This, In Remembrance

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She surprised herself by snorting in equal parts delight and irritation as the dog crept cautiously forward. Why anything that big would be afraid of her was beyond her understanding, but she found it endearing. And stupid. She might have been grounded, but it did not mean Molly had anymore use for petty inefficiencies than she had before.

Still, though. Her new companion, if it could be called as such, seemed sweet. And willing to play, however inconvenient it was.

She tugged back gently at the rope in his mouth, having no real intention or desire to rip it from him, just, she realized, genuinely enjoying being with another living thing she wasn't scared of. At least, not like she had been. She supposed to dog could turn. Become feral and aggressive. It was big enough it could do some real damage to her if it wanted to, and she wasn't sure she'd have been able to outrun it for long, even with two good legs.

But she knew it wasn't going to judge her. Wasn't going to ask silent, too-polite questions with its eyes. If it wanted food, it would beg. If it wanted attention, it would bug her until she gave in. And if it wanted out...

She sighed and reached out to scratch behind its ears and under its chin, smiling genuinely for the first time in days.

"So, I take it this means you don't like walks?" she said joking, then considered. Had it been abused? It had darted into the street at four am that morning. Dogs weren't terribly uncommon on the streets, but when they were out there, they weren't running, or if they were, they were chasing. Otherwise, they were wandering, lost, maybe curious. But this dog...

She paused in her scratching, curious, and dropped her other hand from the pull toy to scratch its ears with both hands, frowning.

"So, what were you running from, huh, guy? Is that why you don't wanna go out? Something out there you're afraid of?"

She started to shrug off the idea, thinking it was probably just playing games, when it hit her.

Cars. The poor thing was afraid of cars.

She dropped her hands abruptly, staring at the animal with an expression even she couldn't read, reflected in those big, dark eyes.

"Okay," she said after a long time. "You wanna play, we'll play in here. We don't have to go out there, okay, boy? It's alright. It's okay. You...you're safe."

She didn't know where the words came from. But she knew what it meant to hear them, and she knew it was right. Even if he couldn't understand her.

And he couldn't. Of course.
 
They played for a few moments, neither of them really looking to win in this game of tug-of-war, simply enjoying being able to play. It was a strange contrast to the panic that was still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind, telling him that he should not be staying in the same place, should not be having fun. He had no right to be doing such things. He had sacrificed his right to have fun when he had killed his chief and run from his punishment. Yet he was having fun anyways. The slowly fading mind of the dog was certainly having fun, but it seemed that it would only take another day before the damage to the shifter mind would be completely healed. Then what would he do?

That thought faded from his mind when the human's fingers slipped under his chin and behind his head. For a moment there was panic; had she captured him, was she going to bind him? But those thoughts faded when he felt her fingers scratch lightly. His tail wagged happily, and he licked her forearm with no small measure of satisfaction.

She was talking to him again. He listened with half an ear, more interested in the feel of her fingers behind his ear. However, he paused at her next sentence, his tail coming to a standstill and his head tilting to the side. What was she talking about? How could she know he was running? She thought he was a dog. She had to. Otherwise, everything was lost.

She seemed to reach a decision, and he watched her somewhat warily, keeping his tail wagging slightly only through a conscious effort. She wasn't going to try and force him to go outside. Had he been human, he might have very well breathe a sigh of relief. As a dog, he only began to pant again, ears perked up happily. Whatever she wanted to believe was fine with him, so long as she didn't try and force him into anything he didn't want to do.

He was safe. It would have been funny, except for how much he longed for it to be true. He longed to be able to return to his tribe, spend time with the people he had known for the better portion of his life. They were his friends, his only family. And now they hunted him like a monster, uncaring that he had been trying to protect them. But he had broken Law, and there was no going back now. Even if they did believe that he had been working for the good of the tribe, they would never be able to take him back. And no other shifter tribe would ever take him in, either. The hunters would back off if they didn't find him soon, there were other things that they would be concerned with, although one would always be on his trial. He would be hunted for the rest of his life, until he either found a place so far away that no shifter would ever bother to go near it, or they succeeded in killing him.

It was a sobering thought, and one that could easily break his heart if he dwelt on it for too long. He let out an unconscious whine, his ears dropping back a bit, before shaking his head somewhat aggressively, trying to dispel the gloom that wanted to cling to him.
 
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She frowned when the dog whined, something like fear or panic itching just briefly at the back of her mind, before logic ushered the irrational thought, whatever it had been, into deeper, darker corners of her psyche that only ever erupted when she was sleeping. Or driving down mostly empty suburban development roads at dawn. She couldn't forget that part. Not yet. It had never happened like that before, not so vividly and not out of the blue. Not on her own, just from something as simple as hearing a few notes of a song she hardly even knew.

The thought made her shiver, like it was suddenly cold in the room, and she realized she was still sitting there, her hands fallen to her side, away from the dogs heavily muscled form.

