ds_flashfiction | Quadruped Challenge, by Stars

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The Strength of the Pack is the Wolf
Author:

simplystars
Pairing/Characters: Dief, with a hint of Fraser/RayK and a cameo by the turtle
Rating: PG (language)
Length: 2700-ish
Notes: Many thanks to

sdwolfpup and

kernezelda for insightful beta & cheerleading. And poking me with a stick. *g*

Summary: It's a wolf's life. Section titles from We Are the Eggmen.

The Strength of the Pack is the Wolf
by Stars

All right, that’s it. Just crouch. Just watch him.

Stakeouts are boring. On stakeouts Dief has to be quiet, and he can't scratch ("Your wolf had better not be getting fleas in my car, Fraser.") or pant ("Your wolf is fogging up the windows, Fraser.") or eat ("I wouldn’t feed him that if I were you, Ray – you do remember what happened last time? And the confines of the car make for rather inadequate ventilation.") or even lick himself. ("Dief! Do not do that in this car – shit, Fraser, what'd I tell you, the damn wolf has all the fun.")

On stakeouts, Dief can't even catch up on his naps, what with all the indistinct noise that echoes from the front seats.

("I'm sorry, Ray, but he's not doing it on purpose. Diefenbaker has no conscious control over his snoring, no more than you."

"Are you saying I snore, Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray."

"I do not."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken."

"I am not."

"It's not meant as criticism, Ray, just a statement of fact."

"Well, get your facts straight, Fraser. I do not snore."

"Ah."

"Ah, what?"

"Nothing."

"Fraser, I am telling you – fine, you know what? You don't believe me, ask Stella."

"That won't be necessary."

"Meaning you admit I don't snore?"

"Well... no. I hate to contradict you, Ray, but that's not quite true."

"And you would know how, exactly? Because you may know everything there is to know about blubber and lichen, Fraser, but that does not make you an expert in me."

"I merely meant that on the two occasions we've slept together--"

"Whoa. Hold up there a minute, Fraser - what?"

"I'm referring to the night we spent in Constable Turnbull's apartment, and in Mrs. Tucci's backyard, of course."

"Oh. Umm. I knew that. Protecting witnesses, right. Just, you know, checking.")

On stakeouts, Dief doesn't sit on his haunches and yawn or stand and look out the windows, because Benton just tells him to lie down and Ray hunches his shoulders up protectively around his ears. Instead, Dief turns circles and curls up and rests his muzzle on his crossed paws. He lies quietly, so very still – except for his eyes, which flick back and forth between Benton and Ray, watching the tell-tale signs of their bodies and not the movement of their lips as they speak to each other in a language all their own.

All right now. Close the gap. Pick up your pace. Charge!

Dief loves to run. Some mornings Benton runs with him, long and slow around and around the park, passing by the same trees and bushes and scent-marks that Dief has already investigated, and that's kind of boring, too. But Benton says slow and steady wins the race, Dief so Dief adjusts his pace, loping alongside instead of racing off ahead. That's okay, though, because it gives him the chance to scatter flocks of pigeons from the sidewalk, sending them airborne in a chaotic flutter of frenzied flapping, and to eye the bushy-tailed squirrels who chatter mockingly at him, circling their tree-trunks and hanging head-first just out of reach.

One day one of them might miscalculate, and Dief will be ready.

It's better, much better, when Benton takes him to the woods. There, the leaves crunch under their feet, and Dief's paws squish through the wet dirt, and Benton hides and waits for Dief to seek him out, to pursue and nip at his ankles. Sometimes, as he zigs and zags and tries not to be caught, Benton will laugh - and the sound makes Dief so happy that he has to bark, too.

Later, when it's time for more serious work, Dief will flop down and cover his eyes with his paws until Benton calls him to track whatever item he has concealed – Turnbull's leather glove, Ray's old baseball, the tattered remnants of a crocheted dog-bonnet.

Occasionally Dief finds interesting things to show Benton: a nest of tiny brown rabbits, a messy pile of plucked, down-soft feathers, a long black snake. (Once a delightful skunk carcass, little more than bone and dried flesh; Dief rolled and rolled and rolled until Benton spotted him and spoiled the fun.)

Sometimes it is nighttime and snowing when they go, and the whole world is quiet and glows white in the moonlight. Their breath puffs in the crisp cold air, and Benton's fingers twine in Dief's fur, stroking softly as they walk close together.

Do I have to remind you that you are a carnivore, that you are genetically predisposed to hunt?

Some days Benton is snappish and critical, flashing his teeth in fits of passive-aggressive temper – mostly at Dief, but sometimes at Ray too. This makes Dief wonder if Benton isn't really part-wolf himself, somehow trapped in human skin. That might explain the confusing, jumbled signals that spring from his body: touch me/don't touch me, be with me/leave me alone, bare your throat/let me show you my belly.

Dief remembers hunting with Benton, the way it was between them, before: tracking their quarry with sure-footed swiftness over ice and snow, cold wind singing in their ears as Dief led a yelping chorus of sled-dogs hard on the heels of some fugitive; spurring themselves on relentlessly, closing the distance, drawing ever nearer until finally, inevitably… take-down and capture.

