Can't sleep, guess I'll post a ficlet
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sluggie requested Brick and "a new forming obsession of something or someone and the way he handles it." It's not exactly happy; I promise the next one will be less sad.I cheated with this title because it's a reference. The Remembrance.
***
The puppy is an impulse buy.
Brick carries it in through the front door like any other item he grabbed at the store — under his arm — while balancing the crate stuffed with dumb puppy accessories in his other hand.
He sets it down and it immediately pees on his floor.
“Cool,” he says flatly, because it isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to him today.
***
He names the puppy Lorca, inspired by the book of poetry he set down and never again picked up on the day he got him.
Lorca is a ball of energy that chews up baseboards, barks at its toys, and spends a long week completely out of touch with whatever house training is supposed to be. Eventually Brick gets sick of cleaning up after it and reads five different articles about crate training.
Turns out Lorca is also smart. He takes to the training and is saving his business for the grass within a couple of days.
“That was easy,” Brick says, and decides to work on the baseboard chewing next.
***
Lorca transforms from a fluffy little ball of hellspawn into a sleek monster of a dog whose head comes up to Brick’s hips in a matter of months. Lorca’s skull seems to fill Brick’s palm and he imagines how big the brain underneath it must be. It crosses his mind every time he teaches Lorca a new trick to pass the endless hours that stretch his gray days.
“Lorca,” he says, and the dog is immediately sitting at his side, Brick’s inflection all the indication the dog needs.
“Good dog,” he says, a tug at his lips as he scratches Lorca’s huge, brainy skull.
***
There’s a park nearby that they frequent. Brick likes to take Lorca there before it’s even light. They run into fewer people that way. The one major drawback to Lorca’s beauty is everyone sees it as an invitation to engage in conversation.
Brick likes to work on his focus there. He makes Lorca sit while he flies off, putting some distance between them, often drifting out of sight. His superhearing picks up on Lorca’s whining, itself quiet and subdued.
By the time Brick calls out to him, he can tell the dog is practically vibrating with desperation for the command. He hears Lorca bolt, tearing around hills and through bushes until Brick is within sight.
Lorca circles him when he finds him, tail swishing into a blur as he whines with relief, and noses Brick’s hand incessantly.
The dog’s devotion makes Brick feel a way he can’t voice. If he never called for Lorca, he imagines the dog would just continue to sit there, wasting away until summoned.
“You’re pathetic,” he whispers, no malice behind the words. Lorca pushes his face into Brick’s hand and demands scritches.
***
Lorca gives him structure. There’s three five-mile walks a day. There’s playtime. There’s training. There’s feeding and naps. He’s a high-maintenance dog. Not that Brick is unfamiliar with the concept.
Brick only really leaves the house to keep Lorca used to the idea that sometimes he has to deal with his owner being gone; Lorca used to howl like crazy as soon as Brick grabbed his keys. Now he just settles on his rug with a treat when Brick heads out.
If he weren’t trying to maintain this level of non-anxiety, Brick’s not sure he’d go anywhere. But it’s good for Lorca. The structure. It’s good for Brick, too. It’s been a long time since he inadvertently gave up the criminal aspect of his life. Now it’s the risk of confrontation that keeps him from going back.
Besides, what else would I do with myself? Brick thinks, his eyes darting ever to the clock on his phone as he’s out buying groceries.
***
“Whatever.” Brick stares into the distance at the city lights peppering the night skyline, knowing that if he were to glare at Butch for bringing her up, his brother would read too much into it. Bored nonchalance sells the statement more.
This is what I get for going outside. This is what I get for interacting with people.
He can sense his brothers exchanging a glance and grits his teeth. At least his idiot brother had the decency to bring it up at the end of the night. He polishes off his drink and stands.
“I gotta go.”
“Already?” Butch says.
“It’s not even ten!” Boomer cries.
“I gotta walk the dog.” It’s precisely why Brick didn’t bring Lorca, even though they purposely picked a place with an outdoor patio, even though it’s dog friendly. That’s the other great thing – Lorca gives him an easy out when he’s done being out.
“Later,” he says, and it could mean weeks, months, years. However long it takes for them to reach out again, because Christ knows Brick isn’t going to be the one to do it.
