoon pineapple with googly eyes and scrawny limbs was dancing in celebration of the "16 flavor-packed vitamins" with which it was filled. Gunther felt the vague desire to crush the stupid thing but couldn't muster the energy to lift his fist. He did not resist when Martin took his hand and laced his fingers with his.

"The doc was right, you need to get some sleep," the borzoi whispered.

Gunther turned his head towards the wall, in the direction where Vincent was, and a tear slid down his cheek. "I'm afraid," he said, "I'm afraid that if I go to sleep he'll be gone forever when I wake up."

"Hurting yourself won't help him."

Gunther wiped his nose and looked away from Martin, embarrassed by his outburst but also glad that he wasn't alone tonight. With a loud tick the clock marked three in the morning and both men exchanged a glance.

"You can take the couch, I'll sleep in a chair," Gunther said, making a move to get up.

"What? No way," Martin protested and gripped his hand tighter.

"I've slept in worse places," the rottweiler shrugged.

"We can share the couch."

"But it's too small, I'd crush you," Gunther said and raised an eyebrow.

"Then hold me in your arms."

Gunther looked at him, confused for a moment, then a flicker of comprehension passed over his features. He sat down again and studied Martin. The borzoi looked like he was holding his breath, his expression both anxious and expectant. Gunther thought about Vincent, fighting for his life in the next room. He also thought about how easy it would have been for Martin to hang up a few hours ago.

"Alright," he said with a faint smile, "But don't blame me if all that's left of you is a blotch on the cushion tomorrow."

--

The hands of the clock glowed fluorescent in the dark as the men lay together on the couch, Gunther's head supported by his rolled up shirt. The temperature was slightly cooler than was comfortable for sleeping but Martin was wrapped snugly in the big dog's arms, and the borzoi looked like he wouldn't have traded his spot for a five-star suite. His finger traced lightly over the rottweiler's short-cropped fur, and his heartbeats were almost audible over the soft humming of the air conditioning.

"I'm sure he'll pull through. He looks like a tough one," Martin said, his nose brushing against Gunther's bare pecs.

"How much do you know about him?" Gunther sighed and caressed the smaller man's wavy hair. He did not mean anything by it, but his hands needed to feel something.

"Not much, other than what someone in my line of business overhears," Martin admitted, "Hot shots like him wouldn't breathe the same air as a freelance data fixer like me."

"He's not like that, not when you get to know him," Gunther interjected and gripped Martin's frail arms, "I'll tell him what you did for us today. He will be very grateful."

"He can't be that bad, if someone like you loves him," Martin said, his slight smile almost discernible in the darkness.

There was a long moment of silence, so much that Gunther began to think Martin had fallen asleep. Then the borzoi spoke again.

"I remember the day I first saw you. You reminded me of that big athletic guy I knew in high school. I had a crush on him too."

Gunther's quiet breathing remained even. His hazel-brown eyes wandered over to the tiny light of the smoke alarm on the ceiling. He shifted his body on the couch to make Martin more comfortable.

"Were you guys together at the time?"

"Not really, he beat me in front of everyone."

"Chris, what an asshole..." Gunther said and then bit his lip when he realized how oblivious the comment made him appear.

"It's alright. I jacked off in the restrooms afterwards, with my nose still bleeding. Maybe he knew and that's why he was so pissed," the borzoi chuckled.

Gunther couldn't think of anything to say, so he hugged Martin tighter and planted a comforting kiss on the top of his head.

--

It was the smell of coffee that woke Gunther up in the morning. He opened his eyes and saw Jimmy sitting in a chair in front of the couch, a disposable cup of coffee in his hand. Behind him the clock showed half past ten.

The goat took a sip from his cup. "He's alive and his vitals are steady," he said before the dog could open his mouth.

"Thank god," Gunther sighed deeply. Martin was awake too, and he slipped from the rottweiler's grasp and sat next to him as if he hadn't just been caught in an awkward position.

"Well, I think I should get some credit too," the goat shrugged, "But he's not out of the woods yet, and he'll need some fairly extensive reconstructive surgery..."

Gunther frowned. "What do you mean, doc? You said that he's going to be alright!"

The goat gave him a flat stare. "I mean that he's not actively dying on my surgery table. I never said anything about him being alright." He saw Gunther's expression and softened his voice. "He has suffered extensive injuries on the entire left side of his body. I managed to save his eye, but it's going to leave an ugly scar. However both his arm and leg need reconstructive surgery, and even then they will retain only limited functionality. "

Gunther looked at him with a look of slowly growing horror, so he gulped down his piping hot coffee and continued after a grimace.

"In fact my professional opinion is to replace them with full cybernetic prosthesis as soon as possible." He glanced at the bottom of his cup and twirled around the drop of fluid that was left. "It's better for the prognosis to operate while the nerves still retain some of their plasticity. In other words, it's better to chop them off right now while they are still in recovery."

"Christ..." Gunther exhaled and slumped back down on the couch. He shook his head and opened his hands slowly. "I don't have any money left."

Jimmy tried to take a swig from his empty cup. "I'm not going to lie to you, that is going to be a huge problem. Even if I ran a charity--which I don't--the cost of materials alone is...prohibitive to most people. This is high end tech, and everything needs to be custom built for each patient."

"Hey, we can figure something out," Martin said and rested his hand on Gunther's shoulder. "In the meantime why don't you go see him if that cheers him up?"

Jimmy shrugged and led the way. Gunther hesitated, but then sighed and followed him with heavy steps.

Vincent laid on a bed attached to a worrisome amount of beeping machines. He was wrapped in bandages and patches all over his face and torso, and all of his left side was coated in medical gel and plastic. The raw flesh underneath reminded Gunther of vacuum packed meat in the supermarket freezer. Vincent had been dozing lightly, but when Jimmy shut the door behind him he woke up with a start, the expression in his one eye growing wilder as it scanned around the room until he spotted Gunther. With a relief he slumped back and gestured at him to come closer.

