Loyalty
Author's Note: the following is a work of furry fiction. As such, it may contain content not suitable for some readers. If this kind of stuff squicks you, then go away. Otherwise, read and enjoy.
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Loyalty ©MMVII Whyte Yoté
They were in bed again. It was Saturday afternoon, after all, and most Saturday afternoons found Andrew and his wife alone, while Kyle was out with friends. Except this Saturday, Kyle was with his grandparents and they had just come back from a funeral on a day that seemed to have been created just for that purpose. And as he crouched over Cindi and thrust with all the determination of a man possessed, he was...but his mind was elsewhere.
The rain had not abated much, if at all, and what grey light managed to ooze through the bedroom window was scattered into a pool-like lattice by the windblown drops against it. Cindi's body cut a lithe form, only half of it visible before it fell to complete shadow closer to the wall. Her head was propped on pillows; her face was looking at him with an expression only a husband could know.
Something's on your mind, Andy, and it's not sex. That's what the look said.
Andrew scowled and looked towards the day outside. At least the gunshots and shouting had stopped with the arrival of the rain. Crime didn't go down as much as it went elsewhere, though. The mastiff increased his grip on his wife's thighs, feeling her clench around him, and he was reminded that he was still alive, at least in body. His mind was a muddled mess of anger and helplessness and sorrow all rolled up into a boiling mass that had sat in the pit of his stomach, so heavy he'd refused an invitation to lunch after the service. They had instead gone straight home, where, sensing his melancholy, Cindy had kissed him...and now, here they were.
He drew his attention back to his wife, and her gently moving body, moved by his own, languidly enjoying herself. Her chin looked fatter from this angle, but for a middle-aged woman she was remarkably fit. She looked up at him, her eyes half-lidded but sparkly with intellingence, and smiled. She was good like that. She brought him over like that, but instead of holding back as he did when Kyle was home, Andrew bellowed out and fell still, locked in place and dancing on tiptoe.
"You miss him, don't you?" Cindi asked, petting Andrew's head while he lay atop her, still riding the ebb of climax. It was an obvious question, but she was getting him to talk, and that was better than his usual holding it in until it exploded in one form or another.
"What do you think?" the mastiff replied into her navel. "Yeah, I'll get over it. I have to, if I want to keep my job and my paychecks. But hell, he was in with everyone else!" Cindi switched to his ears, and that felt great.
"But he told you he was getting kickbacks from his higher-ups, Andy. If he'd quit the protection...barring the price on his head...he would have gotten fired anyway."
"Better fired than killed," growled Andrew, testing to pull out. Nope, still too hard. "Though I wouldn't put it past some of those fuckers to do it for shits and giggles." He barely suppressed a growl after that one.
Cindi exhaled rapidly. The big canine knew it was coming; he'd crossed the line once again before even having seen it. "You know it's bad when your husband talks about work when you're tied with him." He knew she was only playing to change the subject, and he knew he'd better if he wanted to remain on her good side for what remained of their Saturday.
"I'm sorry, hon. I used to be able to leave work at work. The job used to mean more than just bullying around punk kids in the streets and taking drug money for tax breaks and shit. It's...it's all just bullshit, is what it is." He felt his knot slide free, and took the opportunity to stand, grabbing for a nearby towel.
Cindi was behind him a moment later, with her paws around his waist, just tight enough to remind him that no amount of working out would ever be able to erase his slight lovehandles. "Thank you, Andy. That was wonderful."
"It was nothing," replied the mastiff. "You were the one who decided to kiss me."
"Kissing doesn't necessarily mean sex."
"How long, exactly, have we been married?"
Cindi giggled and took the towel from her husband, cleaning him off in the waning light while he grabbed a smoke and match from the top of the dresser that had been their wedding present four years ago. He struck the tip, and Bill flashed into his vision for only a split second. His big, burly body in the desk chair that looked like it was leaking foam. The Yahtzee cup full of pencils he kept perfectly sharpened every day. The easy way with which he had worked with his fellow officers...at least, to their faces.
The funeral had been closed-casket, and he was glad. He wanted to remember his boss like that, at their last meeting. But what good had it done to give up the rotten cops in the department? Bill was dead, and nothing had changed.
Andrew took a good, long drag and burned the cigarette halfway to the filter. Cindi took it from his fingers with long, delicate claws and drug the rest of it. "You better go get Kyle," she said. "Mom and Dad can only stand so much of him before they remember why they were so eager to get me off to college." She fanned at the air; they'd kept Kyle from knowing about the cigs his whole life, and they weren't about to let him find out.
Andrew was already dressing. "Too bad my parents live on the other side of the country. They don't get to see Kyle half as much as yours do."
"There isn't much demand for police out in rural Utah, Andy," Cindy said, her ears down a bit. "Even if there were an opening, it wouldn't pay enough."