Sometimes Dief misses that, fiercely. And he thinks Benton does, too.

So Dief doesn't remind Benton (well, hardly ever, just when Benton needs reminding) that he'd been very young, a gangling adolescent barely past puppyhood, when they first met. Benton knows Dief has never truly hunted with a pack, never hamstrung a musk ox or caribou; but he also knows Dief has killed, has snapped his jaws shut to crush delicate vertebrae, has torn open the throat of his prey and tasted heart-warm blood on his tongue.

Dief only groans and rolls his eyes at human hypocrisy – Benton doesn't permit him to chase cats or chickens or ducks, or cars or bikes or skateboards, or most people, and it's not like there are caribou roaming the streets of Chicago.

Instead, Dief applies his natural instincts and abilities in a somewhat unorthodox manner (and Benton, Dief thinks, should appreciate that, as he does the very same thing). He stalks tuna salad and peanut butter sandwiches and pizza crusts, hunts down hot dogs and stray pepperoni and glazed donuts, since lemmings and moose are scarce and these humans are unusually attached to their rabbits.

In the backseat of the car, he lies in wait for the perfect moment to ambush Ray and deliver a devastating swipe to his ear.

Dief opens doors and drawers, flips the lids off trash cans with ridiculous ease, and knows just when and how to slip between unwary legs and feet, making off with his meal before the dismayed mark can utter a protest. A few quick gulps and there's nothing left of the evidence; Dief meets Benton's questioning eyebrow with a bland expression and satisfyingly full stomach.

" 'And appetite, a universal wolf, so doubly seconded with will and power, must make perforce a universal prey,' " Benton enunciates precisely, as he shakes his head disapprovingly. Dief shakes his entire body, nose to tail, and bares his teeth in a mocking grin.

I should never have taken you out of your element and brought you to the city. You’ve gone soft.

Like Dief, Benton is skilled at camouflage. Nature has not favored him with white fur, and though his skin is pale he will never blend seamlessly into a snowy landscape; nevertheless, Benton hides himself in plain view. He uses his face and body to distract and befuddle, to deflect scrutiny. Benton pretends submission he does not feel – sometimes so blatantly that Dief snarls at him, because Benton is alpha, just like Dief. They are equal; they are partners.

Dief discerns that worry and guilt and apology underlie Benton's scoldings; that when Benton chides him for being soft or lazy, he means instead that he, himself, has failed in his responsibility (though Dief is his own wolf and Benton is no more responsible for Dief's behavior than Dief is for Benton's choices and mistakes).

When summer is at its worst and the black asphalt singes Dief's pads with fiery heat (ice is a cold burn, every bit as painful), late in the evening Benton settles beside him on the consulate's cool tile floor with a bowl of strange-smelling water. He pulls Dief's head into his lap and soaks torn strips of fabric, wraps the wet bandages around Dief's paws, and suggests that perhaps Dief might consider protective boots. Dief groans a mortified reply; Benton nods unhappily, lips in a tight line, and does not mention it again. He carefully spreads cool salve over the tender, inflamed pads and rubs Dief's ears until Dief falls asleep.

When the sun beats down on Dief's double coat, leaves him panting and wobbly, Ray turns the chilly air up high and aims the flow straight toward the back seat. Sometimes he leans across Benton and adjusts his vent, too, muttering (you're wearing a sheep, Fraser, for chrissakes, gonna be a puddle of Mountie in my front seat if you don’t take that off) the odd dire threat (don’t think I won't shave the wolf, too) under his breath.

Dief realizes that Benton fears he is the one who's gone soft, not Dief. Chicago has driven home to Benton that he is acutely vulnerable in unfamiliar territory; at times he no longer trusts his own judgment (not that he thinks any better of Dief's, or his own sire's, whose intermittent visits appear to Dief to coincide with Benton's crises of self-doubt). And when Dief plays with children at the park, romping and licking faces and rolling over for belly rubs, Benton watches their mothers (especially the dark-haired, dark-eyed ones) with down-turned mouth and distant eyes.

Now pick up the scent again. Start to stalk. That’s it.

Ray makes cranky noises at Benton, waving his arms around in agitation; Dief watches their reflections in the glass. Benton lowers his head and rubs at his eye. "I've told you many times, Ray, that Diefenbaker has no interest in the turtle."

Dief peers intently into the turtle tank, licks his lips, and whines.

"Look, right there! That was pretty goddamned interested in the turtle, Fraser."

"Ray. Ray. Ray. I'm sure it was an entirely innocent gesture."

"It is not innocent, Fraser. It is anything but innocent, with either of you."

"Either…? I'm not sure what you mean, Ray."

"I mean licking."

"…Licking?"

"Licking, Fraser. The wolf licks stuff, means he wants to eat it –"

"Diefenbaker does not want to eat your ears, I assure you."

"And you lick stuff, it means you're a freak. Mostly."

"There is nothing freakish about a perfectly valid investigative technique; I would be remiss in my duty if I didn't make use of all available resources. It’s not as if I lick things for - for pleasure."