She blinked at him slowly. She'd have to make found posters sooner or later. Take a picture on her phone, add her phone number and their address. It would he banging the posters that was the hard part. She didn't want to leave him alone in the house -- and not just because she thought she might come back to a floor full of pillow feathers and dog shit -- but she didn't want to leave him there with her parents, either. She seemed friendly enough. But they pried. She was almost afraid they'd come home with a puppy, just because they thought it was what she wanted. And she didn't. She didn't want, or need, anything else to take care of.

"What is it?" she said after a moment. "You wanna go outside, or no?"

She yawned, smirked, and stood, and idea coming into the sleepy haze of her mind.

"C'mon, boy. How 'bout the backyard. Let's split the difference."
 
He watched her through wet black eyes, panting slightly, head tilted to the side. Despite the fact that she was human, he couldn't help but feel something almost kindred between himself and her. Maybe it was the tension that was still in her body, the carefully muddled fear, the pain. Most likely it had nothing to do with being hunted by those you once called family, but it was fear none the less.

He whined again, slightly, before wagging his tail at her once. Wherever she had gone off to, she seemed to come back, and her eyes refocused on him. What would she think if she knew she wasn't looking at a dog? Or, at least, no dog she had ever known. She would be terrified, there was no doubt of that.

Why was he even thinking of such a thing? It was one thing to slip up due to injury, another altogether to even begin to imagine willingly revealing himself to a human. The fact that he did not want to terrify her had nothing to do with it. There was no way a human could know about the shifters. It would be disastrous. He had killed to protect that fundamental belief. But he had already broken the rules once...

He shook his head vigorously, and followed the human to her feet. Outside. It would do him good. Apparently the air was clouding his mind, or the injury was not as well healed as he had thought it was. The dog mind was almost completely gone, there only because he needed to know how a dog would react. While he had never read anything about head injuries leaving a shifter thinking things he had no right to be thinking, the precedence for the inability to use any form of logic was there.

He bumped up gently against her leg, barely brushing her jeans with the side of his head. He would need to leave soon. But not yet. It would be good to move again, to frolic as only a dog knew how. He missed his cat body, but there was no doubt that a dog won all contests for happy, lumbering tomfoolery. Maybe it would be possible for him to bring a smile to that girl's face for a little while as well.

Not that he really cared.
 
They were outside for an hour. Molly hadn't even realized time was passing until she felt herself crashing, yawning, half asleep on her feet, her first carafe of coffee wearing off just a little later than usual.

In the time, she had pulled out every single toy the Michaelford's had given her: more tug ropes, stuffed pets, chew toys, squeaky things, and tennis balls than she'd have guessed anyone could maintain an interest in. She'd chased things under bushes, under the porch, had refilled the dog's water bowl twice, just in case. It was too late in the year to be hot outside, but it seemed right, and she wasn't really thinking, anyway. She couldn't have been, or she wouldn't have been outside so long.

The backyard was the best and worst of it. She liked being outside without feeling exposed, like everyone was staring, ready to point and laugh or ask or worse. But the high fences, the sturdy walls...she'd start feeling cagey, feeling caged in just minutes. It was hard for her to sit still anymore, and even harder to run. There wasn't much she could do for an hour anymore, and certainly nothing she could lose herself in, sleep least of all.

But she had wasted an hour with the dog, all without ever so much as looking at her watch.

Smiling cautiously, she started grabbing toys, leaving a stuffed dragon for the dog to chew on as she ushered him back inside, refilling his water bowl for a third time, even though it was still more than halfway full. She needed to make lunch. She needed to make posters, and clean the kitchen. She needed to have done something before her parents came home, or they would pry and worry and force her outside.

But she only wanted to take a nap. And she didn't want to leave the dog.

Cautiously, awkwardly, she set the crate of toys on the counter and grabbed a treat from the dish the Michaelford's had given her.

She looked down at the dog and held out the treat, just out of reach.

"Here, boy. You want a treat? You want some...lunch? Do dogs eat lunch?"
 
The outside was a very welcome distraction. The shifter retreated from the surface, leaving the dog to play. It would be a chance for him to drift, while the natural instincts of the dog chased after balls and chew toys, tugged gently on ropes, and basically made a fool of itself for the entertainment of the human. Had he been paying attention, he very well might have become embarrassed at some of his actions. He would never have consented to rolling over on his back, belly high and tail wagging, if he had been paying attention.

But the general happiness of the dog seeped over into the shifter, and he watched instead, separated and peaceful. There were worse fates in the world, he decided, than being a dog. In some ways, it was remarkably like living as a shifter. The "pack" was everything, just as the clan was everything. Every individual had the right to be an individual, and yet every individual also worked for more than their own needs. There was time to play, time to eat, time to sleep, and time to work.

Maybe someday, if he had the time, he would go run with the wild wolves. Shifters may take on the forms of animals, but most always retained enough identity to consider themselves above them. It wouldn't do to become completely lost in the reality of an animal, but he couldn't help but wonder what the shifters could learn, if they actually took a bit more time to study the lifestyles of the animals they became.