"At least they don't have the problems we do here. No murders, no rapes, no cartels, no Yakuza..." He felt, more than saw, his wife's stare burning into the back of his head, and stopped himself, turning around. "I'm sorry, okay?" His paws were out, pads up, then he seemed to collapse a bit. "I...I'm going for a drive first, okay? I need to think."
"I know you do. I'm sorry to be a nag. It's hard."
"Too hard." Andrew dug into a dish by the door, finding his keys, wallet and cell phone, putting each in its respective pocket before turning around into Cindy's arms. The woman really had a thing for him; she had for six years now. God knew why she was still around after all the shit he put the family through. Maybe it was the bread he put on the table. Probably it was her own obstinate streak. Maybe it was a little of both.
"I love you, Andy." And, as he leaned in to nuzzle her shoulder, he could smell her perfume, mixed with her gentle mastiff scent, and the scent of sex lingered about everywhere. She stayed around for this.
"Love you," he replied, and walked out of the bedroom, juggling his keys in his pocket.
***
"Daddy!" The little pup jumped off the couch and was over to Andrew even before he could get a foot in the doorway, those little arms only able to get around one leg but damn if he couldn't hug the circulation out of you. Andrew skritched between his son's ears and smiled down at his wagging, stubby tail.
"Hey there, big guy. Did you have fun with Gramma and Grampa?" As if on cue, Cindi's parents came around the corner from the kitchen, and the scent of freshly-baked sugar cookies preceded them. Obviously Alice hadn't taken their advice about laying off the sweets and baked goods when Kyle came to visit; Andy swore his son was going to end up fat by the time he hit puberty.
"I warned her, but she baked 'em anyway," said Harold, who took Andrew's paw in a strong grip that belied his age. His sky blue track suit contrasted with Alice's traditional flowery dress, making him look a little like a young Jack La Lanne.
Andrew bent to pry his son from his leg and replied, "It's okay, as long as he doesn't pig out on 'em. You wanna grow up and be strong like Daddy, right?"
"Uh-huh," said the pup, "with muscles like you and so I can run fast and...and be a policeman and get the bad guys!"
"Not in this town," muttered the mastiff, looking at Cindi's folks with a thin smile. He turned again to Kyle. "Hold your horses there, one step at a time."
Alice said, "So nice to see you again, Andrew," with her kind, soft motherly disposition, and the mastiff accepted the hug she was offering. "How have you been?" She knew very well how he'd been, of course; it was the whole reason they were babysitting Kyle in the first place.
"Fine, just fine," he lied for the pup's sake, and Harold and Alice understood his true meaning. "Wish I could elaborate, but..."
"We know, Andy," Harold said. "Well, we know as much as we can. It's a hard thing to take, what happened to Bill. Just...if you ever need anything, you know you can come to us if you need to."
Andrew smiled as warmly as he could muster, trying to fight back the image of Bill's casket, etched into his memory, being lowered into the soaked ground, into four inches of dirty, muddy water in a ghetto cemetery in a ghetto city. "Cindi's good like that. I can count on her for psychotherapy, if not more. I'll get through."
As Kyle clawed onto his father's leg, getting restless, Harold said, "He was like a brother to you. I know you're a tough man, but I am your father-in-law. Don't hesitate to drop by if you want a beer or something." The something, in this case, being emotional help. Andrew chafed at the words, well-intentioned as they may have been. Harold was attempting to make up for Andrew's own father's estrangement, a fifteen-year affair that had taken a toll. Bill had filled some of that void, but now that he was gone (though Andrew was doing everything he could to block it out) it felt like losing Dad all over again.
"I'll have to take you up on that sometime. I appreciate the offer." He shook Harold's paw once more, bid them both goodnight, and took Kyle outside, waving back as they went. It wasn't until they were down the block and around the corner did the pup speak, as if they were out of range of his grandparents' hearing.
"Daddy, what happened to Uncle Bill?"
All the effort the mastiff had made, suddenly came crashing down on him, sending his heart into his stomach. He steadied his paws on the wheel, all the while staring straight ahead at the road, and swallowed. He didn't trust his voice not to waver, either in anger or anguish, but he had to answer his son or the pup would know his father was keeping something hidden.
"Dad?"
"Oh, something happened at work and Bill had to go away." Andrew braked for a light, and looked over at Kyle's face, bathed in bright red, one ear blinking orange from the Do Not Cross sign. He hoped, for his son's sake, he never had to explain things like crooked cops and blood money. He did hope, though, that Kyle would one day learn how this town worked, and never want to sully his paws in the business of law enforcement.
"Where did he go?" The pup was sitting still, one paw in his lap, the other fiddling with the door handle. God, but it was such an innocent question! It pained Andrew to have such dark thoughts in his head, such venom, and have to look at his son and lie directly to his face. He felt like an absolute fucking heel, but when you grow up you have to do some disgusting things to keep control over what your life's become.
