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Akai Shuuichi sits by the attic window looking out over the house next door and drinking coffee.
It’s good coffee. The Kudos have an expensive espresso machine, all chrome and black matte knobs, and they buy Italian roast. Kudou Yukiko has been teaching him to make it, much in the same way she’s been teaching him to cook and garden and do his makeup. He sometimes wonders if her future plans for him include being someone’s accomplished bride. But, he supposes, it’s easiest for her to focus on the skills she has already mastered.
Shuuichi doesn’t need good coffee. He likes it, but he would be perfectly happy to drink diner sludge or day-old dregs re-heated in the microwave. He’s not a connoisseur, not of coffee at least. Furuya Rei, who would never deign to drink anything that didn’t retail for under 800 yen and come in a properly-sized cup with the appropriate amount of foam on the top, would say he’s a connoisseur of death. But Furuya isn’t always right about everything, doubtless despite his protests.
Outside, a light dusting of snow has fallen overnight, just enough to whiten the grass and bleach the pavement. The house, unlike many Japanese homes, is well-insulated and even in his sniper’s nest in the attic Shuuichi doesn’t feel the cold much. He watches the girl – Haibara Ai, slight and auburn and with eyes that are far too intelligent for her age – leave and lock up and walk down the street towards the school. He leans back once she disappears from the view of his scope and sips his coffee. Perhaps today he'll do some recon online, sniff around after the Syndicate for a few hours.
He's just pulling his laptop over when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He can count on one hand the people who have his number. Frowning, he pulls it out. The message that pops up on the screen is tersely brief. Two lines, in fact, four words, sent from an unknown number.
Feed my dog.
0
Shuuichi frowns down at the text. Tries to twist the syllables, the intentions, in his mind like a Rubik’s cube to find the right pattern. But there’s not much to work with, not enough for a code or a double entendre or even a sensible set of coordinates. The message seems to be exactly what it is, a brusque order for Shuuichi to take care of Furuya’s pet. Which… is unexpected.
Recently, thanks to a hail Mary intervention by the Kudous, he and Furuya are on speaking terms. Which is to say, Furuya will condescend to address complaints to him. It’s still a considerable improvement on the previous state of things, where the only thing Furuya was interested in addressing to him was a bullet. They’re in a phase of carefully monitored détente, and the no man’s land in between them is vast and full of well-hidden landmines waiting to be trodden on.
But. But the reality is, Shuuichi as a dead man has considerably more latitude to form alliances and relationships than Furuya, still undercover in the Syndicate, does. Furuya’s life is at risk every moment of every day, and one lazy text or phone call to someone who could be tracked back to the PSB would end him. He’s not so rich in allies that he can afford to pick and choose when times get dire. And with Rum closing in on Kudou Shin’ichi and the FBI and the PSB closing in on Rum, things have never been more tense.
So Shuuichi finishes his coffee, stands, and climbs down the steep stairs that lead to his secret lair. He goes down the hallway and into Kudou Yukiko’s dressing room, a corner of which has been reserved for him. If he’s going to Furuya’s flat, he can’t go as Akai Shuuichi.
***
An hour later a tall man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a rather lined face shows up at the block of flats where Furuya lives, in a KuroInu uniform and holding a delivery box. Kudou Yukiko is away with her husband in Naha, both of them aware that their presence in Beika may draw unwanted attention to their absent son, and Shuuichi is competent at applying his Okiya make-up but lacking in ability to branch out. Simple wrinkle lines, some cheek-filler and a wig he found in the dressing room will have to do.
He comes prepared to pick the lock on the building’s automatic entrance, but as it happens an elderly lady with a small dog comes out just as he arrives and smiles at him. He smiles back and gives a glance at the box in his arms. “For Amuro-sama, on the 5th floor,” he says, holding the building’s sliding glass door open for her.
“Oh, of course. 504. Such a nice man, always willing to lend a hand.” She beams at him and allows him passage into the building before shuffling away. Shuuichi boggles momentarily at the description of Fuuya, but then the man can be caring – just not to him.
Up on the fifth floor it’s quiet, the residents at work or school or doing chores. He slips along to 504 and sets down his box, then pulls out his lock picks. He checks the jamb first and finds no slivers planted to monitor a break-in. Careless – or the hallmark of haste.
The door takes him less than a minute to unlock; he pockets the picks and opens it, about to step in.
Inside, sitting on the laminate floor of the entranceway and staring up at him, is a small white dog. A puppy rather than a miniature, Shuuichi thinks, with a bushy tail and the face of an innocent. He reaches down to let it smell his hand, and it growls at him, not moving.
“Well,” he says. “Aren’t you like your master?”
As a sniper, Shuuichi is used to seeing the world through a scope, a vast distance between himself and anyone else he might encounter. He can’t deny that it’s had the result of making him less understanding of others than he might otherwise be – although really, look at his mother. It could equally be genetic. However, as an FBI agent and a NOC, he’s more than used to coming prepared for any situation. Consequently he sets down the box, opens it, and produces a pack of hot dogs. He takes a knife from his pocket and slices off several portions each about a centimeter long. Bending down, he holds one out to the puppy.
It stares up at him, its black eyes big and bright, round as buttons. Slowly, its curled tail starts to twitch, then wag. It noses forward and licks at the hotdog, then takes it with careful teeth from between Shuuichi’s fingers and eats it.