And so he allowed himself to play with an almost reckless abandon, his tail wagging so hard that it shook his whole body on occasion. And he had fun with it. He had fun being a dog, playing with a human. It was almost unheard of. And yet, it was the truth.

When she finally decided that she was done with play, he followed her into the house willingly enough, panting hard and tail wagging. He sniffed at the treat she offered warily, before stepping forward and taking it gently with teeth and tongue. He licked the side of her hand, before sitting down and looking up at her.

She wasn't a bad human, all things considered. For being a human.
 
Molly stared down at the dog with a faint, if distant, smile on her face, rolling her idea over in her head. Strange that it had even come to her. It was still only a little before one in the afternoon, despite feeling like she'd been awake forever. If she disappeared for a couple hours now, she could still snap a few pictures of the dog on her phone and print out some flyers. In fact, that might be better, that way, when her parents got home, she was gone, out delivering flyers whether or not she could get the dog to come with her. It seemed plain enough he didn't want to go out, though he'd enjoyed the backyard enough. She'd try again when she woke, maybe walking him through the backyard. It had probably just been the leash that had thrown him; once she showed him what 'walk' meant, he'd probably come along.

Otherwise, she figured, she could leave him up in her room with food and water for a bit. She'd found it was best to be out of the house when her parents came home, lest they urge her to go do something. Usually a movie or dinner with 'friends', as if there was anyone left in Fort Worth who might qualify as such. Most of her friends from high school had moved on and away by now. Those who hadn't weren't really the type she wanted to be hanging out with, anyway. There was no judgment there. Only the objective realization these were homebodies, well-meaning nosy neighbors who would ask and prod and look away politely if she started to limp.

For now, though, she figured it couldn't hurt. She'd worked up a light sweat playing in the yard with the dog. It wasn't very warm out, and she hadn't done a whole lot of running, or anything. But she was still working back up to real exercise on her leg, so even a little jogging felt like a work out.

And she really was tired. Maybe it was just the strain of the morning, but she felt somehow better and worse than she had in a while. The worse was simple -- the nightmares had been getting randomly worse lately, keeping her up later, keeping her sleep more shallow. Leading up to the trigger event that had led to her hitting the dog with her father's car just a little over eight hours ago. That much, she was used to. The headaches and tension and anxiety. It would continue to get worse until finally she was so tired, she slept through the night, regardless of night terrors. It wouldn't be easy on her parents -- it never was -- but it would restart the cycle and maybe in a few days she'd feel human enough to work on more job applications.

The dog would be gone by then, too.

She felt her stomach tighten a little at the thought. That, she guessed, was the better. She hadn't felt this relaxed, unfettered by fear or exhaustion, in a long, long time. It was so strange, she found herself wondering if she was sick, or just delirious from lack of sleep. Could it have been playing with the dog? It seemed unlikely, almost impossible, that an animal she'd 'known' only a handful of hours could be the cause of her lifted mood, and yet what else was there, aside from the looming threat of actual insanity.

She recognized her thoughts taking an uncomfortably familiar dark turn and shook her head, yawning again.

Just a quick nap, for whatever it was worth. And if that didn't work, she'd leave the dog and take the flyers and come back and work on getting rid of him. It was better, she decided abruptly, that she get rid of him now. Better for the dog, better for her parents, and better for her.

She stooped and changed out his water again, even though it was nearly full, adding a few ice cubes from the freezer. She'd seen somewhere it was good for hot days. It was hardly hot, but the dog was panting hard, and she felt a little warm, even without fur, so she figured it couldn't do any harm. Balancing the bowl between her chest and her arm, she hesitated, then grabbed another treat and tucked it into her back pocket before leaving everything else on the counter.

"C'mon, boy," she yawned again. "Let's go play upstairs for a little bit. Okay?"
 
He watched her quietly as she stared at him, trying to interpret what was going through her head. He couldn't help but wonder a little bit, particularly because he was, for the moment, bound to her. He needed her goodwill, until he was ready to leave.

Yet he knew nothing about the mind processes of humans, and even less about humans like her. There was something strange about her that he couldn't quite pin down. Maybe he would understand someday.

No, he wasn't going to be here that long. He simply had to make sure that she remained happy with the "dog" that was going to be living with her for a little while. He would vanish soon enough, and she would be able to go on with her life.

Yet her darkening expression didn't seem to be directed at him. It seemed mostly to be internal. That was enough for him. He didn't need to worry about what was going through her mind. It was none of his concern.

He followed her up the stairs, clinging close enough to appear attached, but not getting into a position where he would wind up tripping her. He panted, tail wagging slightly, and took a few laps of the water as soon as she set it down. For now, there was nothing but rest and recovery.
 
Molly chuckled and rolled her eyes as she trudged up the stairs, the dog all but weaving between her feet.