Gunther could hear only a hoarse whisper when Vincent moved his dry, cracked lips. He pulled a chair under him and leaned closer to listen, smelling his bad breath and iodine doused skin, and could barely make out the word 'water'. There was a paper cup on a nightstand next to the bed, but when he reached for it Jimmy shook his head.

"No water before surgery. Don't worry, he's on IV drip so he won't dehydrate."

Gunther huffed at him, then wet a napkin in the water and dabbed Vincent's lips.

Vincent smacked his lips and after a while he spoke. "Tell me how bad it is," he said with a low, strained voice.

"The doc said that you're going to pull through," Gunther said with a weak, forced smile.

Vincent turned his gaze to the ceiling. "...Kill me."

"Don't say such horrible things!"

"Fuck you. I can't feel my leg. I don't want to live like this."

Gunther laid his hands on Vincent and fixed him with as intense a stare as he could muster. The cat felt incredibly frail under his touch. "Vincent, listen to me. I'm going to take care of everything, you hear me? I'm going to take care of you."

"And fuck you for being so nice." Vincent said wearily, and shut his eyes.

For a while the only sound was the steady hum and beep of the machinery. Gunther watched how Vincent's expression slowly turned bitter from grief, and a tear escaped the corner of his undamaged eye. He looked at Gunther again with infinite sadness.

"I'm sorry. I deserve nothing from you but a bullet to my skull. You don't have to do anything for me."

"Well maybe I want to, ever think about that?" Gunther wiped away Vincent's teardrop with his thumb. "I'm going to make a deal with the doc to have you up and running like new. Don't you worry about a thing."

"Jesus, you really are as dumb as you look..." Vincent trailed off, but Gunther could hear the resignation in his voice. He had given up, his body untensing, ready to accept its fate.

"Besides, your right arm is just fine. That's your jacking off hand, remember?" Gunther said with a warm grin.

Vincent looked at him surprised, then guffawed, crying and laughing at the same time until he tore something and winced in pain. He lifted his left arm weakly. "What about this one? I can't jack you off at the same time with this one."

Gunther patted him. "Doc'll build you the finest fapping arm on this hemisphere, I'll see to it."

"All right, that's enough," Jimmy said and pushed himself between Gunther and the bed. "You're riling up my patient when he needs rest. Meeting hour's over."

He prodded Gunther to leave, who managed to catch one last glimpse of Vincent laying on the bed. The panther looked at him with a longing expression, sad and hopeful in equal degree, and then the door was shut between them.

Martin was waiting for them, and Jimmy left Gunther with him as he went on to his other tasks. The borzoi was leaning against the wall, cradling his midriff with his long arms, and Gunther went to stand next to him.

"I have another big ask from you," Gunther said meekly. He was not used to depending on the kindness of others, and felt more nervous than before his first fight.

"I know," Martin nodded. "On one condition."

"What is it?"

"I want you to stay with me while Vincent recovers."

Gunther licked his lips. "Of course."

Martin looked at him and raised his eyebrows. "You do know what that means?"

Gunther sighed. "I do. I'm okay with it."

Martin gave him a cute smile. "I'm glad to hear that. Let's go, I have lots of calls to make."

He patted Gunther's beefy arm, letting his long fingers linger on it and trail along his muscles with a light touch, then pushed himself off the wall and walked towards the exit with a purposeful stride. Gunther looked after his receding back, glanced towards the ward where Vincent rested, and then hurried up to catch him.

"I don't like leaving Vincent alone in here," he said to Martin as the two stepped into the street.

"We can't move him, and you can't stay at the clinic forever. I know how Jimmy is and you'll overstay your welcome very quickly." The borzoi pulled out his phone and called for a cab. "But don't worry," he continued, "The doc doesn't take shit from anyone and he has more clout than you'd suspect. If someone comes sniffing around he will handle them."

--

A student in urbanism could have written a whole thesis about Martin's neighborhood. It was located not far from the main train station, and thanks to its cheap rents it served as a haven for the less reputable part of the city's life. Still, the land was valuable, and in recent years real estate developers had laid siege to the place, with rather mixed success. When Gunther leftthe taxi his eyes beheld in quick succession a brand new gym, a run-down bar, an organic fusion restaurant, and a fat lady on a street corner wearing tight-fitting clothes and lots of make-up. The outcome of this struggle still hung in the balance, but as the pair walked past a group of junkies shooting up under a billboard advertising new luxury condos the dog decided that his money was on the forces of decay.

"It may not look like it yet," the borzoi said as they arrived in front of his building, "But the area is becoming quite sought after." Gunther nodded and pretended not to notice that the front door showed signs of having been forced with a crowbar and repaired, multiple times.

The dreary hallway and stairs did little to uplift Gunther's mood, which is why his eyes opened wide in surprise as soon as he stepped inside Martin's flat. He had expected a den filled half with technological widgets and half with the filth of an unmarried geek but the place was nice. Simple but trendy furniture, potted plants and soft colors gave the rooms a cozy atmosphere, and while the flat was nowhere near as big or lavishly decorated as Vincent's it felt like a real home rather than a showroom.

"Sorry for the mess," Martin said as he picked up an empty mug from the coffee table and put it in the sink, "I got a bit behind on chores." He was lying of course, the place was clean enough that you could have eaten off the floor.

"No worries at all," Gunther mumbled, feeling awkwardly out of place in the living room. A couple of books were on the table, the one on top a vintage science-fiction novel, and a plush but well-worn teddy bear sat at the end of the couch next to the table. His eyes wandered over to a picture on the kitchen counter. It depicted a smiling Martin on his graduation day, flanked by his mother and father. Curiously enough the borzoi didn't seem to have physically aged much since then.

Gunther accepted Martin's offer of a seat and a cup of tea. Martin lived on his own, he learned, and he had a decent relationship with his parents, who sometimes visited him. As he sipped his drink the rottweiler formed the impression that Martin seldom had any guests other than his direct relatives. The borzoi looked both nervous and elated to have someone staying over, and he fidgeted his cigarette until it broke between his fingers, scattering tobacco on the table top. Martin began to wipe the crumbs frantically until Gunther laid his hand on his and the two exchanged a smile.