“Good,” says Shuuichi, and feeds it another. Its teeth are small and smooth and blunt, its tongue soft and hot against his skin. It’s male, he can see, but there’s no collar, no tag.
He feeds it a third piece of hotdog, then picks up his box. “May I come in?”
The puppy barks at him and stands, tail wagging, coming in with him as he enters. He toes off his shoes, puts the box down again, and shuts the door behind him. “Not exactly a trained guard dog, then,” he says to the puppy, and tosses it another piece of hotdog. It hops up and catches it in his mouth; Shuuichi smiles. “But a hungry one, I think.”
He pads into Furuya’s flat, striding carefully and making a quick visual inspection. It’s a two-room abode, the first with a kitchen, dining table, couch and TV, the second a tatami room with nothing but a futon in the corner an acoustic guitar. Shuuichi frowns. Furuya is a diligent housekeeper – he would never leave his futon out during the day in the ordinary course of things.
The puppy circles around his feet as he inspects the flat, finding the cache where Furuya stashes his weapons – a pistol at least is missing, the empty ammunition boxes pointing to a .22 – as well as a fridge well-stocked with food and leftovers. The flat is without personality: no calendars, artwork, books, or ornaments. The furniture is good quality but bland, neutral colours and without accents or features of interest. It’s the home of a NOC who doesn’t expect to be bringing guests home, and who survives by ruthlessly protecting his anonymity. The only acknowledgement of character is the guitar and dog accessories in the form of bed, food and water bowl, and rabbit-shaped chew toy in the corner.
The missing gun tells Shuuichi that Furuya is gone on Syndicate business; the absence of a laptop or any charging cables tells him he intends to be gone for at least a few days. The food in the fridge and the futon tell him he didn’t have time to prepare the flat for his absence. He frowns and looks down at the dog, who barks.
Shuuichi searches the cupboards with quick, precise movements, and finds a large plastic bin holding a box of dog food, a bag of treats, and what looks like a half-chewed pig’s ear. He glances at the bowls and sees the food bowl is entirely empty, the water bowl low. There’s a plastic scoop in the kibble box and he fills it; the dog starts yapping excitedly. The small fluffy white shape dances after him and weaves between his legs as he crosses to replenish the bowl. The puppy starts munching down the food as soon as it’s poured. Shuuichi grabs the water bowl and takes it to the sink, cleaning it and refilling it before returning it.
He pulls out one of the dining table chairs and takes a seat, looking around the flat. The only sound is that of the dog bolting down his food, a soft slobbering sound.
Furuya is gone, planning to be absent for an indeterminate amount of time. Wherever he is, it’s at least as cold as Tokyo – his winter coat is missing from the entryway. It’s somewhere he can’t arrange to get back from even once a day to take care of this dog – can’t get back from even to save himself asking Shuuichi to do him a favour. Shuuichi doesn’t have to look to know he’ll never find any more specific clues as to the nature of the mission. All he can do is wait.
His eyes fall to the white puppy, its bushy, curled tail still wagging as it eats. Frankly, he’s surprised by the dog’s presence. NOCs live and die alone. Anyone in their lives risks suffering their fate – something both Furuya and Shuuichi have seen firsthand. Furuya doesn’t strike him as the sort of man too weak to accept that lonely fate, or too heartless to subject a dependent to danger. Which makes the dog’s presence all the more puzzling.
Across the room the puppy finishes his meal and, licking his muzzle contentedly, pads back over to him. His little claws, half-hidden in his furry white paws, clack on the floor as he prances over. Shuuichi bends down and gentles him, patting his head and running his hands over the small form. He doesn’t know much about animals but there are no points of pain or tenderness or apparent wrongness in the puppy’s body – he seems perfectly healthy. He starts licking Shuuichi’s hands, and he pulls back. “Sit,” he says, suppressively, and the puppy looks up at him with its round button eyes. “Sit,” he says again, and the puppy lowers his hindquarters to the floor. “Good dog.”
The puppy wags his tails and barks.
If Shuuichi was going to imagine a dog for Furuya, spin one up out of thin air and bring it into being, he would have chosen a Doberman. Something long and lean and angry, with rippling muscle and sharp teeth. Violence controlled by a silken string. This tiny, cheerful, cute creature is entirely out of keeping with Furuya Rei.
“You,” he tells the puppy, “are entirely unexpected.”
But then, perhaps that’s the trick of it. Furuya is unpredictable; volatility doesn’t breed stability. He can be counted on to get his job done by whatever means necessary, but beyond that it’s difficult to infer any clear course of action for the PSB agent. Maybe, in its unexpectedness, this puppy is entirely expected.
“That sounds like a fallacy,” says Shuuichi. “But probably the kind he would like. Well then. What’s your name?” He gets up and performs a quick search of the flat’s nooks and crannies, looking this time for a vet receipt or anything similar.
He comes up, of course, with nothing – nothing, that is, but the dog’s harness and some outdoor toys. “No name,” he says, tapping his foot. The puppy comes over to sit next to him, watching his toe with a captive gaze. “I’m sure Furuya provided you with a lofty name. Truth? Justice?” His lips twitch as he watches the puppy continue to stare at his toe. “No? Well guessing that’s not my job. You can imitate your master and have two names.”