"What're you so eager to get up stairs for?" she teased lightly. "It's just gonna be a lot of sitting around again. Well. maybe not a lot."

It had been a couple weeks since she'd decided to try napping in the middle of the day. It was the best time to do it in some ways, since her parents weren't home to agonize if she couldn't fall asleep. Her mother in particular had a hundred and one different solutions, ranging from tea, to white noise machines, to yoga, to even once suggestion medication. Once. Most medications, Molly had learned, would only make the nightmares brighter, closer, louder. This one had just made it nearly impossible to wake up when they had come, propelling her into a world of hallucinations like waking visions. The thought would have made her shudder if she were a more sentimental person.

Now? Well, now she was feeling relaxed, if not hopeful. The weather was nice, the street was quiet, the dog had been played and water and fed, and her parents wouldn't be home for another four hours at least. At this point, four hours would leave her feeling hungover when she woke, but it was that or risk another early morning drive. And when she woke, she'd make those posters and put them up around the neighborhood, whether or not the dog came with her. She'd have to drop it off at the pound within the next few days -- keeping a dog that wasn't hers, even if it made a decent playmate, was bad news for reasons she couldn't quite identify.

She reached the top of the stairs and set the bowl down for the dog near his bed on the window seat, though she doubted he would stay there. She shut the door to keep him from running around the house unsupervised, figuring if he needed something, he'd whine or back and wake her easily enough.

Now that she was upstairs, covered in a thin, sticky layer of her own sweat, the heat of the day having soaked through the roof and risen into the loft she called her own, she could hardly keep her eyes open. She yawned again and slouched down onto the bed, whistling gently for the dog without even really thinking about it. Then remembering the treat, she stood, slid out of her jeans, and pulled the little bone out of her pocket to offer it lazily to the dog, suddenly wondering how long she could keep calling it 'the dog'.

"Not that it matters," she said, now laying face down on the bed, on top of the rumpled comforter, her feet on her pillow at the head, one arm dangling over the side to offer the treat if he ever came near. "Naming you is a bad idea, like naming baby animals on a farm, y'know? 'Cept..." she yawned again and smiled lazily at the creature, beckoning again for it to come, with no real understanding of why she so wanted it like her. "'Cept I won't kill you and eat you. Just give you back to your people. 'nd you a'ready have a neame. Y'know?"
 
He perked up his ears when he heard the human's whistle, turning away from the water, a few drops of mixed slobber and water dripping onto the floor. He almost glanced at it guiltily, before reminding himself that a dog wouldn't care. So, instead, he walked over to the bed, sniffing at her fingers happily before once more taking the treat gently, making sure to not even touch her skin with his teeth. He could be a good dog. He knew nothing about being a dog, but he had to wonder if this girl knew anything about dogs either. But he knew what shifters looked for in pets, and so long as he didn't stray too far from the dogs base instincts he should be alright.

She lay down on the bed, and he watched her with black eyes. He was glad she talked out loud. If she didn't, he wouldn't be able to know for sure what she was thinking. It was interesting to learn that the issue of his name seemed to be on her mind quite a bit. If he stopped to think about it long enough, the issue of his name would not leave him be. He no longer had a name. He had once had a name. But it had been removed when he had sacrificed his right to be a member of the tribe.

He had liked that name, and had called it his own, even though it wasn't the one with which he had been born. He had been given a different name then. A name that had been sacrificed to the streets. He was glad that one was gone.

Adair. The name tasted like sorrow in his mind. He would do better to just forget it.

But what would any self-respecting shifter have to say if he took a name that a human gave him? That was, of course, assuming she gave him a name. That was assuming he stayed around long enough for her to give him a name. Which he wouldn't. And there was nothing saying that he had to take the name. Being called something did not necessarily make it a name.

What was he even thinking? He was more concussed than he had suspected, if he was considering taking the name a human gave him.

But he found himself jumping up on the bed after her anyways. He had already established it was something he did last night. There was no reason not to repeat it. Besides, the bed was far more comfortable than the floor, and there was no reason for him not to indulge in a little bit of self-centered behavior. He was, after all, a dog.

He licked one of her fingers, before burying his nose under his paws. He didn't know if he would actually be able to sleep, but rest would do him no harm.
 
Molly snorted into her comforter as the dog -- the dog? Yes, 'The Dog' -- took his treat then reclaimed his place on the bed next to her. Well. At least he was friendly. Some some part of her mind objected, to having to wash the sheets, hoping he wasn't shedding on her pillow; to the possibility of undoing any training his real family might have given him; to, more practically, the idea that she was not a sound sleeper in the slightest. But the thoughts came to her in big, bright, bold shapes, technicolor clouds floating through a haze of sleepy delirium she couldn't take seriously, even if she wanted to. And she didn't. She felt okay now. She had played with the dog. She had a friend. Not one she could confide in, not even one she could trust. But she could let her guard down a little. Just a little. Just enough to sleep.

