Dahlia

he’s devastated when he sees you, sees what’s become of the beautiful girl he once had. that bright, charming smile looks like it’s being forced onto your face every time the dickhead your with makes some degrading joke about you in front of his friends, roughly nudging you when you don’t laugh

his arm is snug around your shoulders, one hand groping your chest. you try and squirm from his grip, clearly embarrassed from this treatment but he just tugs you further into his side, whispering something in your ear which makes you stop moving instantly

when you stand from the table, he raises his hand and slap you on your ass. the smack echoing through the bar and making you stumble in your heels. he shoves some cash into your hand and nudges you towards the bar

the fake smile on your face drops once you’re away from your new man, nervously shifting on your feet at the bar as the bartender clearly ignores you for some girl he’s trying to chat up instead of serving. johnny downs the rest of his drink before excusing himself from his table. he stands a few feet from you next to the bar, where you don’t see him

“oi, the lass is waiting!” johnny calls out to the bartender, who immediately rolls their eyes and walks over to begrudgingly take your order. you turn to johnny, prepared to thank the random stranger who helped you. but your small smile drops when you see him

“oh… it’s you. thank you.” you mumble, looking down at your feet. johnny frowns, shifting nervously on his feet

“no problem, hen. how’re ye? ye look good…” he says and his throat suddenly feels dry. you look like you don’t want to talk to him and it eats him up inside. your eyes flick back up towards him, looking up at him through your long lashes

“thanks. so do you…” there’s an awkward silence between the two of you and your grateful when the bartender finally places a beer in front of you

“ye drink beer now? ye always used to cringe when I offered you a sip of mine…” johnny chuckles, recalling how you used to refer to it as bread soda or something silly like that

“it’s not for me, it’s for my boyfriend. I left my purse at home and he doesn’t wanna pay for one of my ‘silly cocktails’.” you say with a small frown, shifting on your feet

“I’ll get ye a drink, doll. whaddya-“ johnny starts, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet but you grab his wrist to stop him

“you don’t have to do that. I have to get back to- oh.” you begin protest until you look over to your table to see some girl sat in your boyfriend’s lap, his hand planted firmly on her ass. johnny sees your lip wobble and his heart absolutely shatters in his chest

he knows he has no room to talk, he broke your heart and he’ll regret it for the rest of his life. he knows he was pathetic and he should’ve stood up for you. when he let you go, you took all the light in his life with you. he missed you terribly all day and dreamt about you every night

he hears a small sob escape your mouth before you turn on your feet, rushing to get out of the bar and away from him before you fully break down. johnny curses under his breath before running out after you

he finds you around the corner of the bar, hugging yourself as protection from the bitter midnight chill. he takes off his bomber jacket and drapes it over your shoulders when he comes up behind you. you jump and let out a little squeak, wiping your eyes when you turn around and notice it’s him

“I’m okay.” you sniffle, “he does this sometimes but he always says sorry and he’s really nice to me for the next few days!”

johnny doesn’t even know what to say to you for a second, settling for a quiet ‘oh, darlin…’

he pulls you into his arms, letting you cry against his chest whilst he pets over your hair. he presses a kiss to the top of your head, his strong arms slowly swaying you from side to side. “I’m such a fuckin’ dick, bonnie. shoulda never let ye go.”

you sniffle, “thought I wasn’t smart enough.” johnny shakes his head, hugging you tighter to his body. his big hand soothing up and down your back

“I’m clearly not the smart one if I make stupid decision like throwing you away, love. what kinda idiot am I to have given up the most amazing girl, eh? take me back, please, bonnie?” he pleads, pulling back slightly to be able to cup your cheeks and wipe your tears away with his thumbs,

“under one condition…” you sniffle, your lip jutting out in a pout. johnny nods his head eagerly, clearly ready to fulfill whatever major quest you’re going to give him

“anything, bonnie. anything for ye…” he says, his thumbs gently running over your cheekbones

“you go back inside and get my purse. I left it on the table and it’s my favourite one. and it’s got my juicy couture lipgloss in it.” you say, making johnny let out a a quiet chuckle, his eyes lightening up when he realises he’s got you back. he leans forward and places a few sweet pecks to your lips

“course.” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his car keys. “go wait in the car and i’ll get it.”

you nod and trot off, heels clicking against the concrete of the pavement on the way to his car. he watches you until your safe and in the car before heading back inside. he saunters over to your table and grabs your purse, tapping your now-ex boyfriend on the shoulder

And on a few of those counts, Simon Riley can relate. 