He walks slowly through the flat and comes to a halt beside the guitar. It’s expensive – a Fender. There are no music books and Shuuichi doesn’t bother to look. Furuya plays by ear alone. He and Scotch had always found an easy rhythm between the two of them without speech or effort. Shuuichi still remembers those nights – few and far between – in the 3-room flat they had shared back before their worlds turned to ash. Still remembers Furuya – Bourbon then – sitting with his guitar cradled close as a lover, strumming a kind of mellow soulfulness from it. It had been the only softness Shuuichi had ever seen in him.
He bends and touches the neck of the guitar now, just a gentle whisper slipping from its strings. The dog yips and prances over, high-stepping and wagging its tail. Shuuichi picks up the guitar, careful in his lack of familiarity. Furuya had never deigned to allow him to touch his instrument but Scotch had been kinder, had taught Shuuichi a handful of bass lines. He picks them out now – they sound strange, lonely in the empty room. Nothing like the rich comforting thrum of Scotch’s bass or the harmonious chords Furuya had played.
The puppy doesn’t seem to share Shuuichi’s assessment, though; he sits at Shuuichi’s feet and rises up on his hind legs, excited by the music.
“A music lover, huh?” says Shuuichi, silencing the guitar’s reverberations with the palm of his hand.
He sets it back down on its stand. “I can see why he appreciates you. Most men enjoy an audience, your master included.” The dog whines, nosing at the guitar. “Uh huh. No property damage, please and thank you. As a name for you…” His eyes slide over the dog, the room, the guitar. “Fender.” He imbues his voice with the tone of an order, and the dog sits back and stares up at him. “Good. I guess you’re coming with me.”
The dog wags his tail at him, tongue out as Shuuichi quickly puts its food, treats, a couple of balls, and his toy rabbit in the box he brought with him. Then he grabs the harness and holds it out; the dog immediately steps into it, clearly used to the idea that it precedes adventure. “Let’s go, then,” he says to Fender as he fastens it tight around his skinny chest.
The dog jumps up and trots along beside him out of the flat.
***
Outside he stops at his rental car to ditch his KuroInu coat and hat in favour of a black puffer coat and leather gloves, proof against Tokyo’s damp chill. It’s the kind of cold that sinks into the bones, lingering long after going indoors – not that different from London. The humidity of the ocean combined with a miserable temperature.
The dog – Fender – he takes to the local park. More accurately, he starts in the direction of the local park and is immediately halted by the puppy needing to relieve itself at the nearest tree. Progress subsequently is halting, as Fender insists on nosing at every sign post, post box, bike lock and vending machine.
“Not a particularly convenient possession, are you?” drawls Shuuichi. He produces a cigarette and lights it, smoking while they make their way to the park.
When they arrive at the grassy field, provided at one end with a small play park for children that is currently empty, he looks down at Fender. He has no way to know whether the dog has a penchant for bolting. But he’s clearly been trained to a degree, relatively well-behaved on-lead and accepting commands. Shuuichi bends and unhooks the lead from the harness.
The puppy looks up at him for several moments, then trots off to roll on the grass. He gets up, plants his little legs wide, and shakes any lingering dirt and dampness off his coat. He proceeds to trot off to smell at the occasional patch of clover or dandelion. Shuuichi stands, weight mostly on one leg, and smokes a second cigarette.
It’s not long before the dog gets bored. He trots back over and stands in front of Shuuichi, shifting his weight anxiously.
“What?”
The dog whines, prancing away a few steps, then stopping to look back at Shuuichi.
“I’m here to keep you alive, not play pet sitter,” he says, flicking ash off the cigarette and looking down at the dog, unconcerned. It’s a role he’s well used to, the silent observer watching from afar, stepping in only to prevent catastrophe. But dogs don’t understand prudence. Fender whines again, cantering a few paces away before stopping. He barks, high and eager, bright eyes staring right at Shuuichi. Then, with a little sound that sounds surprisingly like a snort, he turns away and takes off. Shuuichi watches him for a moment before he realises that the dog doesn’t plan on stopping. And that, beyond the park, are the open streets of Beika.
“Oi. Oi!” he shouts; the dog doesn’t look back. Cursing he puts his cigarette out in the icy, damp earth and takes off after him. The dog isn’t a greyhound but he’s fast enough to maintain his lead; from behind his pace looks practiced and easy. Clearly this dog is used to running. Well, so is Shuuichi. He settles into a pace he can maintain for hours if necessary, one he learned at Quantico a decade ago. His breath mists in the air as he runs, footsteps falling heavy on the firm ground.
The dog makes it to the edge of the park, delineated by a row of cherry trees whose branches reach black and leafless to the winter sky, and cuts along the sidewalk of this relatively residential neighbourhood, heading for the combustion of downtown Beika. Shuuichi breaks out of the park about twenty yards behind him; the dog looks back at him and yips excitedly, its tail raised high with amusement.
He should have known better than to trust Furuya’s pet. Should have known that any animal belonging to the PSB agent would be just as capricious as his owner, or perhaps just as inclined to snub Shuuichi. The dog seems eager to set him a long chase, and in that too he’s reminded of the blond agent, although he thinks that Furuya would consider himself to be the pursuer. It’s not without a kind of pathetic humour, Furuya chasing Shuuichi with a loaded gun while Shuuichi pursues him in turn, heart in hand.
For just a moment he thinks again of those late nights, the three of them alone in their Tokyo flat, Furuya strumming his guitar, utterly disdainful of Shuuichi’s quiet presence. He had been so quick to protest, and so fierce in his vitriol – at least as far as Shuuichi was concerned. And when his walls finally cracked and the two of them ended up in bed, he had been just as demanding there, just as unwilling to accept surrender. Shuuichi shivers slightly with that memory, of wet tongue on hot skin, of sweat and slick and Furuya’s stormy eyes watching with hunger and hauteur.
