Two(Working title)
#1 of Two
"Two"
I watched him die. It was beautiful. He was beautiful. I've seen it all before from his ears to his toes. Like he'd been dipped in a dark, luscious chocolate, and, oh, how I've imagined that before, but never just on the tips of his ears. His red, red fur that could burn the eyes if it weren't for the cold blue-green eyes like a diamond impossibly carved by glaciers. His cheeks were smooth and narrow, as though his body had been engineered rather than born: efficient and clean, piercing and poised... . His muzzle bore solemn dignity, the black pad of his nose forming the point of the deliciously curved snout that draped his creamy white chin. His whiskers were trimmed but functional and, in a way, teasing, though only I'd know it. His neck was slightly larger than one would expect, but it could easily be mistaken for excessive fur, red the nape of his neck parted for the white in front at his throat.
The white spread over his lithe, smooth chest, leaving his shoulders alone completely. His torso was like melted butter, his chest blending into his gorgeous abdomen. His off-white fur narrowed between his legs over his plump, smooth sheath and those full, hanging balls. His tail trailed behind him, low and steady as always, as though his toned rump wore it purposefully to trail the eyes down over his strong and equally steady legs. He had curiously dark knees, a dirty brown that matched his mid-calf which only darkened as it fell lower over his footpaws. His thighs were marred by a triad of bullet wounds scars, two in the left leg, one in the right, each in near-perfect circular ridges. His black footpaws ended in vicious claws that were matched only by those on his handpaws.
Nearly all of this, however, was presently covered. He wore a suit, a tux. It was finely tailored, perfectly black with a perfectly white shirt tucked in. He wore a black bowtie that would have been cute if his face wasn't worn so grimly above it. It was a slender cut, complimenting his curved frame. He was gorgeous. I wanted to cry, he was so beautiful.
He was marred with dirt. Shallow cuts marred his face, blood matting his fur in dots. He stood stolid and defiant. There was no roof to this room. It was wide enough to accommodate three of him ear to toe and twice as deep. The rest was impossible: a massive pit filled half the room, perfect in its corners that it was amazing it contained anything at all. It surged violently with vicious turquoise sea waters on his right. On his left the wall had been replaced with a whipping fire, fanned by the same terrible winds that battered the waters next to him. The wall behind him was being systematically destroyed, shrapnel and fire battered him with every explosion. He stood un-rattled but very much scathed. His clothes were torn and in some places pierced completely with wounds that clearly were more than skin deep.
I could see it in his eyes. He was going to die. More than that, he was going to die for a reason. That's why he could stand there, in the face of hell. He could stand and endure everything because of one reason.
He was going to die for me.
He hasn't died yet, of course. It was a dream. I didn't wake up from it, though. It was still occurring, only it was occurring in the future. I was sure of it, completely. I'd never tell him, though.
It'd been three months since I'd last seen him. I couldn't help but to throw myself at him when he opened the door.
"Foxie!" He purred, barely budging as I nearly tackled him.
"Rion..." My tail wagged behind me as I squeezed him tightly against me. I pressed my head into his chest, feeling his paws wrapped around me comfortingly. It worked well. I found myself on the verge of tears and a wide grin on my muzzle.
"I missed you, too, honey." His paws stroked over my ears and even outside his front door I couldn't help suppress the shudder than ran up my spine from my tail. Without looking I knew he was smiling down at me
"How's it been?"
"Gods, it's been lonely!" I chuckled softly and squeezed him tighter, and he returned the favor. That's when I started to cry. I felt apologetic almost instantly, wanting to say sorry for getting his shirt wet and in public, too. But he just held me tight.
"I was thinking..." He paused a moment, grabbing my attention. My ears fell to my skull. I knew his tones and this was the one that said "I'm hesitant to tell you but you have a right to hear this." He licked at my ears, coaxing them from my head. "Listen...I was thinking of...taking you away with me. Of quitting this all..."