She is also pampered, spoiled, and the thing you love most in the world. 

He made a grudging sort of peace with her long ago on account of that, but the memory of her attempting to sink her teeth into his ankle the first time he met her is one he won’t forget. She hadn’t come close, and he feels in retrospect it had been a kind of warning shot.

He brought her jerky next time he came round yours and passed it to her in tiny bites under the dining table, which seemed to earn him ambivalence, and, more importantly, your approval. Your delight. 

Since then, there’s been a sort of truce between them, the wary respect of the mutually interested. The mutual interest being your continued happiness. 

It’s an odd relationship to have with a dog, but when he witnesses her growling and glowering at every other man on the street when accompanying you on her evening walk, creating a bubble of space between you and them, he understands that she likes him, tolerates him, as much as she can. 

He can understand that. 

The urge to keep you safe.

That, and she’s a good alarm bell, if she wouldn’t exactly be good in a fight. He can’t begrudge her protectiveness of you. Another commonality. 

One evening in early spring, you ask him to watch her for you. It’s the first time that you’ll be the one away and not him, even if the stint is much, much shorter. “I’ll be gone for just over twenty-four hours,” you say all in one breath, “to help my sister with her move. If you can’t, I understand, I just thought—” 

“I’ll take care of her, love.” 

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to waste your time.”

It strikes him as odd, but he doesn’t mention it. Nothing he’s ever done for you has been a waste.

But this is the thing you struggle the most with. Asking for help. Accepting it. An independent streak that bordered on isolation. And all he knows to do is offer himself to you, slip into your orbit as you have into his, the rest of it comes uneasily, uncomfortably. 

“It’s not.”   

“Okay.” And your voice is strangely soft. “Thank you.” 

Three hours into his dog sitting stint, he and the dog execute their truce by going on a walk. It seems to Simon that she’s looking for you, as they walk down the quiet suburban street, the outskirts of London where the neighborhood folds seamlessly into something much less metropolitan. 

A familiar bubble springs up around him and the little thing at his feet trundling along at an even pace in a sparkling pink harness. People swerve to avoid him, a few even turn around or cross the street, but he notices within seconds that they aren’t looking at him for once, but the dog. 

It’s a little funny. 

Hilarious, actually. 

“Got a reputation, do you?” 

She growls at a person who dares to pass too close, and the noise is startling in how terrible it is, like it belongs to a much larger dog. She doesn’t lunge or tug at the leash or make a move at anyone, still they keep their distance. She clears a nice little path in her own right.

At the entrance to the park you usually frequent with her, she pauses at the gate, evaluating the plethora of children and other animals within.

Too many of them at this hour, Simon thinks, eyeing the swarm on the path ahead.  

Poppy huffs. Simon does too. 

She glances up at him with a look that seems to say, I will not be going in there.

You have a habit of speaking to Poppy as though she is a person. A habit that Simon has picked up, too. 

“Exfil sound good?” 

She turns and marches back down the road.

Fair enough, he thinks, following behind her. He doesn’t want to walk through that either. 

At home in your flat once again, she allows him to wipe off her paws before disappearing into your bedroom in a blur of black and white fur. 

He follows and lies next to her on your bed, and she only rumbles at him a little. 

A soft, cloudy gray light slips in the window, rain begins to tap at the window. Your flat is comfortable in a way nothing else in his life is, filled almost to the brim with things, books and lamps and plants and color. He won’t sleep, but he likes the content feeling he gets lying there, the scent of your detergent and perfume clouding around him. He watches the ceiling, painted a cerulean blue, speckled with gold, and listens to the rain, the sound of Poppy’s soft breathing. 

The sun slips slowly downward, a pale line on the wall that treads into shadow.

Everything feels warm, soft, safe. 

It chafes. 

He gets up to check the front door is locked. 

Poppy follows a moment later.

The next morning. 

It’s been exactly eighteen hours and six minutes since you left when he realizes the little bugger hasn’t eaten anything. For the better part of the morning, she has remained aloof, perched on her favorite chair beneath the window that overlooks the road, engaged in what can only amount to a staring contest with him from his place on your couch, shoulders against the wall, door and window and dog all within view. 