"How 'bout Jack, hm?" she said, with the loopy sort of knowledge that came with understanding she wouldn't remember any of this later. "You like Jack, boy? Hm?" She reached down, tried to scratch his head again, and was asleep before she'd so much as moved.

--

In her defense, or maybe Dog's, she lasted longer than she normally did. Two, almost three hours, which had become nearly the equivalent of a full night's rest. Any other day, had she gotten a three hour nap, she'd have called it a success, stumbled drunkenly out of the house and down the street for a short run to the nearest gas station, where she'd fuel up with enough coffee to trick herself and her parents into thinking she had had a normal day. Followed with a shower and convincing makeup, it would have been almost perfect.

But she had hit a dog that morning. And that flashback she had had been so real. And she had been so, so tired.

For a long while, she slept peacefully, almost dead to the world for the first time in a long time. Then the trigger sequences started. She didn't know why or how or when. One moment, she was floating down a dark, cool river of content exhaustion. The next, she was strapped in a burning metal box, two miles in the air.

Molly whimpered, sweat beading at her forehead and neck, soaking into her shirt. She twitched lightly, one hand curling into the sheets clustered and twisted around her shoulders. Her breathing sped up. She began to tremble.

"No..." she whimpered quietly. "No...please, no..."

In the sky, everything was black and orange and silver. She could feel the flames at her back, licking through her flight suit, turning lycra to molten glue, dripping down her spine and taken flesh with it. She moaned in pain, both hands welded to the flight control.

Over the radio, she could hear her fellow pilot dying. Burning alive.

"Repeat -- " came the voice, little more than a frenzied scream. "Repeat -- incoming, six o' clock, there -- " Another scream, trailing into a sob. Molly whimpered.

"Mol," said the voice through a burst of static. Strangely calm. No -- screaming. No...that was her. "Mol, you gotta get outta the sky, now. Head for the field at the bottom of those hills and -- " Another scream. Maybe Molly's. Maybe the other pilot's. Maybe both. The seat trembled as it tried to eject. The controls had been melted by the fire.

Everything was orange and black.

"Molly?"

"Jack! Jack, you fucking hang on, you can get down, you can land, send up a flare -- "

"My engines are out, Mol. I'll distract them, I've got a few more seconds of air time. You better fucking run, Rhodes. I swear to God, if you come back for me, I will haunt your ass for the rest of your life."

"No, Jack! I can save you!"

"The hell you can, Mol! Make a run for it!"

Molly was crying now. She never cried. She couldn't breathe. She was tangled in the bed sheets, fighting to get free, strapped in a metal burning box and plummeting toward the earth.

Jack's plane was fifty meters from contact. She jerked the jet's steering, nearly tumbled out of her bed. The sheets tightened around her chest. She whimpered again, shaking.

25 meters. 10. 5.

"Jack!"

"Molly! Don't you dare -- "

The radio silence startled her. It shouldn't have. She opened her mouth to scream. The hills loomed out of the darkness and swallowed her whole.

And Molly screamed.
 
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When she finally lay down he pressed up against her side, not firmly enough that she would feel pressure from his side, but just close enough that she would be able to sense his presence. The dog was happy and comfortable, stretched out on the soft mattress, head resting on his legs and ears relaxed. He let out a soft whush of air, before closing his eyes. He was a light enough sleeper that it wouldn't take too much to wake him. And while he wasn't exactly tired, a nap would never hurt.

He fell asleep much easier than he was expecting to, all things considered. Perhaps he was simply more tired than he had realized, or maybe there was something in the deep, steady breathing of another being that enticed him to sleep. Either way, his mind drifted away to happier hunting grounds, where his clan ran with him.

He was suddenly awoken a few hours later by the feel of something running hard into his side. He sat up suddenly, panicking, convinced that, somehow, while he was sleeping, the Hunters had managed to find him, and he was about to die. His teeth were bared, ears laid flat back, and it took him a few moments to realize exactly what had awoken him.

The human was tossing violently in the bed, the sheets tangled around her legs. She thrashed, her hair flying in a static tangle about the top of her head. Every muscle in her body was twitching, and her eyes rolled wildly under her lids. He whimpered softly, uncertain of what to do. Some of his clan had suffered from nightmares, but nothing as severe as from what she was apparently suffering. He took a careful step forward, struggling to stay balanced on top of the tossing sheets and wobbling bed. He lay down carefully next to her side, pressing his warm and trembling body against her side. He didn't want to make her feel trapped, and thereby force her into an even stronger state of panic. But leaving her alone would not do anything good either. So he pressed up against her side, under one of her arms, whining softly. He rested his nose against her chest, before beating the side of her leg with his tail. He whined again, desperately wanting to wake her, but scared of terrifying her.

What was a dog to do?
 
She wasn't sure what finally woke her, or if she was even awake at all. It was not so dark anymore, but the fire continued all around her, burning bright imprints into the edges of her vision, wrapped around her chest with a lethal intensity that sapped her strength and pushed her to fight all the harder.