Up ahead the dog crosses the street, bounding along with abandon, cheerfully ignorant of all the dangers of a busy city. Shuuichi crosses a few seconds later, almost colliding with a cyclist in a wool coat and scarf. Now they’re in the shopping district, streets lined with cafes and stores, sidewalk busy with pedestrians and signs and displays. Several people turn to watch him chasing the white puppy, and it occurs to Shuuichi that this is not at all the kind of exhibition he should be making of himself. “Oi,” he grunts, and the dog looks back and yips before carrying onwards.
They dodge shoppers and sandwich board signs, cyclists and cars backing out of narrow alleyways. Ahead is Chuo-dori, the main five-lane street that connects Beika with Touto. The pedestrian crossing sign is flashing red, the light about to change. The dog doesn’t slow. Shuuichi, frowning grimly now, pushes for a burst of speed. He accelerates into a sprint, narrowly slicing around a man carrying two crates of produce and a woman on a mobile phone, narrowing the gap between him and Fender.
The dog makes it to the edge of the sidewalk as the light changes, traffic rumbling forward into the street. The puppy doesn’t stop and Shuuichi, teeth gritted, makes a leap and tackles him full-on before arching his body to land on his shoulder and hip. The two of them tumble on the hard, unforgiving concrete and come to a stop inches from the curb, cars flying by.
Shuuichi lies on his back with the dog clasped tight in his arms. He wriggles against the sniper’s chest, paws and elbows digging into his sore ribs, squirming up towards Shuuichi’s face. Shuuichi, shoulder and hip aching, raises his head to look at the puppy.
A hot, wet tongue smelling of dogfood laps into his face immediately, licking him excitedly. Around them, people are staring and laughing. Shuuichi sits up, clips the lead back onto Fender’s harness, and stands. “Stop that,” he says repressively to the puppy, who only barks at him and wags his tail.
Incorrigible.
“Come,” he snaps, and turns back in the direction of his parked car. Fender gets to his feet and trots alongside him, tail held high.
Shuuichi wonders for the first time if this is some kind of punishment.
***
It starts to snow just as they arrive at the Kudou mansion, walking back together from the rental car agency, Fender secured on his thick lead. The air prickles in his nose, the smell of cold like a damp, draughty basement.
Inside the puppy shakes the flakes from his fur and looks around at the large, impressive entryway. His claws click on the Kudou’s hardwood floor, his white fur blurrily reflected in the warm oak. Shuuichi shuts and locks the door before unclipping his lead, leaving it on the table beside the door. He shrugs out of his winter coat, then pulls off the itchy wig and spits out the cheek-filler.
The puppy is already gone, off exploring the house. Shuuichi takes the box with his things through to the kitchen and puts them up on the counter out of the puppy’s reach, before looking at the clock.
It’s eleven – he spent more than an hour on his errand. He takes a minute to wash out his coffee cup from the morning, then sets out the dog’s food and water bowls in the corner of the kitchen’s laminate floor. The Kudous have a fenced-in yard with grass and some greenery, meaning the time he will have to dedicate to ensuring the dog gets outside for walks is limited. The best of a bad situation.
He makes a quick round of the downstairs to ensure there’s been no unauthorized access of the house while he was gone, then goes upstairs to get back to work.
***
An hour later, Shuuichi is deep into an analysis of online activity that might pertain to the Syndicate, when he’s torn out of his intense concentration by a clammer downstairs. Specifically, an eruption of yips and barks at the base of the ladder that leads up to his nest.
His first thought is that there’s an intruder, that this dog is nervous of activity in its new territory. He picks up his IMI Jericho, silencer equipped, and slips over to the hatch.
Down below at the base of the ladder the puppy is dancing around, face upturned, barking and wagging his tail. His body language isn’t frightened or fierce, it’s excited. Amused.
Shuuichi puts the gun down and sighs. He descends the ladder and the dog promptly rises up onto his back legs, his small front paws on Shuuichi’s shins as he pants, pink tongue lolling out.
Stupidly cute. Ridiculously so, so adorably that it makes Shuuichi irrationally angry with Furuya for owning such an impractical animal. This dog could be punted across the room with one kick, put down with a single blow. It’s useless as a guard animal, and clearly doesn’t have the temperament for it either. Look how quickly he accepted Shuuichi into his home turf, bought by a handful of hotdog. If Furuya wanted an animal for protection, there are dozens of breeds that could do the job efficiently and effectively. If he wanted someone to keep his bed warm, well, Shuuichi has made it clear that he wouldn’t be adverse.
So are you irritated that the dog is impractical? Or that Furuya chose an impractical animal over an extremely practical FBI agent?
Shuuichi grimaces and gives the dog a little nudge with his knee to get him down off him. “Come,” he says, voice gruff. The puppy yips and follows as he heads downstairs to the first floor and out into the living room with its French doors leading to the back yard. He unlocks and opens a door and the dog trots outside. “Amuse yourself,” he says, and closes the door.
He goes back upstairs, takes his seat again, and redirects his focus back to his computer.
***
It’s late afternoon, the sky outside getting dark, when Haibara Ai returns to the professor’s home at her usual time. Shuuichi watches her walking up the street and letting herself into the house with a key, her face bland as always. She has the eyes of a woman who has seen far more than any seven year-old.