The mastiff tapped the steering wheel, and pressed the pedal when the light changed. "He..." Andrew didn't know what to say. So badly he wanted to pull the car over, take Kyle in his arms and explain everything...to cry into his little neck, cry like the five-year-old he used to be, and let his son comfort him. But this was the real world, and he was supposed to be a real man, and far be it from him to show the slightest emotion. "Well, Kyle, he decided he didn't want to be a police guy anymore, so he just...went home."
It wasn't a complete lie, but he felt no better about a half-truth, but it was the best he could do. "Okay..." Kyle murmured, and he didn't sound convinced, but he'd heard the tone of his father's voice and knew not to ask anymore. He would just have to assume it was enough.
Andrew loosened his death-grip on the wheel, reached over and patted Kyle's thigh, resting it there, the warm softness of it reminding him there were still some good things worth living for.
***
"You would think somebody'd flown a plane into a building again," Andrew muttered to himself, the words flat and echoless in the car. But that was what it felt like, really and truly. And god damn if he couldn't take his paws off the steering wheel and just open the door.
They had said--the pundits and politicians and network talking heads--that the only way to defeat the terrorists was to just get out of bed and go to work the next day. That particular day had been a Wednesday, and the fact that it was the middle of the workweek may have been the strongest reason to do so. But today was Monday, the Monday after a funeral, and Sunday had held nothing but church and food and trying to watch football without thinking of Bill.
Andrew did not want to admit as much, but he felt oddly directionless. Awash in a sea of numbness, not quite lucid but enough to function through the day, he didn't want to be here but he didn't want to be anywhere else, either. The ambivalence bothered him. He belonged here at the precinct, and here was where he should go, but...why couldn't he just do it?
"Fuck this," the mastiff mumbled to himself, grabbed his attaché and heaved his bulk out the door before he could think twice. A gentle downtown breeze whipped his ears around his head, carrying with it the scent of oil, fur, and life as he knew it in Hierro.
And he felt better. Not absolved, but not paralyzed, either.
"Lieutenant! Mr. McCullogh!" Andrew flicked an ear before he turned to face the fresh-muzzled greenhorn from the suburbs, Vincent Biancini, who was doing his best to run down the precinct's steps on stubby ferret legs. His beady eyes glowed darkly; the mastiff wondered wondered for a moment how he could act so cheerful, then realized the kid and Bill had probably never met one another.
"Vinnie, right?"
"Yeah, y-yes sir," the ferret replied, brushing long, milk chocolate locks from his eyes. "Anyway, the Commissioner and I were in his office when he saw you out here in your car, and he sent me to get you because he wanted to talk to you."
"Old Olmstead wants to speak...with me," repeated Andrew, carefully, milling the words around in his head. Frederick Olmstead was a strong influence on the Force in this part of town. Responsible for spearheading the urban rejuvenation effort, among other community service projects, his officers, not to mention the public, looked up to him as an example of steadfast leadership and integrity.
Though Andrew's relationship with the polar bear wasn't buddy-buddy, it was hardly cold, but it got him to thinking why the Commissioner would want to speak with him, of all people. Andrew was also one of the few who knew Olmstead had his paws in the gangs' cookie jars just as deeply as anyone's. This was one of the rare cases where dallying with the "enemy" produced slightly more good than bad for the city, and those who knew enough to keep quiet for the sake of their jobs, did just that.
"Yes sir, he sent me out here to tell you so." The ferret was nodding as he talked; Andrew noted with mild repletion that Biancini was undoubtedly adulated to be speaking with such a high-ranking member of the precinct...and after being in Olmstead's office, of all places. The mastiff tried to think of a time when he would have acted the same, and found he couldn't remember--or didn't want to. Either way, Biancini was still flapping his jaw.
"You want I should let him know you're coming?"
"Nah, go back to your reports, or whatever it was you were up to. Thanks for the message, Vinnie."
"Welcome, sir. And, if I may be frank?" The mastiff nodded once. "I hope you take the position. We sure could use somebody like you to fill in for the Sarge." After a brief wave, the ferret jogged up the stairs and into the bowels of the austere building, most likely headed to a desk where he filled out forms all day. Andrew was glad those days were over.
The precinct HQ was just as stark and foreboding and sterile as anyone would think, following some indefinite stencil of publicly-funded infrastructure. Color was kept to a minimum, and while the new recruits complained about the lack thereof, after years of faithful service they came to understand the reasoning behind that. Color lends itself to emotions and extra empathy does not lend itself to good policework. As Andrew plodded through the ground floor's central hallway towards the west end, he was glad for the building's stoicism. Kept him from thinking too hard about anything other than his job. But its efficacy was beginning to fade lately.
The third door from the end of the west hallway had a plaque on it, reading F. OLMSTEAD, CAPTAIN in big sans-serif letters. This is where officers were made and broken in this precinct; this is where the big dogs played. Andrew had nothing to fear, though, as he had never had anything to fear from the polar bear. He was curious, though, and he couldn't help but feel the slight clamminess on his pawpads as he turned the worn satin doorknob and pushed.
FIN