It’s seven minutes after that that she primly rises from her perch on the chair, pounces to the floor, pads over the rug, and retches delicately onto the hardwood, all while looking him in the eyes. Slick yellow bile that pools in a perfect circle and sticks to the pristine white fur of her chin. 

Not on the carpet though, he thinks, too civilized for that. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters. 

She growls halfheartedly when approaches and reaches down to tuck her tiny body under his arm and clean her up at the sink. “If something is wrong with you, we’re both dead,” he tells her seriously when she’s safely beneath a blanket on her favorite chair once again.  

She looks placidly back at him and licks her canines. Maybe you’re dead, the look seems to say.

Well, she’d probably be right about that.  

Between the two of them he knows who’s done for.

Simon sighs, goes about cleaning the sick from the floor, and then does a quick search on his phone, just to confirm his suspicions about the little demon. 

Sure enough, the bile is a sign she hasn’t eaten. 

The bowl of kibble he’d placed on the floor the night before, is untouched. 

He glances at Poppy, prim and proper on her throne in the corner by the window, an unusual curl of sunshine spearing through gauzy curtains. 

She looks back at him with big, sad eyes, head cushioned on her crossed front paws, and sighs dramatically, wriggling firmly into the pillow behind her. 

The dog. 

Is on a fucking hunger strike. 

He doesn’t blame her. 

He’d much rather be with you than him, too.

“Right,” he says slowly. “You have to eat somethin’.” 

She closes her eyes and huffs, rooting down further into the pillow with a little shiver. 

With a grunt, he goes to the kitchen pours a new cup of kibble into the bowl, palms Poppy one handed and sets her directly before the bowl. She stands and stares before prancing away, curling into an oval on his usual spot on the couch. 

And Simon is keenly aware that his usual tactics of interrogation and coercion are not going to work here. 

He goes to the kitchen and rummages around your fridge and cabinets, looking for something meaty, something you’ve treated Poppy to before. He comes up with a package of chicken, a can of carrots, frozen blueberries, white rice. 

Twenty minutes later, he presents a bowl of unseasoned cooked chicken and carrots to the dog on the bloody couch, who pointedly turns her nose up at it. 

For the better part of an hour, he tries any number of combinations of food. The bowl becomes a mess, and he feels a sense of unusual desperation slipping over him like a second skin. 

His fingers itch toward his phone, but what kind of man is he if he can’t take care of your dog, can’t get your dog to eat while you’re away? What does that say about how well he can take care of you?

“What kind of dog doesn’t like chicken?” He asks the dog in question. “I don’t even eat this fucking well.” 

She cracks one eye open and curls into herself. 

He tries treats next, and strips of jerky, just to get something in her stomach, but those too are rejected in rapid succession. 

Frustration creeps in. 

So does a vague sense of worry, visions of you finding your dog sick and starving at his hands, smile fading, disappointment coloring your features. Resignation. You ask him for so little. 

The day ticks into the afternoon. He thinks of calling the vet just down the road where Poppy gets her annual checkup. 

Not a second too soon, his phone buzzes. 

A string of numbers on the black screen that he recognizes as yours. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask as soon as the video call connects. 

Not even a hello, just a twitch of your brows, a shine of scrutinizing eyes. 

He hates that. Hates how you seem to read him like a big, open book. Despite the mask, despite how still and silent he is, you always know and have always been able to tell. 

Loves it, too, but he’d never admit to it.

He spies masses of cardboard boxes behind you, and can hear your sister and her husband somewhere in their new home. 

You close the bedroom door, and the voices fade as you sit. 

“. . Nothin’.”

“Liar.” 

He hesitates. You tilt your head, that stern little quirk of yours that you used on unruly patients in the base hospital with impunity. “Well?” 

“She won’t eat.” 

“Poppy?” 

“Poppy,” he confirms.  

You bite your lip, like something is funny. “What?” He makes an effort not to bark the question. 

“Can I see her?” 

He props the phone up at the edge of her blanket nest she’d painstakingly dug out on the couch. For the first time since you left, she wags her wail, perks up, her tongue lolls pink out of her mouth. “Oh, hey, little girl,” you say, “Are you making Simon work to feed you?” 