Shuuichi shuts down his computer and descends to start thinking about dinner. He turns on the lights downstairs, which immediately prompts a chorus of barks from outside.
The dog. He had almost forgotten him.
He crosses into the living room and opens the doors to find the dog sitting there, looking up with his huge black button eyes and his lolling tongue. The dog who is no longer white, but covered in dirt. Shuuichi’s gaze swivels past the dog into the garden, which now resembles a complex construction site. Holes and piles of dirt are everywhere, some of them decorated with bulbs and plant roots.
Kudou Yukiko will have a fit.
“Arf,” says the dog, happily.
“You,” says Shuuichi, looking down at it, “are definitely a punishment.”
***
He has no choice but to take the dog directly into the bathroom and hose him off. He already now has an entire garden to repair; the idea of cleaning the house up after a filthy dog has paraded through it does not appeal. Fender, it turns out, is happy to roll in dew-soaked grass and dig down until the earth turns to mud, but objects strenuously to being washed in a tub. In the end the dog is left white and clean, and both the bathroom and Shuuichi a muddy, filthy mess. He kicks the dog out and strips out of his clothes, cleaning himself and the bathroom at the same time.
When he emerges half an hour later, tired and damp, Fender is sitting outside on his haunches, looking up with an air of excited innocence.
“Whatever you want, the answer is no,” says Shuuichi. This dog is making him sound like Furuya. He is becoming a short-tempered, snarky asshole. Is that what Furuya intended? No way to know.
The dog yips and gets up, trotting down the hallway with his claws clicking on the floor, looking back at Shuuichi regularly as he heads for the kitchen. Once there he plants himself in front of his food bowl and starts making a whining reminiscent of an airplane experiencing metal stress.
“It’s only been seven hours since you last ate,” Shuuichi tells him, but realises that he has no idea how often dogs need feeding. Twice a day? Three times? More? Feed my dog, Furuya had said, but had completely neglected to describe how or how often.
Well, if the mutt gets fat it’s not his fault. Only, of course, Furuya will definitely imply that it is. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Shuuichi gets out the box of food and pours some out, and the puppy digs in. Maybe he’s a growing dog, maybe any weight gain will be taken as proof of healthy development.
Even men like Shuuichi can dream. Something he thinks Furuya doesn’t appreciate about him. But Shuuichi’s imagination can be vivid when he lets it off its lead, when he lies in bed at night in the dark and runs his hand down his body and imagines a different hand entirely, imagines a wet tongue on his skin and white teeth leaving bruising marks behind. Furuya, in his own way, is just as much a beast as his dog. Shuuichi likes that, likes that in bed he has no pretentions, lets instinct and hedonism have full rein - occasionally.
Of course, it’s been years since that last happened, since the two of them shared everything. That was before the gunshot that put an end to their relationship, a closeness Shuuichi has only recently begun to think might just possibly be salvageable. Probably not if he overfeeds Furuya’s dog, though. Furuya could compete internationally in grudge-holding.
That’s alright, though. Shuuichi could compete – and win – in patience under duress.
Outside, it’s getting dark. Shuuichi glances at his watch and nods. He looks down at the dog, who’s hoovering up his food. “Eat up,” he says. “We’re going out.”
***
It would, obviously, have been much simpler to leave the dog behind in the house. The issues with that, though, are two-fold. First, having seen the ruin the puppy wrought in the garden, Shuuichi is reluctant to leave him alone in Kudou Yukiko’s expensively-furnished house. Second, he’s not sure whether puppies can be left alone. Do they need supervision, like children? Will Fender chew an electrical cord or get his head stuck in a plastic bag if Shuuichi leaves him alone? Impossible to say, and therefore not worth the risk of rekindling Furuya’s dormant desire to murder him in his sleep.
He loads the dog into his Subaru and, as the thermometer drops below freezing and the car’s rickety heating struggles to cough out warm air, they drive across Tokyo. Fender rides on the passenger seat, up on his hind legs with his front paws resting on the armrest and his nose pressed to the glass.
The meet-up point is the back room of an old internet café, which has survived obsolescence by upgrading from a service for those without computers to check their emails to serving teens and young adults wanting to game and without adequate equipment at home. Shuuichi walks through the rows of teens clicking and clacking away without being noticed by a single one, and slips into the back room.
Jodie’s already there, leaning against a beat-up table that holds a box full of broken equipment. She’s reading a small book – neither of them keep their phones on while meeting up. Her eyes drop from the pages of her novel to Fender. “Shuu, you got a dog?” she sounds shocked.
“It’s not a permanency,” he says. “Don’t get attached to the idea.”
She raises an eyebrow. “What, of you with someone important in your life?”
“I have several important people in my life,” he replies, and she smiles and shuts the book, straightening.
“Fair enough. What’s up?”
“Furuya’s on a mission. Sudden, important. We should have eyes on him. Absolutely no contact, no interception. But I want to know where he is and what he’s doing.”
Her eyes drop to the dog, then rise to his. She doesn’t say anything, and neither does he. Jodie, he knows, thinks Shuuichi’s feelings for Furuya Rei are complicated. What she doesn’t know is that, in fact, the opposite is true.
His feelings for the man are very simple. It’s merely circumstance that’s the complication.