They left the flat to go shopping, first to pick up spare clothes for Gunther and then for groceries. The rest of the afternoon was spent preparing dinner following a recipe that Martin found. The potatoes turned out undercooked and the fish was slightly burned but Gunther ate heartily. After their meal was finished they sat on the couch together sipping a beer, an uneasy silence hanging in the air as shadows lengthened inside the room.

"So... must be hard work keeping in shape like this," Martin said, his bare feet shuffling on the plush carpet.

"Yep," Gunther replied. He took a draw of his beer and sank deeper into the couch.

"I guess you'll want to keep working out while you're staying here?" He looked at the can in his hand but his eyes kept glancing furtively over to the rottweiler.

"I'll have to. Can't risk going soft." Gunther finished his beer and absent-mindedly crushed the can. "You think you'll want to join me?" he said, turning towards the smaller man.

"Oh... I don't know. That sounds hard and I'm not strong like you," the borzoi said. "Maybe if you showed me the results..."

Gunther eyed him without a word and then slowly took off his shirt and tossed it on the carpet. The borzoi stood frozen for a moment and then slowly set his beer down on the coffee table. He extended a hand and began to touch Gunther's pecs.

"Yeah," he whispered as his fingers wandered down the dog's chest and over his abs, "That's what I'm talking about..."

Gunther leaned back and spread his arms over the back of the couch. Martin's delicate hands caressed him with something approaching fervor, and for a time it looked like the borzoi would spend the rest of the evening kneading his strong yet padded and soft belly. But eventually Martin raised his eyes.

"Can I... see more?"

"What... in front of him?" Gunther nodded towards the plush bear.

"It's alright, I'm sure Mr. Fuzzy will enjoy the sight," Martin smiled shyly.

There was a clink as Gunther unbuckled his belt and removed his jeans, keeping only his boxers. Martin's eyes went wide when the rottweiler rose from the couch and stood in front of him in all his statuesque glory. The tan hair that covered the inside of his limbs and the area around his privates looked bright against the backdrop of his black fur, and his generous package stretched the fabric of his underwear. The rottweiler planted his feet solidly on the carpet, and with effortless ease flexed the hard-sculpted muscles of his arms and shoulders in front of the stunned borzoi.

"Please... more," he said, each word spoken softly as if he was afraid a loud sound would awake him from this dream.

Some of Gunther's old reluctance came back, part of him again hesitant to undress fully in the presence of another male. But a promise was a promise. Gunther's boxers slid down his muscular thighs and with a flick of his hand the dog tossed them on top of the teddy bear. He took a step towards the borzoi, his large yet well-proportioned sheath and balls hanging almost at eye level directly in front of Martin.

Martin ate up Gunther's naked form with his eyes, his gaze wandering hungrily up and down the muscular body, too excited to stop for the main course at his crotch. Without realizing it he had risen to a half sitting position from the couch and reached out to brush the top of Gunther's thigh with his slender fingers, the touch close to his crotch feeling like feather tips, and when the rottweiler did not flinch away he stood up to enter his intimate space.

The borzoi squeezed Gunther's bicep, feeling up the dense muscle like a stress relief ball, and a passionate sigh escaped his lips. Little wisps of his long, downy hair stood up from static electricity and clung to Gunther's hide as he leaned in ever so close, keeping just a finger's width of distance between them.

"You feel amazing, better than I ever imagined..." Martin breathed out and let his hand drift along Gunther's arm, feeling it up like a customer studying a slab of beef.

He suddenly pressed his cheek on Gunther's pecs, nuzzling eyes closed against their firm yet bouncy feel, and wrapped his long arms around his midriff. "Hug me, please, as hard as you can," he murmured softly.

Despite his earlier words Gunther felt intensely weirded out by the sensation, and being so intimate with another guy while Vincent was fighting for his life felt like the worst kind of betrayal to him. At first he wanted to tear himself off Martin and punch him as hard as he could, but then he started rationalizing his situation to himself. The borzoi wasn't interested in him, he was interested in his body. It didn't mean anything so it wasn't cheating. He was doing a good thing to help his friend. After a false start Gunther's arms rose, and closed themselves around Martin to hug him.

The borzoi felt rail thin and light, and pulling him tightly against Gunther's chest elicited a moan of pleasure from him. His hands wandered across the vast expanse of Gunther's back, feeling up the hills and valleys of his musculature, and Gunther could feel a hardness starting to press hotly against his inner thigh where the borzoi's crotch touched his.

"Mm, I want you to hold me like this forever," Martin spoke with a dreamy haze in his eyes, and lifted his head so his long snout nuzzled against his chest and neck. "Would you do that for me?"

"Uh, my legs would get tired eventually," Gunther made a weak attempt at a chuckle. He was intensely aware of the borzoi's spindly limbs wrapped close around his body, and it made a pang of guilt constrict his chest.

"Then we do it for as long as you can stand," Martin sighed and slid his hands in Gunther's armpits to warm them up. They were cold and made Gunther's skin crawl a little, and they soaked up his body heat greedily.

Gunther kept his own hands modestly above Martin's belt line, and the borzoi seemed to be content with it for now. He could feel Martin's belt buckle pressing into his sheath, the cold lump of metal pushing into his slack cock inside as Martin moved his hips and made little satisfied sighs. Eventually he loosened his grip on the rottweiler and looked up into his eyes.

"You're warmer than any blanket I've ever had. Let's take this to the bedroom, I want to be crushed under your weight."

He detached from Gunther and took him by the hand, tugging at the much bigger male to make him follow. Feeling uneasy he did not budge at first, but Martin's insistence made him take the first steps towards the fate that would wait for him in that pleasantly furnished, tidy little room.

