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Princess Carolyn likes BoJack best when he’s inebriated.
It’s not like it’s unique or a special occurrence — in the way that would make him think, if she said it, “oh, so you love me all the time!”, to the tune of his imaginary laugh track and the shipment of liquor for the ill-informed decisions that knowledge would lead him to.
But she likes an honest BoJack.
It’s not, either, like he’s good. The conclusion someone would naturally arrive at when you told them you’d dated the same man, over and over, for more than a decade. He tantrums when he doesn’t get his way and Princess Carolyn, no matter how thin he stretches her heartstrings, can only be so sympathetic before recognizing that if he wanted to drown, he would drag her down with him. And she’d observed enough of Diane to see what road that could lead her through.
He’s not good, but he’s not a schemer. His wrongdoings are human in their stupidity, in their petty cruelty, in how easy it would be to smack him upside the head with one of her pep talks and nip most plans in the bud: the problem is when he catches on and makes sure to destroy everything in the safety of his own home, among friends who, y’know, aren’t her, and don’t yet have a spine for that kind of shit.
When he’s honest, there that flimsy wall goes. She shouldn’t like it as much as she does, when the only affection he can muster is that of a thoroughly inebriated mind dipping his muzzle into her fur and imagining she’s something else, muttering on about whatever half-baked TV plot he’s seen last and vaguely decided to incorporate into his delirium. Sinking into the feeling as she strokes his brow, tracing her fingers along the diamond between his eyes, as his ears, forever stiffly pinned back in preparation to sprint, twitch with satisfaction.
It’s nice. Nice in that sugary, too-young way she would never admit to another person, but recounted to herself night after night. No, what she thought about when she thought about BoJack, late and sleepless, wasn’t the mopey, half-philosophical ramblings, wasn’t the sex (insert horse joke, yes, yes, actually quite a harmful stereotype or so many of BoJack’s pre-‘getting-it-up’ rants had told her), wasn’t any amount of day-to-day hijinks or benders and by God wasn’t any of the career opportunities.
It was moments like that. Moments where the horse-weight against her shoulder feels soft in its pressure, where he’s quiet and incoherent, or perhaps just coherent enough to patch together his own, BoJack manner of calling her the coolest girlfriend in the world. The pink of her fur looked like it belonged in a cake icing commercial you’d see after SpongeBob, or perhaps that she should stop being so nice because that was how people like her got burgled, and by people like her he meant freaking sexy Persian cats who work in skyscrapers, who people love to burgle.
And she would scoff, but she would always put her calls on hold to hoist him along to get him what he needed. Shoulder him to bed, turn down his quarter-lucid attempts to feel her up, make sure he doesn’t choke on his vomit, the works.
With how common an occurrence this was, you’d think it’d slot in with the rest of her schedule, down to a practiced maneuver and on with her night. She wouldn’t be blamed in the least if she just left him on the couch, or if nothing else kicked him in the nuts while he was too out of it to complain. Many times, herself, as she dug through his hamper for the least-filthy blankets, she’d wondered why she put in the effort, for no one could ever love BoJack Horseman more than he hated himself, and at a point, it was a death sentence to try. Her time in a day was so scarce already: why would she waste precious minutes helping out the idiot who bragged about how much he blacked out when he drank?
There would be no reward. No, not even the moments of quiet, where she ran her fingers through the scruff of his mane in a way indistinguishable between a fond pet and trying to tangle out knots. Not when he reached outwards, either half-nude or only having managed to stumble out of his blazer, eyes hazy like he was trying to see her, and muttered that her hand felt like it was right there.
And she would chuckle, and think to play along for a moment. Dance her fingers along his hide and watch him writhe in embarrassment, or be so brave as to plant a kiss on the tip of that nose as he could only string together enough words to pretend to be disgusted. Not like he would remember it anyway, but something always kept her from indulging.
Letting yourself fall in love a little was a stupid thing.
Letting yourself fall in love a little with BoJack Horseman was an even stupider thing. To the point where when you turned up dead or miserable or what-have-you, people like her could only offer an I-told-you-so.
And she wasn’t about to do that to herself. Not career woman Princess Carolyn, who loved like she was marking calendars until a free trial expired, who was kicking it in L.A. no matter what her mother said: who knew BoJack well enough to say it would never end well, no matter how many moments like these tried to lie to her.
She loves him most when he’s […]
It’s a sentiment she can’t put into words.
They got along like a house on fire, laughing at the same people. Having someone to reel in, to make her little project — but battered enough to feel honest. He smiled all day on TV and bitched all night off the air, with no shortage of stories and cynical observations, always carrying a rhythm to conversations like he was waiting for people to clap at the punchlines and hold their breaths at the pauses. And she bit back enough to jostle that rhythm off its feet, but not enough to stop it entirely: to take that ever-reliable drumbeat and stitch it into something else, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Not many got that privilege.
Where does that leave her now? Twenty years of this, of games she’d say she was getting too old for… but she wasn’t, not really. She’s still here, after all.
She lets herself pet his head and wonders. She knows he wouldn’t do the same for her, maybe at most take a swipe at playing the macho man and yell at people who gave her shit and put himself in the tabloids for yet another mess for her to clean up. And she knows, too, a stupid part of her would smile at that, at that… stupid, stupid effort. So very Hollywoo.
In the low light, BoJack writhes, not yet asleep. Princess Carolyn pulls her hand back just in time for him to raise his snout and let out a heavy snort. Her whiskers twitch as he suddenly coughs, and she reaches down to prop him up so he doesn’t choke on whatever phlegmy liquor still rolls around the back of his throat. His eyes — perpetually bloodshot from bad habits she would need a roll of goddamn parchment to properly list in number — loll around, half-lidded, as she mechanically fishes through her purse for wipes. Young love, huh, she thinks as she cleans up his face, as his lips snag and he indistinctly murmurs, this is where it gets you.
The shit you can get used to, if you do it enough. Well, she supposes it prepares her for cleaning diapers someday.