Five miles with Lorca that night turns into ten. Lorca crashes when they get home at half past midnight. Brick finds the book that served as his dog’s namesake, takes it outside, and hurls it into the night sky, hoping he’s thrown it hard enough to ignite on its way through the atmosphere.
***
One morning he sees her.
Lorca has gone on ahead, off-leash. They’re at the tail end of their park walk and the sun is just barely starting to break through the clouds. Brick floats up the hill that Lorca just crested and, before he gets a good look at the person Lorca is greeting, whistles for him.
Lorca automatically retreats to his owner, and the woman stands, tucking her hair back. The movement is so familiar that it seems to shoot through Brick’s chest, up to his throat. He freezes as Lorca circles him, nudging his hand.
“Brick?” Blossom says, and the sound of his name in her voice feels like a bomb has gone off inside him. “Oh my God. Brick. Hi.”
“Hey,” he manages. His own voice sounds scratchy from disuse. Even the word sounds alien and foreign to him now. She’s coming closer to him and he can’t quite believe this is happening.
“He’s yours?” she says, nodding at Lorca as she stops. Close enough to converse comfortably, but not close enough to touch.
“Yeah.”
“He’s beautiful,” she says, extending her hand, and Lorca sticks out his nose for a polite touch. “What’s his name?”
“Lorca,” he says, because he’s not thinking straight, and as soon as he says it he mentally curses himself for forgetting, for mentioning it like an idiot, most of all for daring to feel anything at the idea that she might remember her last gift to him.
“How old?”
“Five.”
Her eyes soften, and he realizes to say so was another mistake. The timeframe is significant. He wishes she hadn’t asked. There’s a bubble of air in his throat that he can’t swallow down and she’s looking at him and he wasn’t prepared for people today, much less her.
“He’s beautiful,” she says again. “You’re taking good care of him.”
Brick is overcome, suddenly, with the urge to tell her No, that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, that it’s just because Lorca is smart, and his brain is big, and the training Brick had to do was minimal, but then he thinks of all the things he’s taught Lorca to do, how Lorca is on a prescription food, how even though Brick brushes him daily he still fills a brush three times over every time. He thinks of telling Blossom this, and then he thinks of telling her something he’s never told anyone, about how three years ago Lorca didn’t eat for days and Brick had to fly him to an emergency vet and it turned out Lorca’s creatnine levels were off the charts for a dog his age, like there was absolutely no reason a healthy young dog would have kidney problems of all things, and they had to keep Lorca there overnight and Brick was in the waiting room the entire time not-sleeping because the thought of Lorca dying coupled with the thought of being alone in their apartment made him want to—
“You look well,” she says, and it’s so painfully polite that he can’t bring himself to tell her, after all.
“You, too,” he says, scratching Lorca behind the ears and not looking at her.
She lingers. All he can think about is how time made no difference, how unfair it is that he can still feel this awful, can still feel so much. He keeps scratching Lorca, and Lorca shakes his head; Brick’s been focusing on one spot for too long and he thinks Sorry.
“I’ll see you around,” Blossom says, and Brick exhales quietly, a flood of emotions hitting him that he can’t quite parse through.
He just nods. When she takes off he watches her go, his Lorca-scratching hand going limp at his side. He can feel his entire self buzzing, vibrating as he watches her leave him. A sudden desperation for her to turn around, to look at him, to say his name again, wells up inside him, and even though he knows how pointless it is to stand here and wait for something that will never again happen he stays anyway.
Lorca circles his owner, nosing at his hand and whining. Brick doesn’t move. So Lorca simply sits next to him and waits for the command.
***
Thanks for your patience, as always. ♥
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I love it because it shows a different side of brick and omg is it so cute and different and soooooo satisfying!! Brick not being a prissy, unapproachable bad guy? WUT IS THIS UNIVERSE?
And then Lorca, omg Lorca. you did a wonderful job illustrating what it's like to be a pet owner, I STILL CAN'T BELIEVE BRICK WOULD PUT SO MUCH CARE INTO A PET I JUST-
I wish i could give an in-depth comment, but i'm at work :( I just wanted to let you know, keep up the great work!! :D
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AAAAAAAA
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