Her tail slows a little, and if dogs could look guilty, cowed and embarrassed, he swears this one fucking does. “He’s trying to take care of you,” you say seriously. “Don’t be stubborn. I’m gonna tell him how to feed you proper and you’re gonna eat, aren’t you?” 

She whines and lowers her head. 

“Yes, you are, my terrible girl,” you coo, voice made of affection. 

He picks the phone up, waits for orders that don’t immediately come, and clocks the nervous way your mouth curls at the edge. You chew at the inside of your cheek.

“Listen, I didn’t think she’d get this way with you. If you don’t want to deal with her, I can call—” 

You can. . .what? Call someone else to fill in for your partner? To feed your dog? 

He ain’t that useless. At least, he hopes he isn’t that useless to you. 

“I’ll do it,” he says with all the grit required of muscling through a particularly grueling operation. 

“Simon,” you laugh. “I’m just saying, you didn’t sign up for this. It’s a lot to ask. I can call someone else to—” 

“I did sign up for it.” You bite your lip. “Got to feed her by hand or somethin’?”

Your smile turns pained. “Well. . .”

Simon thinks of all the choices that led him to his moment. The first time he saw you on base, bringing you tea when you overstayed your shift, shuffling injured into the base hospital for some minor injury during training when he never had before. You treated him like everyone else, even when he didn’t speak. You were never afraid of him, and he thought he wanted everyone to be afraid of him. The first time he saw the photo of Poppy you kept on your desk, your cheek squished against hers. 

He peels off one glove, sits heavily on the couch with your tiny, impossible dog, and holds out a handful of kibble, which she delicately begins to eat without any fuss, one kernel at a time, from his bare palm. 

Her fur is soft against his fingers, her nose warm and moist.  

He half expects her to nip him though they moved past that long ago, but she seems content to eat from the cup of his scarred hand. 

It takes nearly an hour to get through the whole bowl. If there’s too much kibble in his hand she won’t eat it. The exact number of little pellets that she will accept being in the bowl of his hand, he learns after trial and error, is eleven.

“I’m really sorry,” you keep saying from where you’re watching propped up in Poppy’s blanket nest, a small smile on your pretty face, the point of your chin cupped in your hand. “I didn’t think she’d get this way with you. I would have asked otherwise. She hardly ever does it with me anymore—”

“That’s all right, sweetheart.” 

“Is it actually?” 

He grunts, lets the thought of how he’d do anything for you slip to the back of his tongue and roll uncomfortably down the column of his spine. The knowledge settles like lead in his stomach. Warm lead, but lead all the same. “. . .Yeah.”

“I owe you, Si,” you hum. “Seriously.” 

“Don’t owe me nothin’.” 

Poppy finishes the last bit of kibble, contentedly licks her chops, and climbs gracefully onto Simon’s lap. She turns three circles and then settles down with her eyes closed, head pillowed on his thigh. 

“Ah,” you say softly. “Look at that. I always knew the two of you would get along eventually.” 

“What are you on about?” He runs a hand over her fur. She makes a peaceful noise that slips and hums against the rough skin of his hand. “We’ve been friends since the beginning.” 

“Simon Riley with a friend,” you say softly with a little laugh. “Shock, horror.” 

“Comedian, you are.” 

“Thank you for taking care of her.”

“Mean little thing.” 

“No,” you say, “Just territorial and wary of people that aren’t hers.” 

“Suppose I’m one of ‘em now.” 

“Suppose you are,” you say, still watching him with that look he loves and hates, the examining one that sees all, everything, too much. “She’s just like you after all.” 

He thinks of their bubble of space on the sidewalk, her protective streak and her sharp little teeth. “Wouldn’t say that.” 

“Sure you are,” you say, “How do you think I got you to come around to me? Holding out my hand, and waiting.” 

That leaden warmth in his chest seems to grow heavier. 

He wishes you were there, because he’d lift the mask and kiss you; he’d let you cup his jaw in your tender hands. 

“You have a bad habit of attractin’ people with bad attitudes.” 

You giggle. “I should go. We still have a lot of unpacking to do. I’ll see you this evening.” 

“Me and Poppy’ll meet you at the station.” 

“I'll be okay. Don’t have to do that.” 

“We’ll see you at the station.” 

“Okay. ‘Course you will. Love you.” 

Before he has a chance to process what you’ve said, the call ends. He’s left with your serene dog, and the sense of having won something.