“Alright. I’ll handle it,” she says eventually, breaking the silence between them as she runs her thumb along the edge of her book’s cover. In the old days, before he broke her heart, she used to read Jane Austen. Now? He glances at the spine. Wuthering Heights.
Figures.
“Thanks,” he says. She gives him a smile that holds more memories than he cares to confront. He just nods; by far the safer choice.
***
Dinner is a late meal of stir fry, a staple of his NYC days and one he developed in a kitchen considerably smaller than the Kudous’. The dog sits at the far end of the linoleum floor and watches him cook, then eat, then clean up.
Afterwards it’s back into his nest to follow the actions his meeting with Jodie set in place, a network of surveillance lighting up like beacons in the night to focus on the movements of one Furuya Rei, AKA Amuro Tooru, AKA Bourbon. He’s learned better than to let the dog out of his sight, so he carries Fender up the ladder under his arm and lets him snuffle his way around the neat attic. When he looks around next it’s to see that the puppy has pulled a sweater of his down off a desk and made a nest for himself, curled on the dark cotton and asleep with his nose against his tail. Criminally adorable.
He watches drips and drabs of text flash across his screen, various operatives from the FBI and CIA reporting in. Amuro Tooru purchased and redeemed a ticket for Bangkok late yesterday evening; his plane touched down at 06:00 local time. No bank withdrawals or use of his personal credit cards, meaning someone else has slipped him the cash to keep him off the grid. Unsurprising.
There’s some chatter on the airwaves about the target possibly trying to go to ground in South-East Asia, drop off the grid and disappear. Shuuichi knows better. Whatever Furuya is doing in Thailand, he’s doing it on Syndicate business.
He watches the screen for hours, the reports from men and women in offices across the globe drinking bad coffee while trying to monitor a man who doesn’t want to be found. Eventually, when the intel team hasn’t turned up more than a few possible hits based on dodgy passport scans and one very suspect camera feed, Shuuichi rises to go to bed. The puppy lifts a sleepy head and blinks up at him. Shuuichi scoops him up and carries him down, the small animal leaning up to lick his face.
At the base of the ladder he puts him down again and rises on tip-toe to tuck the hatch door closed. He pads down the hall to the bathroom where he washes briefly and changes into a t-shirt and briefs. No need for pyjamas with no other residents present. In his bedroom he finds Fender already on his bed, curled up once more, this time atop a piece of black fabric. Shuuichi stares at him, surprised.
The puppy has taken the black cap from his table and brought it to his bed. The black cap that belongs to Furuya, left forgotten in his last visit to the Kudou mansion. Shuuichi sits down on the edge of the bed and reaches out, gentling the animal’s fluffy head. “Do you miss him?”
The puppy looks up at him and whines, his small body huddled in the cap. Shuuichi strokes him, the rhythm soothing.
“So do I.”
***
The dog sleeps with him, and at first Shuuichi is uncertain about this, worried that he might roll over in the night and simply crush him into the mattress with the weight of his body, asphyxiating him. However he soon finds that he has an awareness of where the dog is when he rises through the rungs of consciousness enough to flip or roll, that he moves with an understanding of where the puppy is in relation to him.
He's woken in the morning by a wet tongue licking across his face, long warm strokes that leave him damp and snorting. He shoves the dog away and Fender yips at him, prancing excitedly on the mattress at the prospect of a new day. Shuuichi sighs, wipes his face off, and gets up.
It’s 6:30am.
He looks back at his bed with faint hope, but the dog is already standing in the door looking back at him, practically vibrating with possibly hunger or – infinitely more concerning – the need to take a piss.
They go downstairs together, the dog scampering ahead of him and clacking down the stairs to scramble around the slippery wooden floor on his way to the kitchen. Breakfast, then. Shuuichi pulls out his food and pours some out for him before looking outside. Dark. It will be dark for hours. Fender is wagging his tail as he eats, naively excited for the same meal he has every morning. Perhaps that’s what Furuya sees in the animal, the ability to take joy from simple things. Something both Furuya and Shuuichi have, for the most part, lost over the course of their service in their respective forces.
When he looks back, Fender has finished his meal and is licking his chops, cleaning his muzzle with earnest pleasure. He trots over to Shuuichi and whines, tail wagging. He takes a few steps away, high-stepping like a dressage horse, playful and prancing. The same behaviour as in the park. He wants exercise.
Shuuichi goes upstairs and puts on a pair of leggings, then a pair of shorts, then a t-shirt and sweater and finally light gloves, a toque and a scarf. In the dark at 7:00am, the Syndicate isn’t going to be looking for him on the streets of Beika walking a dog.
In fact, what he turns out to be doing is running a dog. Fender clearly has a young puppy’s boundless energy, and he dodges ahead as soon as Shuuichi lets him out the door in his harness. He barely has time to lock the door before they’re jogging down the road. Fender seems to know where he’s going and Shuuichi lets him lead, down the street and through a quiet residential neighbourhood, before following a street lined with leafless trees to the river.
There’s a long path that leads along the raised bank of the river and they run along it, one or two other early-morning exercise fiends out as well. Shuuichi keeps his scarf tucked high as they pass, nodding to them without slowing. The river is moving slowly, the water doubtless frigid. Shuuichi’s breath is hanging in the air in thick, white clouds.
At the bridge they turn back into the streets of Beika, passing the shopping arcade and a larger park than the one Shuuichi took Fender to yesterday. Then it’s onto the dark side street that holds Poirot and the Mouri detective agency, street lights and safety lights glowing in the blackness. Finally several blocks further along, they come to Furuya’s own flat. The dog comes to a stop here, looking up at the doors of the building.