Molly was falling, met only with the cold and distant revelation that she was trapped, would be falling forever like Alice down the rabbit hole, and if she ever landed, her greeting would be nothing so tame as talking rabbits and crazed Red Queens.

And then something changed. She wasn't sure what it was. She was still falling, still burning, still struggling to breathe, still fighting to live. But she heard something. Beyond the whine of a dying engine, beyond the tattered whimpers and screams from bubbling endlessly from her throat. She didn't know what it was, but she could hear it, feel it. Things that didn't belong in a burning, crashing fighter jet.

Fur. Wet nose. A tail. Dog.

Molly sat up so fast she felt dizzy, but she didn't care. She was now at least sort of aware she'd been dreaming. A night terror in the middle of the day, which was growing more common than not. There were exercise she was supposed to do in cases like these. Deep breathing, stretches, little checks to remind herself who she was, where she was. Not in the black hills hiding bunkers like rows of teeth. Texas. Fort Worth. Home.

Right?

She tried to jump to her feet, failed horribly when she remembered how tightly she'd bound herself in lengths of twisted bed sheet. And then she was on her knees, feeling her heart go crazy in her chest and ears, wondering if she could have a heart attack at 26 years old. Breathe. She needed to breathe soon. She was dizzy, lightheaded. Her room was too bright, and her vision was fading to a pair of pinpricks depicting everything too familiar and cold and distant to provide any comfort. The other reason she was supposed to decorate, make her room 'hers'. The other reason her parents always brought her into the kitchen on tougher nights. There was nothing to hold her, nothing to identify. Nothing to lock her into reality, and so the fire and heat kept coming, kept burning kept --

Wait.

On the bed. Twisted sheets. Alarm clock. Pillow. Dog.

Dog?

Yes. Dog.

A German Shepherd with a cut on its head from contacting with her father's bumper not twenty-four hours ago. It had happened -- if it had happened at all -- in Fort Worth. In her father's car. Just down the street.

She lurched slowly to her knees, still shaking, still taking awful, gasping breathes that whistled in and out of her half collapsed windpipe. Yes. He was real. He had to be. She needed him to be.

"G-good boy," she said, feeling her hair stick to her cheeks and forehead, plastered there by sweat or tears. "Good bye. C'mere, okay? C'mere. I won't hurt you, I promise. Just..." She reached automatically to her back pocket, found no treats there. She let out a strangled cry of anguish. She was going to pass out. Her parents would return to find the house ransacked by the dog, find her unconscious. And then what? Sent away again?

"Please?" she begged, abandoning logic in the face of desperation. "Please c'mere. I won't hurt you. I promise. I promise..."
 
He twitched violently away from her when she shot into an upright position, the fur on the back of his neck raising up. For a moment he wondered what he could have done to give away the fact that he wasn't a dog, to make her feel that it was necessary to attack him. And then, when she tried to lunge away from him and, tangled in her sheets, had to make a desperate scrabble to even get to her knees, he realized his own paranoia. She wasn't attacking him. She wasn't going to do anything to him. No, the human was still lost in whatever world haunted her dreams, and that was what she longed to attack. That was from what she longed to run.

His hackles had yet to fully settle, but the almost imperceptible growl that had built in the back of his throat during their simultaneous moments of panic had ceased completely. Now he watched her, head tilted to the side, ears forward, whole body held perfectly still. He didn't really know what he expected from her at that moment. But he expected something, and he was ready to flee at a moments notice, if she somehow mistook him for one of her imaginary enemies.

When her hand moved he almost ran. He lunged sideways, but one of his feet slipped out on the rumpled blankets and he fell over, coming once more to stillness. This time he paid attention to what she was saying. Come. She wanted him to come to her. Well, why not? He had promised to be a good pet.

He slowly belly-crawled his way towards her, head held low. He wagged his tail once in greeting, before laying his head down right between her hands. He panted slightly, and a drop of saliva flicked off of his tongue, landing on her hand. His ears dropped back calmly, and he closed his eyes, the perfect picture of contented canine. Now if only she would calm down as well.
 
The moment she felt him settle under her shaking hands, Molly dissolved. She might have collapsed if she hadn't already been knelt on the floor. She would pay for it later, sitting on her bad leg like this, but she didn't, couldn't care.

Molly always hated who she became when she was forced out of herself by triggers or nightmares. There was nothing good about PTSD. She hated that it was about to be a disease or disability at all. It shouldn't have been. She should have been able to just snap herself out of it. She'd gotten over her leg, and she'd get over her memories. It was stupid, ridiculous that an Air Force pilot could be grounded by something she couldn't even see.

But it was so efficient. The smallest thing could seize the air from her lungs, leave her crumbled on the floor crying and shaking, with no control over her body or mind. Four surgeries on her leg, with a fifth looming in the near future, and this was the part that left her debilitated. She would be furious with herself after. She should be. They all told her not to blame herself, but none of them knew. She'd been so good before. So strong, so fearless, so independent.