They had barely stepped inside when Martin was already stripping off, pulling his shirt over his head and unbuckling his belt to step out of his slacks. He turned around as if to present himself to Gunther, and then fell back on the bed with his arms extended. The fluffy mattress and duvet caught him with a soft whump, and he laid back giving Gunther a knowing look.

The borzoi was lean enough to look almost malnourished, his ribs showing through the skin on his chest and his long, elegant limbs having little muscle or fat on them. His fur was long and flowing, elegant in its white color and it had a sheen like pristine snow. Long locks of chest fluff cascaded from his clavicles and along the midline of his body, running over his shallow belly and all the way to between his thighs. His canine erection was jutting out long and proud, a bright red staff with a pointed tip and a modest knot at its base. His darker colored balls were similarly lined with a ruff of white hair.

"Come, let me help you with that," he gave a look at Gunther's sheath and his still flaccid cock, and got up on his knees on the bed and gave him a calling gesture as if to a pet.

Gunther cleared his throat and then did what was told, standing next to the bed but looked aside giving Martin only a half glance. Martin closed his fingers around his sheath and gave it a squeeze a little too hard, but relented when a whimper escaped Gunther's lips. He started stroking his meat with a steady, persistent pace, licking his lips as he waited for his prize to present itself among the folds of that loose skin. Gunther, however, stayed limp despite the stimulation which made Martin frown.

"What's wrong? Do you prefer those weird cocks felines have now? I could get an operation done if that's what you like..."

"No, no, it's not you!" Gunther shook his head and lifted his hands defensively. "It's just, uh, I'm feeling nervous is all."

Martin stopped and looked at him for a moment, then slipped off the bed and brushed past Gunther to rummage around in a nightstand. When he returned he took Gunther's hand in his and pressed a small, triangular pill on his palm.

"What's this?" Gunther looked at it suspiciously.

"It's just a little pick me up, is all. It should do the job," Martin said with a wry smile and pressed his naked body against Gunther's again.

He locked his leg around Gunther's, rubbing his thigh against his, and gave his nipples and pecs little kisses. Gunther hesitated, but when Martin dropped his hand to stroke his shaft again he shut his eyes and slammed his hand on his mouth to swallow the pill in a single gulp.

It took some time for the drug to take effect, during which Martin nibbled lovingly at the corner of Gunther's mouth and whispered little coos of adoration into his ear. He had dreamed about having his own stud for so long, he sighed, and tonight the dream was coming true. Gunther listened silently while Martin toyed with his privates, coaxing his flaccid cock out of its sheath before letting it slide back inside its hairy hideout like a shy animal. Eventually the chemicals began to do their work and to Martin's obvious delight Gunther's manhood stiffened and grew to a healthy length and girth.

"Mmmhh... I've never seen a cock so perfect... I want it inside of me," the borzoi liked his lips.

"What, you really sure about that?" Gunther said, looking in turn at Martin and at his turgid member, "I could hurt you."

"Don't worry," Martin grinned, "I've been... practicing."

He gave Gunther another kiss and produced a bottle of strawberry-flavored lubricant from under his pillow. After squeezing a generous glob of the gooey liquid into his palm Martin began to work his hand up and down Gunther's shaft. At first the cold contact of the lube on his sensitive skin made Gunther gasp internally but the vigorous friction quickly made the chilly feeling disappear. Gunther's dick was stiff and shiny when Martin let go of it. "Now that's just perfect," he said and gently pushed the rottweiler backwards onto the bed until he lay on his back, his swollen cock resting on his stomach and twitching seemingly of its own accord. With a huge grin on his long face, Martin positioned himself above him, straddling his body.

"Your turn to lube me up now," he said and pressed the bottle into the bigger man's hand.

Gunther took the bottle but fumbled with it indecisively for a moment. During his lovemaking with Vincent the cat had taken care of the practical details, so that the only thing Gunther had to do was to slide himself into his partner. He poured a generous amount of lube onto his index and middle finger, swearing under his breath when half of it dripped on his belly, and reached out between Martin's spread legs. He wasn't sure he wanted his fingers to go there, under the borzoi's tail, but Martin looked like he kept himself clean. He prodded the area behind Martin's balls until he sensed the soft, hairless flesh of his anus and began to work his way inside the hot cavity. Martin shivered a bit when the first finger went in, and let out a small whimper when the second, and thicker, digit followed, but his eyes were all happiness and anticipation, so Gunther withdrew his hand, applied more lube and went back to work, stretching Martin's tailhole and lathering it with slippery goo. This went on for some time until the panting borzoi interrupted Gunther. "Enough, I can't wait much longer..." he said and grabbed the rock-hard cock and started to guide its tip into his ass.

Gunther's eyes went wide as Martin impaled himself on his member until he was knot-deep inside of him. Only Gunther's apple-sized knot gave him pause, and the thin dog growled and bared his teeth as he pushed himself to his physical limits. A pang of fear struck Gunther, and he was about to forcibly put an end to the act to prevent his partner from injuring himself when Martin let out a sharp yelp and took his knot with an almost audible plop.

Given the size difference between the two males it seemed almost impossible that Martin's body could accomodate a cock that was almost as thick as his own wrist. Yet by some miracle the borzoi had managed to swallow Gunther's manhood whole, and his face was ecstatic. He remained motionless and panting for several long seconds, as if overwhelmed by the mixture of temporary pain and sense of fullness, but as soon as he had gathered his wits he began to ride Gunther like a man breaking a wild stallion. The bed rocked and the raspy sound of furred skin against furred skin filled the air. Most of the drive came from Martin's side, Gunther being content to lie on his back and let the borzoi use his cock like a dildo. Still, the sensation was not physically unpleasant. Martin's bony limbs and buttocks lacked the feeling of round muscular flesh of Vincent's ass but he was tight and warm, so much in fact that Gunther saw that his cock made a visible bulge on his thin belly despite the long flowing hair that covered it. He absurdly wondered if there would be enough room inside Martin for his seed to flow.