“You’ll come home later,” says Shuuichi. Fender looks up at him and whines, expression uncertain. “He’ll be back.” The puppy whines again, sniffing at the door. Shuuichi tugs at the lead. “Come.
Fender lingers at the door until Shuuichi gives a second, more vigorous tug, and then he turns uncertainly away. Shuuichi, less concerned with the dog’s depression than the nearing dawn, picks up the pace. “Come on; we’ll run back. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?”
As it turns out, he does.
***
The combined forces of multiple law enforcement agencies have turned up pathetically little on Amuro Tooru, Japanese national abroad in Thailand (presumed). It’s entirely possible that by now Furuya has crossed several borders – he could be anywhere. Facial recognition software has turned up a couple of blips, but nothing definitive. Even Shuuichi, looking at the grainy black-and-white photos, can’t be sure they’re of Furuya. Blond, certainly, and dark-skinned, but beyond that the shape of his face and the distinctive line of his lips don’t come through at all.
Given how hard the PSB agent has worked to disappear, Shuuichi is surprised to get a text around noon: Is my dog alive? 0
He stares down at the phone for a few moments before replying, An active menace.
Suits you, is the reply that comes back. Shuuichi, sitting at his desk and cradling his phone in his hands, stares out the window for a minute.
How long am I dog sitting?
There’s a long pause, and he wonders if Furuya has already dumped this phone, the conversation deleted, forgotten. But then the three dots appear, followed by: Not long.
You don’t trust me farther than you can throw me?
Not even that far.
Shuuichi doesn’t bother replying, he can sense that the conversation is over. He wonders where Furuya is texting him from – a run-down village somewhere, a tropical beach, a humid forest? Or just the downtown thrum of Bangkok, all traffic and smog and people. He imagines Furuya leaning into a corner while he texts, keeping an eye on his surroundings. Much more concerned with his dog than with Akai Shuuichi.
He tosses the phone onto the desk and goes back to his own research.
***
Shuuichi takes the dog out for a shorter walk at lunch, this time as Okiya Subaru, bringing a ball with him and playing a few rounds of fetch at the park. Fender seems to prefer wrestling with the ball to fetching it; fine by Shuuichi. His arm is still tired by the time the dog has had enough, coming back to plant himself at Shuuichi’s feet and look upwards, his eyes still bright and keen. Shuuichi clips the lead back onto his harness, and they walk back to the house together.
On the way home they pass a narrow alleyway between a ramen shop and a bakery, the dark corridor filled with exhaust vents and piles of refuse from the shops. A small cry catches Shuuichi’s attention and he glances down to see a teenage girl in high school uniform being cornered by three older boys – late teens or early twenties, not in uniform. The girl is shrinking back, her school bag clutched to his chest, while the boys laugh and goad her, pressing closer.
Shuuichi slips into the alley behind them silent as a shadow. And, when the first one reaches out for her, he catches his wrist. “O-to. Perhaps you should rethink your choice of actions,” he says, his other hand in his pocket.
All three boys swivel, snarls on their faces. One lunges at Shuuichi even as the other, whose arm Shuuichi is still holding, tries to pull free. Shuuichi yanks his arm down behind his back, twisting it to the point of pain, and uses the leverage to pull him into the path of his charging friend. After that, all it takes is stepping back and letting them tackle into each other, falling to the alley floor.
From his side he sees a blur of motion and turns to deal with it, but something white flies by with a growl. Shuuichi, heart pounding for the first time in this stupid confrontation, watches as Fender is tossed into the wall with a pained yip by the third boy. Wrathful now, furious with himself as much as this idiot, he kicks out neatly and sweeps the boy’s feet from under him, leaving him to land hard on his ass. The other two boys are getting up, and Shuuichi turns a glare on them that’s so cold they stiffen.
“Go. Away,” he says, the naked threat clear in his voice. Without further complaint they do, scrambling to their feet and disappearing down the alley. The girl is gone too, fled at the first sign of intervention. Leaving Shuuichi with the dog, now in a heap by the alley wall.
He drops to his knees and reaches out, hands soft, to feel the little animal’s body. Fender is breathing hard and making little noises of pain, but he tries to lick Shuuichi as he runs his hands over him, looking for sore points. The dog struggles to his feet and shakes himself, his white coat dirty, his eyes narrow. Shuuichi strokes his head softly. “Come,” he says, and picks him up in his arms.
***
They do a full examination at the local vet, where the puppy is registered as Okiya Fender. Shuuichi waits in the waiting area, craving a smoke and not moving an inch towards the packet of cigarettes in his pocket.
After more than an hour he’s called in to see Fender with a shaved spot on his foreleg, the dog otherwise clean and sitting with his tongue lolling out. “He has a few bruises, but nothing serious. We took some blood for testing and we’ll have the results of those tests tomorrow, but given this was a physical incident they should all be clear. We’ll phone you with the results,” the vet tells him.
Shuuichi feels the tension seep from his body and nods. “Good. Thank you. We can go?”
“Settle up at the front desk, then he’s good to go. Best to avoid rough play or too much exercise for the next day or two.”
“Understood. Come,” he says to the puppy, slipping its harness back on and clipping the lead on. Fender jumps down, and they go out to the front to pay.
