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Rimbaud returned to the apartment and he was greeted, which was new.
Also what was new was the fact that it was a dog that greeted him. A small thing, with lopsided ears, a tongue that hung out of the side of its mouth, and a tail that simply would not stop wagging. Really, it was quite the pathetic looking creature, with eyes that seemed almost too big for its head.
“Paul?” Rimbaud called into the apartment, trying to step around the creature that was desperately trying to get his attention.
“Hm?” Verlaine poked his head out of the kitchen, looking at Rimbaud with a neutral expression.
“Where did that come from?” He asked, gesturing to the dog that had followed him down the hall.
“Outside,” Verlaine said, unhelpful.
Rimbaud stared blankly at his partner for a long moment before they both said, at the same time -
“It's not staying.”
At least they were in agreement.
*
Rimbaud sat at the table, Verlaine across from him reading some novel he'd snatched up from a desk on a recent mission. Dog, as they've simply taken to calling it, was laying with its little head on Rimbaud's foot. He thought it was asleep, but every time he glanced down at it, its eyes would open and stare at him.
“Paul,” he said, looking up from the creature once again to meet his partner's eyes. From the expression on Verlaine's face, he already knew what this conversation was going to be about. “Any-”
“Yes,” Verlaine cut him off before he could finish his question. “Camille said she could take it in for us.”
“Camille from down the hall? Doesn't she already have one? That big oaf that barks far too much.”
“Ah, yes. That won't work, then. Dog would be scared of them,” Verlaine said and the two of them went back to a comfortable silence. Dog would stay with them for another day it seemed.
*
Verlaine was home late, which wasn't exactly an oddity for either of them. To his shock, Dog didn't greet him at the door like normal. One of its very few redeeming qualities was how good of an alert dog it was, always running to the door to bark whenever someone knocked or came in. It was disappointing to see it slacking at the only thing Verlaine approved of it doing.
He peeled his jacket and gloves off, tossing them into the laundry basket as he walked into the bedroom. His eyes scanned the dark room, figuring that if Rimbaud hadn't managed to actually rehome the thing while he was off on the mission, then it'd be in the bed.
Fighting with Dog to stay off the bed was a losing battle. Both men would wake up to a paw or tail in their faces, have to pick up Dog and move him off the bed only to wake up in the exact same position an hour or so later. Dog’s stubbornness was matched only by their own.
Dog was on the bed, but Verlaine paused as he took in the scene before him. Rimbaud was laying on his side, arm draped over Dog loosely, who was cuddled up to his chest. Verlaine stopped at the edge of the bed, reaching down to place his hand over Rimbaud's arm. Warm.
He pulled his hand back, expression unreadable as he watched the two of them for a moment. Finally, he pulled the blanket up further over the both of them before heading off to take a shower.
*
“Go to the bathroom,” Verlaine said, staring down at Dog. He stared back up at him, big eyes blank as always and head tilting to the side in a way that was almost cute. Almost.
“Maybe we should walk a bit further,” Rimbaud suggested, nodding his head further along the path. “I wouldn't want to do it here either.”
Verlaine narrowed his eyes at his partner. Had they not already walked enough? There was nothing wrong with this spot. Still, he tugged lightly on Dog's leash and turned to walk further down the path. Much to his dismay, Dog picked up a stick, hopping around with it happily instead of sniffing for a spot to do his business.
“Arthur he's-” Verlaine cut himself off when he saw the smile on Rimbaud's face. Maybe they could walk just a little longer.
“I don't think he gets enough exercise,” Arthur says, watching Dog play with the stick. He walked alongside Verlaine, his hand pulling out of his pocket to reach for Verlaine's free hand.
“Don't tell me you want us to walk him more,” Verlaine said, squeezing Rimbaud's gloved hand. “We don't have the time.”
“Adrien offered to watch him for us while we're working. Walk him for us.” As far as their neighbors knew, the two of them just worked as contractors.
“Doesn't Adrien have that boyfriend that is-”
“Creepy, yes.”
“I think it's better if we keep sending him to the daycare place.”
“Probably. Getting to see the other dogs there is good for him anyway. I think he's a bit lonely.”
Lonely.
Verlaine watched Dog get the stick stuck and tumble over himself. Rimbaud gasped, let go of his hand, and rushed to go check to see if Dog was alright. He was.
*
“You know, you should probably call him something other than just Dog,” Étienne said. If Rimbaud wanted input on it from the old man who lived downstairs he would've asked. Dog liked the man, though, so he stopped when he ran towards him, tail wagging happily.
“We aren't keeping him,” Rimbaud told Étienne. It had been months since Dog had come into their lives, though.
“Ah, what a shame. I'll miss seeing the lil guy running ‘round,” Étienne said. He patted Dog's head.
“Down, Dog,” Rimbaud said firmly when Dog started jumping at the old man's legs. The command was ignored and it certainly didn't help that Etienne laughed, still petting Dog.