He did not have to wait long. After a few minutes the mechanical simulation of Martin's sphincter on his knot produced its predictable results and Gunther felt an orgasm building up inside his loins.

"Fuck... I'm going to cum..." he grunted.

"Do it! Cum inside of me..." Martin panted.

With a loud growl Gunther closed his eyes and blew his load inside Martin. He counted three long shots of cum, each accompanied by a jolt of pleasure, and then something warm and wet hit him on the snout. He opened his eyes and saw Martin's long, thin cock twitch madly and spurt clear watery seed all over his chest and neck. The borzoi himself looked to the ceiling in euphoria, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

"Shit," Gunther said gruffly and wiped his nose, "What's wrong with you? At least fucking warn me or something..."

He immediately regretted his words but Martin just looked at him smiling and panting.

They remained tied for a quarter of an hour, Martin first sitting atop Gunther and then the two of them carefully repositioning so that the rottweiler could hold the smaller dog from behind in a bear hug. Martin made it last as long as possible but eventually Gunther's knot shrank and after a last kiss on the neck he withdrew himself, causing a trickle of lukewarm canine seed to seep out of Martin's ass and making his long fur all tangled and sticky.

"Hope I didn't disappoint," Gunther crossed his arms behind his head and stretched on the mattress. His tool was still half-way out of its sheath, and looking at it he could hardly believe that Martin had managed to fit all of it inside him.

"That was fantastic. It's so much better when it's real..." Martin glowed.

"What? Don't tell me I popped your cherry?"

"Not exactly, but it's the first time I'm not paying for it. Well, not directly at least."

"Good stuff. You're a pretty wild fuck too," Gunther said and making as if to get up.

Martin reached out and grabbed his shoulder. "Hey, where do you think you're going?"

"Uh, to take a shower?" Gunther raised an eyebrow.

"Oh I don't think so..." Martin chuckled. Before Gunther could say a word he scampered on all fours to the nightstand, picked another pill and swallowed it.

"I've always wanted to fuck a big dude in the ass," he grinned sheepishly.

Gunther looked puzzled, but then understood what he meant. "Oh! I don't do butt stuff, sorry," he said and felt relieved that he had cleared their misunderstanding.

"No, that's not what you meant to say." Martin leaned on him adoringly and booped his snout with his fingertip.

"Uh I didn't?" Gunther frowned.

"No. What you meant to say was that you don't usually do butt stuff..." Martin caressed his belly fur with his slender fingers and smiled. "...but you're willing to make an exception to humor your good friend Martin."

"Ahh I don't think that's a good idea, having another guy back there, I mean what if it hurts-" Gunther protested and felt his heart suddenly beat faster with a rush of adrenaline.

He had risen to a half sitting position, but Martin crawled on top of him, resting his hands on his shoulders lazily and looked down on him until he stopped resisting and eased back down on the bed. Gunther laid under him feeling tense, while Martin eyed him with an amused look.

"Relax. It's okay, I'm not exactly a guy. I just happen to have a dick." He gave Gunther's lips a reassuring kiss. "Besides mine is cute and small, unlike your brute of a fuck meat. You'll hardly feel a thing."

"I'm not sure I wanna..." Gunther made a whining growl, but Martin shushed him.

"Don't pussy out now," he said with an impatient voice. "You're a big, tough guy, you can handle it. I promise it'll feel amazing."

"Wait, first you said that it'll feel like nothing, which one is it? I think we should think it through-"

Martin planted his palm on Gunther's mouth and curled his fingers around his snout, and tutted at him.

"Shut it. You're starting to make me upset, and that's not something we want, do we?" His voice was quiet and amicable, but there was an edge of steel to it.

Gunther shook his head slightly, and Martin continued. "You owe me for saving your boyfriend. And you owe me even more for being a complete fuckhead to me all these years, when you thought you could trample over me without repercussions. Think about that for a moment."

Gunther tried not to look directly at him, staying silent but with his nostrils flaring, and Martin let go of his snout and patted him on the cheek.

"Now be a good boy and roll over."

--

Afterwards Gunther was laying on the bed and listened to the sounds of running water coming from the shower. He had become tangled up in the sweaty sheets, but he did not feel like shaking himself free. He wanted to feel something wrapping around him to comfort him. Martin had been considerate enough to take it slowly and let him get used to the sensation of that long, slender member of his invading his body. It had felt strange, and even pleasurable to some degree, yet even after climaxing Gunther felt mainly used.

He rested his arm on his forehead, covering his eyes. Feeling used was better than feeling ashamed, though. He wasn't cheating on Vincent because he had no say in the matter, he thought. He was being used, so he would just let it happen and try not feel guilty about it. Vincent would surely understand.

There was a click and Gunther saw Martin standing in the doorway, fur still damp and wearing a terry cloth towel wrapped under his armpits. He looked at Gunther with a casual expression while untangling his hair with his fingers.

"Aren't you taking a shower?"

Gunther turned away on his side. "...Nah."

"Suit yourself. I like them musky truth to be told."

He padded across the floor, dropping his towel as he walked, and got on the bed to hug Gunther from behind.

"I've always wanted a big guy of my own. And now I have you." He kissed Gunther behind his ear. "You know that I love you."

Gunther closed his eyes and stayed still. "Thanks."

Martin's spindly arms and legs curled around him as the borzoi cuddled him affectionately as if he was a big teddy bear. "You should be thankful to me. Remember that the next time you meet Vincent," Martin whispered. "You'd have nothing without me."

"I know," Gunther said and tried to sleep despite Martin's affectionate hands keeping him awake.

--

The smell of grilled bacon titillated Gunther's nostrils and the bright morning sunshine slipped through his drowsy eyelids. His brain vaguely perceived that it was already late in the morning so he reached out to his side to wake Vincent up but instead of the cat's supple body his groping hand only felt the empty roughness of crumpled bedsheets. The dog looked about him in half-awake confusion until his eyes fell on an empty packet of cigarettes on the nightstand. Vincent didn't smoke menthol-flavored cigarettes, Martin did.