"Uh huh. Nice try, Benton buddy. And we ain't talking about you and me, we're talking about the wolf and the turtle. Which he has tried to eat, or at least endanger in a wildly bizarre way. The wolf has a rep, Fraser, is all I'm saying."

Dief rolls his eyes. Ray has been testy and paranoid ever since the Bathtub Incident.

"That was a regrettable misunderstanding."

"A turtle should be able to enjoy a nice quiet soak in the privacy of his own home without having to worry about getting pawed around and gnawed on."

"Oh, for - Ray. Diefenbaker harbors no nefarious intentions toward the turtle. He mistakenly believed it to be in need of rescue - most accidents occur at home, as you know, and one can drown in just a few inches of water."

"Not talkin' about drowning, Fraser. Been there, almost done that, do not want the t-shirt."

Dief sneezes, remembering. The bathwater had tasted funny; the turtle's shell was slippery and hard to grasp. But he'd only dropped it twice - the way Ray carried on made it sound like Dief had sent the creature plummeting from the roof of his apartment building.

Behind him, the bickering continues. Dief snuffles longingly and presses his nose to the glass. The turtle blinks at him slowly, with no trace of lingering ill-will, and lumbers over to the food bowl. Ray has filled it with a balanced meal – it's Monday, which means fruit (watermelon this time) and greens (Dief has no interest in lettuce of any variety) and hard-boiled egg (so delicious, unlike crunchy hopping-bugs or the squishy wriggly-things, which taste like dirt).

Dief hasn't eaten since early morning, when Benton intercepted Ray's stealth breakfast and redirected the glazed donut to a surprised but appreciative Detective Dewey. (Benton must not have noticed the few licks that Dief managed behind Ray's back before they were caught; Ray didn't say a word, just held up his hands like the criminals they hunted, baring his teeth and his throat at the same time – no wonder Benton seemed perplexed – and slouched in his squeaky chair, making room for Dief to sprawl, disgruntled, at his feet.)

Later, the three of them had spent the day driving and tracking and chasing and tackling, with no pierogies or pizza or wontons in sight.

Dief's stomach rumbles; the turtle spares him a sympathetic glance.

Then the turtle extends its neck and opens its jaws wide, chomping into rubbery egg white and creamy golden yolk.

Dief drools.

Every wolf raised in the wild is born with the instinct to kill. For food or self-preservation or to protect its own.

Dief was Benton's first partner, before Ray or Ray or anyone who might come next. He has spent time away from Benton, in the care of both Rays, and though they fed him and kept his water bowl full and took him for walks (never long enough, though, not like walking with Benton) he still slept uneasily, rising again and again at night to sniff at the bottom of each door, to stare through each window, and pace from room to room because the pack was incomplete.

Dief has only ever felt truly cold once in his life, when he plunged into frigid waters where Benton, floundering, had slipped below the surface. The icy claws of Prince Rupert Sound had slashed between his ribs, shocking the frantic beat of his heart to a near-standstill as a jagged spike of pain ripped through his skull, behind his eyes, into his ears. But even that had been bearable, had been better than running helplessly along the serrated cracks in the floe, howling, left behind.

Left alone.

Dief is brave. His body bears the marks of battle: wolverine bites, bullet holes, knife cuts - a history of his time with Benton is etched into Dief's skin, war wounds hidden beneath a pristine outer pelt. Benton's sire had thrown up his hands in disgust when Dief refused to maul one of Benton's prey - because Dief was not about to take orders from a spirit, especially one who wasn't part of their pack, even if he was Benton's sire - but if the wrinkly smelly man, Gerrard, had attempted to escape, or attack, or done anything other than play with the toys on Benton's desk or curl his lip (Dief could have chosen to interpret that as a challenge, if Benton's sire hadn't squawked so annoyingly in his ear – him Dief could hear just fine) and sneer Cry havoc! and let slip the dogs of war, then Dief would have torn out his throat just as Benton had asked.

Dief doesn't back down from a fight.

Dief has scarred Benton, too; at the junction of left thumb and wrist, down to the bone, is a silver line as long as a half-wolf's tooth. When Benton is troubled, or thinking very deeply, the fingers of that marked hand seek out every gouge, trace each ridge of thickened flesh on Dief's body, stroking softly, lightly - so unlike the rough wash of his mother's tongue, long ago, or the playful way Ray ruffles his fur.

Dief licks Benton's hands and face, encourages him to howl out his loneliness and melancholy – even better, to share it with Ray, so they can raise their muzzles and sing away the sorrow together, as a pack.

Benton smiles a little. Maybe I will. He thanks Dief for the advice and turns out the light, settling back onto his creaky cot. Dief paws at his blanket until it is sufficiently lumpy and snake-free, turns around twice, and flops down to sleep.

He and Benton have each other, they have their Ray, and each day is a new adventure.

Life is good.

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

green-grrl.livejournal.com

Oooo! I love this -- perfect Dief's eye view of the world, and the irritating contradictions humans engage in because they worry about such silly things.

From:

Quadruped Challenge, by Stars

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