#bittenstein

Bittenfeld loves his job.

He works for no one but himself, sets his own hours, and most importantly of all, he gets to meet a lot different furry personalities.

When the last appointment of his day walks in one autumn afternoon, he takes one look at her and falls in love.

She’s probably two or three months old, still all awkward paws and gangly limbs, but her spotted coat gleams under the afternoon sun and there’s a black patch over her left eye. She grins at him, tongue lolling out in a charming puppy way and Bittenfeld can’t help but kneel down to greet her, holding out the back of his hand for her to have a quick sniff.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he croons, when she doesn’t shy back, reaching out and petting the dalmatian on the head. “Are you a good girl? I bet you’re the best girl.”

He’s still petting her when he finally bothers to look up at her owner. 

He’s tall, probably close to Bittenfeld’s own fairly impressive height, and his hair is black as a raven’s wing, swept back and away from his high cheekbones in a severe sort of style. His face could be considered handsome by normal standards, expect for his eyes, which are cool and distant. He looks down on Bittenfeld with a blank, unsmiling expression and Bittenfeld’s metaphorical hackles immediately go up - he’s never been able to trust a man who doesn’t smile.

With one last ruffle of her head, he stands, straightening to his full height, feeling smug when his original estimate was right and he’s an inch or two taller. 

“I’m Dr. Bittenfeld,” he says, deciding to be the bigger man here and make a bit of an effort at being friendly. “I’m the vet here at this clinic. How can I help you, Mr -?”

The dalmatian’s owner nods, a shallow dip of his head. “Oberstein,” he says shortly, as his own introduction. His voice is surprisingly deep and smooth, but like his face, utterly emotionless. “My dog needs to be vaccinated.” 

Oberstein must be the life of the party, Bittenfeld thinks sardonically. A pity that such a cute dog and pretty face are both completely wasted on someone like him.

There’s a bump against his leg and when he looks down, the dalmatian is pressed against him, looking at up him hopefully.

Bittenfeld immediately crouches back down and lifts her easily onto the examination table. It would make things easier for the both of them in the long run. He rubs her behind her ears as she stands still without complaint, and grins when she gives him a gentle lick and wags her tail.

“What’s your name, lovely?” he asks her softly. “ I bet it’s a beautiful name, to suit a beautiful lady like you.”

He looks over to where Oberstein stands, his smile turning into a more neutral expression, waiting expectantly.

Oberstein stares back at him, face impassive for one long moment before he finally deigns to open his mouth. “Spot.”

Bittenfeld’s eyebrows shoot up incredulously. “You named her ‘Spot’?”

Oberstein lifts one shoulder upwards approximately three centimeters in what probably constituted a shrug for him. “Her coat is spotted, ‘Spot’ was therefore the logical choice.”

‘Spot’ wags her tail, looking between her owner and Bittenfeld excitedly, seemingly having heard her name.

“’The logical choice’? You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Bittenfeld mutters under his breath, running his hand across the dalmatian’s coat soothingly, in an almost apology for her terrible owner before he begins the standard checkup.

“She looks in excellent health at least,” he says eventually, stripping off his gloves and helping ‘Spot’ back down to the floor. “Make sure you bring her back in a month for the second shot of the vaccine.” Bittenfeld’s comments are obviously for Oberstein, but they’re pretty much spoken in the direction of his dog.

“Thank you, doctor.” Oberstein’s tone is still inflectionless as he clips the red leash to his dog’s collar and leads her out to reception to finalise the paperwork and payment.

Bittenfeld frowns, staring after the two and wondering if the dalmatian would be okay with such a robot for an owner. They are, after all, a highly playful and spirited breed that needs careful handling during training.

He decides to check if Oberstein even bothered to make a second appointment, poking his head out from behind his door to call out to his assistant at the front desk.

“Did Spot make an appointment for sometime mid next month?”

His assistant looks over, away from the computer screen he had been typing up reports on, frowning slightly in confusion. “Who’s Spot?”

“The dalmatian, our last patient of the day. Her name’s Spot.” Bittenfeld walks over to stand behind him, crossing his arms.

The assistant types something into his computer, bringing up the details that each owner had to fill out before the appointment and tilting the monitor slightly upwards so that Bittenfeld could see. 

“Sorry boss,” he says, “No idea where you got that name from. The dalmatian’s name is ‘Königin’. I asked Mr. Oberstein and he told me that it’s German for ‘Queen’. He’s such a nice man. A bit aloof, but nice.”

Bittenfeld scowls, glaring at the information on the screen, as clear as black on white. It was completely obvious that Oberstein had enjoyed playing him for a fool, what with that deadpan expression and deliberately toneless inflection.

Bittenfeld vows silently then and there that he would get a rise out of Oberstein next month when he next saw him, or he would die trying.

ALSO. A BONUS SNIPPET. set somewhere down the timeline lmao. because the idea of reuenthal and bittenfeld being friends and yet complete twats to each other amuses me endlessly.

“I hate him!” Bittenfeld snarls, slamming the half empty beer bottle back on the table.

Reuenthal winces noticeably from where he sits on the other side of the table. “Please, this piece is an heirloom. If I had known you were going to be in such a tiff over your robot boyfriend, I would’ve taken you to the local pub.”

Bittenfeld splutters at that, choking on a mouthful and coughing it all over the glazed cherry wood to the distress of Reuenthal, who immediately gets up to find something to wipe it up with.

“What do you mean? I just said I hate him!”

“Oh please. You’re basically trying to pull his pigtails and get his attention the only way you know how, Bittenfeld,” Reuenthal says, voice still clear despite being in the next room. “Tell me that you don’t find his stoic, mysterious personality a turn on.”

“Fuck you,” Bittenfeld snaps, cheeks feeling like they were on fire. “At least I didn’t have to adopt a cat that I’m allergic to in order to get my own boyfriend to finally notice that I exist for long enough to date me.”

Reuenthal returns to the kitchen in time to glare back at him, throwing down a thick, fluffy towel onto the table to soak up the spilt beer. “At least I have a boyfriend. You just have a pathetic crush, like a grade schooler.”

ok look i lied when i said this was my first non-reuyang but i just can’t stay away from them okay. 

SO in this verse yang once told reuenthal while they were really really drunk that his favourite commerical of all time was THIS ONE & reuenthal is both really drunk and really desperately in love with yang and as both a very drunk and VERY desperate man, he copies it.