14,700 yen later, Shuuichi is walking the dog back to the mansion. He’s walking a little closer to Shuuichi but otherwise shows no sign of injury and distress.
The fact that the dog jumped into the fray for him is surprising. He’s nothing to this animal, just a stand-in for Furuya, providing him with food and lodging for a few nights. And yet he took on an adult ten times his size without fear. Foolish, reckless.
And very like his master.
***
At home that night – the Kudou’s home, at least, Shuuichi not having anywhere of his own to return to with permanency – he makes steak. He when he’s done cooking it and has served it up for himself along with potatoes and broccoli, he cuts off some of the grilled meat and deposits it in Fender’s food bowl. The dog yips excitedly and proceeds to tackle it. Shuuichi drinks cheap wine and meditates on the pros and cons of having dependents in your life. None of his have turned out happily.
He wonders how Furuya views the question. Wonders whether he would ever consider himself someone else’s dependent. Perhaps the value in the PSB agent is that he is uniquely contained, beholden only to himself.
Himself, and a small fluffy dog.
Shuuichi snorts and eats his dinner.
***
They go to sleep early, Shuuichi both wanting to ensure the dog gets enough rest, and to prepare for the possibility of another 06:30 wake up call.
In fact, though, his wake-up call comes much sooner. He and the dog awaken at the same time, something moving somewhere in the house alerting both of them. Fender sits up from his curled position beside Shuuichi’s hip, whining in the darkness. Shuuichi reaches out silently, opens the drawer of his bedside table, and slowly pulls out his pistol. He sits up, the dog trotting to the edge of the bed and jumping down, and gets out. The floor is cool under his bare feet. He looks outside, the street lit by lamplight, and sees that snow is falling. There are only one set of tracks leading to the front door.
Something creaks somewhere in the house and Fender heads for the door, his claws clacking the only sound in the still house. Shuuichi, remembering the events of the afternoon, hurries to stop him, but the puppy is through the door and down the hall before he can shut the door. Shuuichi bites his teeth on a curse and goes after him, pistol in hand.
At the end of the hall the puppy breaks into a run, barking and yipping, and Shuuichi raises his gun –
Only to see the dog jumping up happily on a dark figure with blond hair that shines faint as fairy light in the dim hall. Shuuichi reaches out and hits the lights, illuminating Furuya Rei in combat boots and a heavy fur-trimmed coat kneeling on the carpet, petting his dog.
“Welcome home,” he says dryly.
Furuya looks up at him. “I didn’t get you any souvenirs,” he says, his tone equally deadpan.
“Oh? And here my understanding was that favours must be returned.” Shuuichi puts the pistol down on a convenient side table, declining to tuck it into his briefs, and rests one hand on his hip. Furuya gives him – and his mostly naked body – a long look.
“What were you hoping for? Duty free whisky? A carton of cigarettes?”
Shuuichi pads closer and the dog looks up at him, his small face full of eager excitement. Furuya’s petting him without pause, while holding Shuuichi’s gaze.
“Mm, I had something a little more personal in mind,” he murmurs.
“A knife in the throat?” suggests Furuya, eyebrow twitching.
Shuuichi kneels down beside him, giving the dog a quick pet that he acknowledges with a little yip. Furuya is eyeing him suspiciously. “If you’re going to make a play for a quickie, I’ll have you know I’ve got a Luger nice and close.”
Shuuichi smiles. “Delightful as that would be, no. All I want is to know why you have him.” He looks down at the puppy, then up at Furuya who is trying without complete success to wipe an expression of surprise off his face.
“Haro?”
“Is that his name?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not exactly practical. In fact, he’s a distinct hinderance to your work,” points out Shuuichi. “He’s small and weak and attention-seeking and…”
“You can stop any time,” says Furuya. Then, with a shrug. “I took him in because he was used to being alone and doing whatever he wanted. And he could have kept doing that, but instead he decided he needed me. That made me think – maybe I needed him. We’re more similar than we are different,” says the PSB’s most competent agent of a small, fluffy puppy.
Shuuichi, who’s come to the same conclusion himself, simply nods. Furuya gives him a narrow-eyed look. “That’s it? You’re not going to nitpick?”
“I see the resemblance,” says Shuuichi, dryly.
The line of Furuya’s mouth is dangerous, edging into sharp-edged sarcasm. “Oh, do you?”
“I do. He’s needy and aggravating and unbothered by the messes he makes – and he would do anything for those he cares for.”
Furuya stares at him for a while, while the puppy – Haro, not Fender – licks his hand. He twitches his fingers, hand tense. “You know I can’t stand you,” he says, pausing at the end as if in consideration.
“I’m aware.”
“But sometimes, you come close to being right.”
Shuuichi scratches Haro beneath the chin, the puppy lifting his heat to exalt in it. “I won his trust with a handful of hotdog,” he says. “If I knew how to win yours, I would.”
Furuya stands and Haro shivers with excitement, his little pink tongue hanging out. “You want to know the way to my heart?” he asks, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I’m sure as hell not going to. But… if you keep looking, maybe you’ll find it. You’re a detective, aren’t you?”
Shuuichi snorts.
“Haro, come boy,” says Furuya, and heads for the stairs. “Thanks,” he adds belatedly over his shoulder, an afterthought.
Shuuichi watches him go, his puppy at his heels, tracks his progress down the snowy street until he disappears. Then he goes back to bed and turns out the light.
It feels emptier without the dog.
END