“He reminds me of my old pup - his name was Cabbage,” Étienne said, a nostalgic look in his eyes.
“Cabbage,” Rimbaud repeated.
“Yeah.” Étienne patted his pockets before pulling a dog treat out of one of them. He offered it to Dog, who happily took it from the old man. “Cabbage. You can use it if you want.”
It was a dumb name, but then again, Dog was a dumb creature. He wondered what Verlaine would think of it.
*
“Cabbage,” Verlaine called as he walked through the apartment. He hadn't seen the dog in the last few hours, which was odd. He walked through the living room, eyeing the usual spots that Cabbage would curl up in. Still no sign of him.
“Cabbage!” He called again, louder this time. There still was no dopey dog running towards him. Verlaine had felt something that he didn't want to acknowledge as worry creep through his chest.
He walked through the kitchen. Cabbage's food bowl was still full, untouched from when he'd feed him a couple hours ago.
“Cabbage!” He yelled. Finally, he heard the sound of paws hitting the floor in the direction of the bedroom.
Cabbage walked out of the room at a leisurely pace. He yawned as he flopped down at Verlaine's feet. Reaching down, Verlaine lifted the dog up into his arms, grumbling about how the dumb dog never listened and ignoring how relieved he felt. He didn't care about Cabbage.
He settled on the couch, setting the dog beside him. It didn't take long until he was stretching out, head laying on Verlaine's lap and snoring. Verlaine just picked up a book from the end table, one hand resting on Cabbage's head.
*
Rimbaud stalked down the hall, eyes scanning everything carefully. The target had already been neutralized, the evidence of that clear with the blood stains that clung to his coat. Now all there had been left to do was secure the premises. He pushed open the door at the end of the hall. In the corner of the room something caught his attention.
There had sat a crate, a dog a bit bigger than Cabbage cowered in the back of it. She made a soft, whining noise as Rimbaud slowly approached her. Poor thing was terrified and he couldn't exactly blame her for it.
How long would it be until someone came for her after he left? From the length of her claws and how her fur was matted along her back she'd already been neglected plenty. He felt conflicted, brows pinched together as he rolled around ideas in his head. He could hand her off to someone when he got out of here. Pawn her off on the first person he saw, maybe.
Slowly, he opened the door of the crate and watched her for a moment, trying to see how she'd react to him. Scared animals could be unpredictable. She inched forward slowly, ears pressed back. She sniffed his outreach hand while he craned his head, trying to read what it said on her tag.
He laughed loudly, alarming her slightly by accident, but how else could he react to the name he just read?
Pauline.
It took him a moment to compose himself, wipe the hysterical tears from his eyes. Rimbaud coaxed Pauline closer to him and, much to Verlaine's frustration, he returned home later that night with the newest addition to their lives.
How much harder would it be to rehome two dogs instead of one? Plus, Cabbage seemed lonely sometimes.
*
It became a usual thing, Rimbaud spread out across the couch with both Cabbage and Pauline cuddled up to him. He enjoyed it, the dogs seemed to chase off the cold for just a bit.
“Couch hogs,” Verlaine complained as he eyed the three of them, lips twisting into a dissatisfied frown.
Rimbaud shifted, sitting up. He patted the spot next to him. “Don't be jealous, Paul,” he teased, grinning at his partner.
“I'm not,” Verlaine said, but sat in the space nonetheless.
“Mhm,” Rimbaud hummed, still smiling as he leaned against Verlaine's shoulder. Verlaine stiffened some. Cabbage had set to draping himself across both their laps, Pauline still on the opposite side of Rimbaud than Verlaine was.
Slowly, the tension evaporated from Verlaine and he sighed. He glanced over, eyes skimming Rimbaud's face. He looked peaceful, content.
No, he still didn't like any of them, he thought as he stretched his arm back and over Rimbaud's shoulders.
*
“We should be back in a few weeks,” Rimbaud told the girl, Manon, at the check in desk at the dog daycare. They had used the long term kennels there a number of times now, their work sending them all over Europe. They hadn't had to go overseas since first taking in Cabbage, though.
“Well, Cabbage and Pauline will be well taken care of, I promise,” she said.
He looked down at the two dogs, a strange feeling in his chest. Like maybe he wouldn't see them again. It was a ridiculous feeling, one he chalked up to pre-mission jitters. He hadn't felt those in a very long time.
“Thank you,” he said as he handed off their leashes to her. She smiled at him and then down at the dogs.
“Come on, pups. Your dads will be back for you soon.” She led them away from him and there was a hole in his chest. He'd always known attachments were a dangerous thing for someone in his field.
He turned away, leaving the building. Just a few weeks.
Just a few weeks.
*
Verlaine often thought of raising a child in an isolated French village, watching him happily running around with two dogs in the yard. Something that could've been, if things had gone just a bit differently.
It could've been such a good life for Chuuya. For him and Rimbaud.