Gunther allowed his head to fall back on the pillow and ran a hand over his face and down his nose. The borzoi was not in bed, but the sizzling sound and clatter of dishes that came from the kitchen left little doubt as to where he had gone. "What a considerate host," Gunther sighed. Still, the bacon smelled really good, and his stomach was emerging from slumber too.

Gunther let out a cavernous yawn, scratched his belly and by a supreme effort of will dragged himself out of bed. Martin emerged from the kitchen just as Gunther stepped into the living room. He was wearing blue pajamas with white florals and a pair of slippers, and his hand held a plate with a generous serving of scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages.

"Morning morning, my lovely! I'd tell you to put something on but I don't actually want you to..." he smiled and nodded towards Gunther's naked bits.

"I'm starting to think it wasn't a coincidence that you forgot to remind me to buy pajamas yesterday," Gunther replied and sat at the table where a teapot of hot water and a mug awaited him.

"How devilish of me. But enough of that, you should eat," Martin chuckled and put the plate on the table.

Gunther wolfed down his eggs and bacon while Martin sat in front of him and breakfasted on coffee and cigarettes. Throughout the meal Martin did not take his eyes off Gunther, as if the sight of the well-built man was all the sustenance his own body needed. The conspicuous ogling bothered Gunther at first, and he insistently returned Martin's gaze a few times, but the borzoi did not take the hint and in the end Gunther shrugged it off and focused on his food.

"Did you hear back from the clinic?" he asked while mopping up his eggs with a piece of toast.

"Mmh? Not yet, but knowing Jimmy no news is good news."

"Vincent looked really weak yesterday."

"I'm sure he's getting better. Do you want to watch some TV before getting dressed?" Martin mused while twirling his long flowing hair around his finger.

"Listen," Gunther said and pushed his plate aside, "This is all very fun but Vincent doesn't have much time. The doctor said he needs to be operated on as soon as possible."

Gunther's fork fell off the table and hit the hardwood floor. The sound seemed to jolt the borzoi from his dreamy world. He blinked and looked at Gunther as if noticing his annoyed expression for the first time. After a few seconds of silence he sighed and took a sip of his coffee, but the mug was empty so he set it down on the table.

"Alright, I get it, you're anxious. Who wouldn't be in your situation?" he said and lit another cigarette, "But don't worry, I haven't forgotten my side of our little deal. I made some calls this morning and I think I have enough cash at hand to convince Jimmy to start working."

He drummed his fingers on the table and exhaled a long line of blue smoke. "I'll tell you what, why don't you go and visit him while I arrange the last details? That will put your mind at ease. But be sure to be back before dinner, I need you to give me a personal training session..." he grinned and put out his cigarette.

--

Gunther shivered as he exited the building and started walking towards the nearest station. It was close to lunchtime, and the streets were crowded but after twenty-four hours in Martin's company it felt good to be surrounded by thousands of strangers who gave him no more than an indifferent passing glance. Still, he thought as he watched station after station flick past through the carriage's dirty window, there were worse ways to earn money. "At least I didn't have to kill someone for it," he reflected sarcastically.

It took several pushes of the call button before the interphone cracked to life. To Gunther's surprise it was a woman's voice that asked him to identify himself. The dog tensed, instinct putting him in a vigilant stance, but Martin must have called the clinic to inform them of his visit because the question was quickly followed by a "Oh, it's you. Please come in," and the sound of the heavy door unlocking.

The mystery of the female voice was soon solved. Behind the reception's desk stood a thin middle-aged cat lady who looked at him from behind a pair of thick tortoise-shell glasses. She was of indeterminate breed, part siamese, part tabby and part something that may or may not have been feline. "Mr. Gunther I presume? The doctor is waiting for you in the next room," she said and went back to typing on her laptop.

"Where's Vincent?" Gunther immediately asked when he entered Jimmy's office.

"Resting," the goat said, "He's now out of danger but still weak. Martin called me earlier and will wire me enough money to get the ball rolling on the surgery. I estimate it will take..."

The interphone on his desk buzzed and a red light flashed on the device. Jimmy pressed the button and the secretary's voice rang through the speaker.

"Doctor, there's a lady at the door. She wants to see you immediately."

"Well, tell her that unless it's urgent I am booked for the day."

There was a brief silence, and when the secretary spoke again the anxiety in her voice was audible.

"She says she is going to blast the door open if I don't let her in."

A cold feeling flushed down into the pit of Gunther's stomach.

Jimmy clasped his mouth, weighing his options, but then turned the gesture into a chin scratch.

"All right. We're doing this," he muttered to himself and straightened his doctor's coat, then rolled up his sleeves. He fished out a key fob from his pocket and tossed it to Gunther. "She's after Vincent. Wheel him into the freight elevator and take him below the bottom floor. That's my panic room." He nodded at the fob resting on Gunther's cupped palms. "Right now you're the only person who can access it. Just sit still and wait until this blows over."

"What if something goes wrong with Vincent?" Gunther asked nervously as he pocketed the fob.

"As I said, even I can't come in there so you're on your own. Try not to get him riled up and it'll be fine."

With that the goat got up and left for the reception room in haste, before his clinic would suffer structural damage, leaving Gunther alone in the office. He hesitated for a moment, then cursed under his breath and walked with brisk steps to the ward where Vincent was resting.

The panther was dozing lightly in his bed but woke up when Gunther barrelled in. He was cleaned up and nestled between pristine white pillows and blankets, but his reduced state gave Gunther a start when he saw him. The stump of his missing left arm was tied up with neat bandages, but even though his body was covered Gunther could see that there was...less of it remaining than previously.

"What's going on?" Vincent said with a tired voice, his speech slurred slightly by painkillers.

"Nothing. We're just moving you."

"Liar." Vincent lifted his head from the pillow. "Give me a gun."

"No." Gunther kicked the locks on the bed's wheels with his foot and swung it around, then pushed it out of the door.