Now? Now, she was sitting on the floor of her bed room, her face buried in tousled sheets, clutching a dog she'd hit with her father's car like he was the only lifeline she had left.

She stayed like that a long time, no longer crying or screaming, just reflexively running hands gently over the dogs muzzle and neck and ears, careful to avoid the cut on his head. She could still feel heat and swelling, though. She wound was real. The dog was real. This, the pathetic, embarrassing display, this was real. And for all she hated it, she was glad. She just kept saying, "Good boy...good dog...good boy..." over and over until the words lost their meaning, little more than counted prayers on a string of rosary beads.

It was almost half an hour before she'd stopped shaking. Her throat ached from the screaming. Her head ached from the lack of sleep. Both legs had gone to pins and needles. She lifted her head slowly to look at the dog, sitting there just as serenely as he had been thirty minutes ago.

She was amazed, or just dumbfounded. She'd seen the fear in him when she'd first woken up, decided, or been forced to brave it to have something in her hands to stop her falling. Her face was a mess. Her hair clung to her cheeks and eyelids. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her sheets her damp with a mixture of tears and mucus. She didn't notice, or else she did, and didn't care.

She sat up slowly, trying to identify how she felt. Shaky. Angry. Tired. Afraid. But not alone. For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel alone. She was so used to hiding, to lying after a night terror, either tricking herself or her parents into thinking she was okay. It had been longer than she could remember since she'd ever let herself work through the whole process herself. It wasn't a relief, quite. Her heart was still pounding too hard for that.

But it was...refreshing.

She drew a trembling breath, pet the dog reflexively one more time, then buried her hands in her sheets to haul herself upright.

The pain in her leg brought tears to her eyes once more, but these were easier to ignore. This, she was used to. This pain was okay, bracing. It cleared her head even as she limped toward the door.

"C'mon, boy," she said, voice hoarse. "We need to find your owner."
 
Dogs were patient and loyal, willing to bend to the needs of their master. And it was a good thing that the German Shepherd was so patient, because he didn't know if he could have held still for so long otherwise.

Of course, the feel of her fingers, kneading gently in around his ear and scalp felt good, but that could only have kept him still for so long. Yet there he lay still, blinking once every now and again, the rest of him holding completely still. He could hear her hitched breathing slowly settle out, and he was glad that he didn't live inside of her head.

He had enough torments of his own, yet as he lay there he couldn't help but wonder. He was familiar with those dreams that haunted the memory, but it was nothing like her panic. Even in his worst dreams he had quickly been able to orient upon waking up. when he was young, his life had often depended upon it.

Yet he didn't consider her weak. He didn't want to consider her anything, she was only a human, and a human he would be leaving soon.

He pushed his thoughts away from the feel of her fingertips tracing along his head, and tried to focus instead upon his own predicament. Now that he was thinking clearer again he needed to at least start making plans. Once he had them set, he could always continue to review them, make sure he hadn't arrived at any foolish or deadly conclusions. But he kept losing his train of thought, and his mind would drift back to the human in front of him. The first few times he almost violently wrenched it back into focus, and there were more than a few times that he considered just getting up and walking away.

Yet the memory of the panic, of the desperate need in her voice kept him still. What right did he have to leave?

When she finally stood, it was only by luck that he didn't let out a dog-like sigh of relief. He pulled his feet under him and sat up, shaking his head from side to side to get the feel of her fingers off of his skin.

Good luck with that, he thought, somewhat bitterly as she walked towards the door. But he still got up and followed her. He didn't want to be trapped in this room.
 
By the time she reached the kitchen again, Molly had snapped back into pre-Post Traumatic Stress Disorder mode. She could still feel itchy salt tracks tracing jagged lines across her face, still feel her hair askew, pasted to her cheeks and eyelids. Her eyes felt swollen and red, her chest tight and congested. Her leg ached. She ignored all of it. As far as she was concerned, she'd just come from a run in the rain, and if her parents asked, that's exactly what she'd tell them. Minus the rain, as it hadn't done all that in a few weeks.

But her parents weren't due home for another hour at least. Plenty of time to make up a 'dog found' poster and shower convincingly before she left for her evening drive. She'd guessed she'd try and take the dog with her again. It just made sense. If it was from the neighborhood, there was every chance she'd run into someone looking for it. Otherwise, she could put up flyers, and maybe run into someone who knew whose dog it was.

If she couldn't get it out of the house, she guessed she could leave it in the backyard or her bedroom. Most of the time, her parents were too afraid to question her on stuff like that, and it'd be out of the house in a few days, anyway.

For now, she scooped out a bowl of food for him and laid down some fresh water, all with a perfect, impartial efficiency, moving through the motions as if they were as natural as slee -- well. Breathing. Natural as breathing. She carried the crate of toys upstairs, stashed the dog food in the cabinet, the treats in the fridge, then retrieved her father's old laptop from the family room to start making up a basic poster while the poor thing ate dinner, and both of them -- maybe -- tried to pretend whatever had just happened had never happened.
 