My heart froze and dug my claws into his back. "What?" My fur bristled and I bared my teeth up at him. Then my heart skipped a beat in joy. "They'll kill you won't they?" But I would see him all the time.. I would be with him... His paw slid down my shoulder casually and brushed over the gun at my hip. His chest seemed to relax as I lay against it.
"Good boy. You haven't forgotten." His chest rumbled as he murred. "I'm not going to do it. I was just thinking, I said." He wrapped his paws behind me again and gave a quick squeeze before he guided me in front of him. "Let's get some tea."
"Three months and no kiss?" I protested. I looked him in the eye and grinned mischeviously, my favorite vulpine trait. His eyes stared back, the setting sun's light reflecting with a golden fire from his icy eyes. My fox leaned in, lowered his muzzle and gave me the softest kiss. It was as wonderful as it was teasing, just to feel those warm lips brush over my own. Oh, how I melt!
He smiles, pats my rear and prods me towards the sidewalk. "Time to go, love. They won't be open all evening, you know."
We began our walk down the cracked and empty streets. The buildings were a worn and almost uniform grey, like bunkers built in effigies of quaint suburban homes. It eerily reminded me of Pripyat, more so as most of these houses had been abandoned to the elements, as well.
Everything was state-run now. No more free markets. The economy had failed miserably so the state stepped in. Fortunately, it was a different state running the economy now than when it had failed. Unfortunately, state-run is state-run. It was a frightening prospect at first, but we grew used to it after some time. It was easy to forget it, too. Most of the change occurred transparently, but there were those details that would catch you off-guard now and again. For example, using a card was natural, but using the one from the state bank wasn't my natural choice at first since I hadn't immediately tossed out all my old bank cards. I also forgot to use my pawpad on the "signature" pad instead of scribbling my name. It was times like that I was glad my identity was fake. Of course, they knew that anyway.
Orion was kind enough to open the door for me. The coffeeshop was on a five-way corner in a fairly quiet (desolate?) part of town. The roads were quiet in part due to the gasoline rationing which the government promised was temporary. The store was as warm as it'd been before the change but it seemed a little emptier somehow. It was hard to place.
"Hullo! How are you two today?" The coyote at the counter was friendly as always. It was funny to think now that he was an employee of the government just like we were, me and Orion. "What can I get for ya?" He was as friendly as he was distant, his interest purely professional.
"Small tea," said the fox. I wasn't fond of his choice of straight black and instead opted for a larger green tea. And though we would have normally walked back with it, it was nice to sit down and catch up.
Only that was the hardest part. Most of the time we couldn't talk about our jobs, and it was completely natural to want to ask. We both knew what the other did. Mostly, anyway.... This week he spilled the beans, though. Every detail. I sometimes wished I could see him in action. By the sound of it, he was calm and direct--straight to the kill, no hesitation, no misdirection. He was the cool, efficient assassin. I was the sly, tricky one. But we'd never worked together. It was never part of our jobs to be at the same place.
It was a wolf this time. He wasn't big or particularly important on the surface, but his connection had been important, something of a liaison, a link. This mission had been different for him. Instead of operating alone, he was assigned to a unit for two months. The strike was brutal when it finally came time. An out of the way warehouse was quietly leveled from the inside out. He had dropped in from the roof, my fox, carrying an imported MP7, he told me. Just that detail got my heart racing, and it only got faster as he told me how he had to bring it to bear immediately on entering. He had nearly kicked one of the guards down on the way in. A quick burst had done the job, but my fox was thorough and put another to his head. Five more later and he confirmed the job.
I listened intently. I always loved his stories. Don't get me wrong, though. I hate the killing. I know it's rather ironic for an assassin to hate the killing. But my heart races, the adrenaline flows every time he tells me how close he was to getting hurt. My heart sinks when he says that, but he's always cool about it. He's alive. I'm alive. We don't care. We both know the risks.
I always loved his stories. I never used a gun on the job.