"I'm going down fighting!" Vincent said hoarsely. "Do you hear me?"

Gunther was not in a mood for argument and did not reply. He wheeled Vincent's bed through the pastel green corridors and towards the elevator at the other end of the ward. Vincent hissed angry commands at him but to no avail. His words had no effect on the rottweiler's stony expression borne out of fear and tension, and soon he slumped back on the bed exhausted.

They came to a stop in front of the elevator's double doors and Gunther hammered the call button anxiously. Somewhere from the floor below he could hear loud shouting and then a crash, which prompted him to mash all of the buttons he could see.

"Come on, come on..." he spoke between gritted teeth. "What's taking so long!"

The lights on the display changed sluggishly as the elevator groaned and crawled upwards. Gunther could feel his neck hair bristling up, as if his body knew that there was a predator stalking them in the building, and every time he glanced at the other end of the corridor he expected to see Janice clear the corner bearing a weapon to finish the job.

"You're a fucker," Vincent said between half closed eyelids. "Hauling me around like a piece of meat."

"I'm saving us. Now shush, we need to be quiet." Gunther stepped back and forth, looking for cover to hide behind and finding none at their end of the corridor.

The elevator light stopped two floors from them for no reason, and refused to budge. There was more yelling, now closer to them, a harsh reptilian baritone followed by Jimmy's higher pitch protestations. A loud bang rang through the building as a door was slammed open, followed by another and another.

"You don't get to tell me what to do," Vincent said wearily. "Leave. I'll face her alone."

"Shut it," Gunther snapped at him and slammed at the elevator door with his palm. As if on cue the light started rising again.

There was a crash, and the arguing voices gained an echo as they moved into a stairwell, approaching their floor rapidly. A fire exit door was flung open with a bang, and the stomping of heavy biker boots clomped on the linoleum tiling approaching the corner at the end of the corridor. The elevator made a little ding, and its metal doors started to part with clumsy, mechanical grace.

Gunther grasped them, slipping his fingers in the crack and pulled as hard as he could, forcing them wide open against the stiff resistance from complaining hydraulics, then slipped in the dingy elevator and pulled Vincent's bed in a moment before Janice came into view.

"Hey, who's going there?" she made a throaty call and hastened her pace to reach the elevator before the doors would close.

Gunther was not a praying man, but when he pressed the key fob against the elevator panel he cursed every god he could think of. The doors made a whirring sound and started moving with a jerk, stopping but then recovered from their earlier insult and rolled shut before the lizard could see the two of them. When he felt the elevator cage jolt and lurch downwards Gunther leaned against its dented metal wall and breathed for the first time in what felt like minutes. He gulped and looked at Vincent, but the cat had closed his eyes and seemed to rest in protest.

The silent treatment suited Gunther well. He was not in a talking mood.

As Jimmy had said the elevator kept plunging well past the ground floor, ever downwards into the bowels of the earth. Gunther could hear the cables groaning and straining, then the entire cage shuddering with a rusty noise as it entered into a rarely traveled part of the shaft. After a minute or two it started to slow, then came to a half hearted stop. The doors opened slowly, revealing a dim room with bare concrete walls that was not quite aligned with the cage. Gunther had to pull the bed up an inch to get into what looked like an oversight forgotten when the buildings were made, a space left over on the architect's plans with no purpose other than to serve as a connection between basements, with massive ventilation ducts and bundles of cabling drooping from the ceiling that forced Gunther to walk around in a crouched stance. It was lit by the yellowish light of dusty fixtures on the walls, weary after decades of unseen service. On one wall were shelves stocked with field rations, and on the other, behind a screen, a chemical toilet. A drab green cot was set up for sleeping, next to a salvaged couch and stacks after stacks of glossy, dog eared magazines too old even for reception room use. The air was musty and smelled of cold gravel, and every now and then a rattling vibrated through the walls as some underground machinery spun to life.

Gunther sat on the couch and sighed, resting his elbows on his knees. He pressed his forehead against his knuckles and tried to focus on breathing, forcing out the tension from his muscles and pit of his stomach. For a good while both of them were silent, but then Vincent craned his head towards Gunther. His left side was scarred by deep shrapnel grooves, but his eyes shone bright golden yellow in the subterranean dusk.

"My cock still works, you know?" he said with a hoarse, chemical dulled voice.

"What?" Gunther was taken aback. He felt that he was suddenly part of a conversation that no one had started.

"It's true, I got an erection last night."

"Vincent, now's not the time."

But Vincent did not relent. "Do you still want me?" he asked, his cadence a bit too quick to sound casual.

Gunther bit his lip. He wanted to say yes. He had sacrificed a lot for Vincent's sake, and turning away from him would make it all for nothing. But it hurt. Deep inside it hurt so much.

"It is a simple yes or no question," Vincent insisted. He lifted his torn apart arm. "The doc prepped me for my operation. He trimmed off all the flesh that was no longer usable." He started to get agitated, and tried to prop himself up on his elbows. "Does anything in this crippled body still turn you on? Yes or no!?"

"Of course it does," was the instinctive answer that formed on Gunther's tongue. But the sentence never left his lips. It didn't take an expert in psychology to guess what Vincent would respond to the reassuring words - "How the fuck would you know? You didn't even look."

That was a fair point, he thought. It was one thing to wrench Vincent from the flames of the hotel in an adrenaline-fueled rush, or to move heaven and earth to ensure he received the life-saving care he needed. It was quite another to picture himself sharing his life with a heavily diminished man, day after day, for whatever time they both had left in this world. He immediately felt a pang of guilt for allowing such a selfish thought to cross his mind but the box was now open. He reflected upon what had attracted him to Vincent. There was his personality of course, that mixture of smugness and insolence which had both infuriated and fascinated the rottweiler, but his supple physique and sexual prowess had played no small part in their relationship. What would be left of it after the operation? Would they still be able to hit the gym together? Would they still fuck on the kitchen table when the mood struck them?