He followed her down the stairs, tail wagging, ears perked. The house was as silent as ever but he still hesitated a moment at the bottom of the stairs, looking left and right, listening intently. He could not imagine, if the hunters did find him, they would be at all sneaky about their arrival. They would have no need to do so.

He sighed, and hurried after the human. It was impossible to stay on alert all of the time. He would have to allow himself to relax, and just be prepared to react. He had to trust that, when the moment came, he would be prepared to fight for his life. And he would be prepared to die with the last scrap of honor that remained to him. Maybe he would even be able to keep the human out of it.

The food she lay down was dry and tasteless, but he somehow doubted he was going to be getting anything better. He thought back vaguely to the sliced lunchmeat she had offered him earlier, before attacking the food with the willingness of any large dog. Food was food, and he'd had to eat worse in his time.

He finished the meal before the human settled in front of a computer. He sat, panting, tail wagging slightly. He didn't really know what all he expected from her. It wasn't as though he wanted attention. It would be meaningless, coming from a human, who could only look at him and see a dog. Yet nor could he stand the idea of laying down again. He briefly regretted the fact that he couldn't go outside without giving away his position, before reminding himself he could always just leave.

But not yet. There was no way for the dog to get out, and even if he did the human would come after him. The last thing he wanted to be doing was racing off down the street with a human chasing him. Besides, he still needed time to make sure that he was fully healed, and was thinking normally. If he made a mistake here, the worst thing that might happen is he would have to leave. If he made a mistake out there, with the hunters on his trail, it could mean death.
 
Drafting the flyer was easy. Most things that Molly sat and really tried to do were easy. Flying had been so exception. Easy, of course, was a relative term. There'd been tough spots and even times she felt scary or frustrated. But there'd never been a point where she'd left thinking, "I can't do this. I'll never be able to do this." Molly didn't have too many of those moments in her life. Usually she just thought, "Fuck it. If it's hard, I'll be harder." She was good at doing. She'd always been good at doing.

Maybe it was the sitting, the inaction that made her crazy. It was why she tried to go running once a day, every day. She never made it all that far before the pain in her leg got too bad, but she minded the pain less than the apathy, and much less than the idea of a fear of something that didn't even exist paralyzing her. At least with real paralysis, you had something to show.

Right now, all she had were a stack of colored flyers, each featuring a fuzzy picture of the dog with all the remarkable detail she could find -- she'd never really seen a German Shepherd up close before. They sort of all looked the same to her -- and a number and 'DOG FOUND' in big, bright letters. It was boring, very no-nonsense, and hopefully the sort of thing that could get this dog off her hands in a matter of days.

She retrieved the short stack of flyers from the printer and held them up for the dog to examine, or whatever. She was pretty sure they were at least kind of color blind. But it seemed like a good way to stall.

"Here," she said dully. "Whaddya think? Good?"
 
He got bored halfway through the creation of the flyers, and wandered back into the center of the kitchen. He lapped up some of the water, before sitting down with his head on his paws, content to be completely and utterly bored. His life had been a series of stresses for as long as he could remember. During his childhood it had been a fight for the most basic aspects of survival. After he had joined the shifter clan he had needed to work to prove his value, and then continue to strive to maintain his respected position. The last few months he had been consumed with the stress of worrying about what his chief was doing, trying to figure out if he had any right to interfere. Now there was the running the accident, the constant fear for his life.

Would he ever be able to sleep without worrying again?

He certainly couldn't now. He tried to plan, tried to figure out what he would do, where he would go once he finally left this house, but the details were blurry in his mind. He couldn't make it outside the city, and every time he tried to bring up a map of the United States it would blur inside of his head, the states twisting around until they resembled so many overcooked noodles. He let out a frustrated snort, before rolling over onto his side.

He was disturbed a little while later by the sound of the human girl getting out of her seat. He sat up quickly and trotted his way over, sitting in front of her and tilting his head to the side. So, that was what she had been up to. He had never been much bothered with pets, they were not welcome in the shifter clans, but he had seen wanted posters taped up in his neighborhood before. This must be the opposite. He took a step forward, sniffing the paper warily, before quickly backing away.

It was nearly impossible that the Hunters would think to check found posters. But, at the same time, he did not like the idea of those posters begin spread about if they contained even a trace of his scent. He backpedaled so quickly that he nearly tripped himself up, and he let out a small whine. What was he doing? It was futile to worry so much, because his scent was all over the human, too. As soon as she left the house she would track his smell all over the place. What was he even still doing here? He should go. He should go racing out into the streets now, or as soon as he had the option. To get hit by another car, or run right into the hunters. He let out another whine. No he couldn't leave yet. He wasn't well enough. If he couldn't even picture a map of the United States how was he supposed to survive out there. He still had time. He hadn't even been here for a full twenty-four hours yet. There was still time.
 
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