"Gunther," came the raspy, tired voice, "Stop thinking of a lie to make me feel better. I already told you, you don't owe me shit." Pain was increasingly seeping through Vincent's body language despite the heavy doses of medication he had received. Gunther made a gesture to hush him but the panther responded with a sound between a groan and a snarl.

"I want your love. I do not want your pity. Now come take a look and tell me the truth."

There was no talking out of it. Gunther rose from the couch, and when he grabbed the corner of the blanket he realized that he was most afraid of what his own reaction would be. He took a deep breath and lifted the sheet off Vincent's body.

Vincent must have been sitting parallel to the window in their hotel room when the drone exploded, as the damage was almost entirely concentrated on his left side. Bandages covered some of the wounds but the carnage was plain to see. Burning shrapnel had ripped chunks of flesh and skin from his chest and abdomen, ruining his pectoral and in some places exposing his ribs. The calf and thigh of his left leg were also gashed to the bone, and they looked like they had suffered permanent damage. Gunther felt as if he was looking at an anatomical picture in a medical textbook, each exposed muscle or vein clearly visible under a thick layer of translucent, jelly-like protective gel.

"So...?" Vincent managed to utter after several seconds of Gunther just gaping at the gruesome spectacle.

The dog raised his eyes from Vincent's body and their gazes crossed in the darkness. Then a thin smile played across Gunther's lips.

"Well, that big fat mouth of yours is still working fine, and your cock and balls didn't get blown off. So on balance I'd say that ninety percent of the Vincent I know is still there."

Vincent stared at him for a moment and then began to shake with pained laughter.

"That really sums it, heh? If we don't find the money for prosthetics maybe the doc could put my head in a vat and my dick in another. That would be good enough."

His laughter turned into a cough, and Gunther felt a bolt of anguish. He leaned over the panther and delicately placed his right hand behind his head in an attempt at comfort, his fingers combining with Vincent's dark fur. It seemed to work, and after a while the cough stopped and Vincent calmed down.

"You look like you tried to play hide-and-seek inside a wood chipper. It's not pretty and the recovery is going to be long and painful, there's no point denying that," Gunther said softly. "But your head is still in one piece, your spine isn't broken and what is gone can be replaced. Hell, it will be a good opportunity to implant subdermal armor and muscle enhancements. You'll be even stronger than before."

"That's the kind of sweet bullshit I needed." Vincent's smile was weak but there was a spark in his eye.

"And I swear I'll fucking skin that bitch alive if she tries to hurt you again."

The mention of the reptilian killer brought a draught of cold air into the room. Vincent's respiration slowed down and he let his head rest in Gunther's palm. "Janice is fucking ruthless in normal times, but with me it's personal. I was always better than her. We both got the job done but with her there was always collateral damage, always a big mess to clean up. So they gave me the most delicate, and best-paying jobs. She began to hate me for that."

Gunther shivered. He had almost forgotten the killer lurking in the building, and now even the thought that several dozen meters of concrete and earth separated them was meager reassurance. One of the vents rattled and he couldn't help picturing a predator crawling inside the pipes, its squamous body bending in ways that would be utterly impossible to a mammal.

"You think she's still there?" he whispered.

"Probably." Vincent shut his eyes and looked like he was about to take a nap. "She's relentless like that. Too dumb to quit."

"Doc said that I have the only key to this place." Gunther stopped to think for a moment. "From outside you couldn't even guess that the elevator goes below ground level."

"Then we just have to amuse ourselves somehow while we wait." Vincent's restful expression turned into a smirk. "I want her to search for a long time, and get more and more frustrated when she finds jack shit. Serves her right for trying to blow me up."

Gunther wished that he could share Vincent's optimism, but did not say anything. Instead he focused on cradling Vincent's head and stroking him gently, and after a while he felt himself calming down a little.

"Do you think she'll make Doc talk?" he asked with a hushed voice, not wanting to summon Janice by mentioning her by name.

"You tell me, I hardly know the man. He's had his fingers in my ass yet we're not even on a first name basis. Funny that."

Gunther thought about it and shook his head. "Nah. He's stubborn. The type that doesn't take kindly to being pushed around."

"Good. Then it's settled." Vincent yawned, but it made him wince and turned into a drawn out hiss. He eased down gingerly and tugged the blanket over himself. "I'm going to shut my eyes for a moment. Hold the fort for me," he muttered.

Gunther let go of Vincent that he could rest, but not without petting the back of his hand for reassurance. He waited until he could hear Vincent snoozing softly, and then settled down on the dingy couch with arms outstretched and head craned back. It had a metal frame and thin, drab colored leather cushions, perfect for keeping customers uncomfortable in the waiting room, and at that moment it matched his mood. He had not lied about wanting to be with Vincent, but he also knew that he couldn't just abandon him and feel good about himself. He was not sure whether he felt devotion or guilt towards him, and that ate him up from inside. Guilt for what! Vincent was at fault, not him. Would it feel like a weight was lifted off his chest if Vincent was dead? Probably not. For starters then he'd be locked up with a corpse, he thought to himself glumly.

He sighed. Having emotions gave him indigestion. Maybe Jimmy could give him something to numb his feelings? To be neither happy nor unhappy, but just existing without thinking like he used to.

"What I'm going to do with you, you stupid cat?" he asked with a quiet, resigned voice while staring at the ceiling.

As if on cue Vincent shifted in his sleep and let out a tiny fart, a happy little squeal that made the surprised Gunther snort and burst into a fit of giggles. He clasped his muzzle with both hands as he tried not to wake up Vincent, tears rolling from his eyes as the sheer absurdity of his situation drove him into hysterical, wheezy laughter. The fit left his eyes red and puffy, cheeks damp and belly sore, but a warm glow spread through his body as knots of anxiety started to unravel. He got up to look over peacefully sleeping Vincent.

"You are so, so incredibly lucky that I'm so incredibly dumb," he whispered softly, "and so incredibly in love with you."

He leaned in and kissed his forehead gently.