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“I don’t understand what the problem is,” Kuchiba sighs for the nth time today, “don’t you like dogs?”
When Ashveil had received a text this morning from the infamous officer Kuchiba from the Department of Aberration Defense, he’d expected to be called to another crime scene. Maybe he’d stumble upon another gang murdered in Dovebrook. Another branch of the Research Society that needs to be snuffed out.
What he didn’t expect, however, was twofold: one, that he didn’t need to walk (or pay for a cab) to the location of their meeting point, and two, that officer Kuchiba herself would show up at his agency. With a dog, no less.
“Woof!”
Ashveil looks back down at the pup in front of him. Well, he thinks it’s a pup, at least.
The Dog—which he really wants to know the name of, simply because calling it The Dog sounds too rude—comes up to about Kuchiba’s knees. It looks just like all the other Security imagenae employed around the city, complete with a short black, grey, and white coat, a wagging bushy tail, and two ears perked straight up at him.
It tilts its head. Ashveil tilts his too.
“Are you getting distracted again?”
“Well,” Ashveil cuts in, shaking his head, “whether I like dogs isn’t the point. The problem is that I can’t take care of it. Do I look like I have the space?”
‘Or the budget’, his mind helpfully supplies.
Money’s been tight enough as it is in the Agency. What with his power bill, utilities, and the portion of funds he sets aside every week for bananas and off-planet memetic virus care for the other monkeys. It’s been eating into his wallet. And he’s usually the one doing the eating!
“That’s already taken care of,” Kuchiba says, rolling her eyes, “Madam Pearl was the one who offered to give you a dog for security reasons, as you’re a supplicant and in cahoots with her. She’s already covered all possible expenses.”
“Wait. Miss Pearl did this?” Ashveil raises a brow. “And security reasons? I may be old but I can handle myself well enough, you know.”
Ashveil wonders just how rich Pearl must be to be spending so much to ensure his safety of all things. Considering he’d been the one assigned to take care of and guard a crew of literal intergalactic space heroes, you’d think Pearl would already have some level of trust in his abilities. He wonders if he could convince her to cover his utilities the next time they meet.
“You can’t possibly be that old,” Kuchiba scoffs and to that, Ashveil has to try very hard not to laugh, lest she feel offended, “look, if you really don’t want her, I can take her away.”
“Hey now—” Ashveil says in a start, “let’s not be hasty.” He sneaks a glance at the dog as it—she glances between his and Kuchiba’s back and forth, “Run that by me again—I’m spending zero money on her, right?”
“Where’s your monkey? He’s much better at keeping track of things, you know,” Kuchiba sighs, shaking her head.
“Mr. N is the more seasoned detective between the us two.”
“That’s your own deduction, detective, and that’s besides the point,” Kuchiba groans, “yes, Madam Pearl is paying for all the dog food and vet bills and whatever insurance you need for her. So take the dog and keep her, or don’t. I’lll be getting on with the rest of my day. Thank you very much, and enjoy your dog,” Kuchiba says before finally having enough, putting the dog’s leash in his hands, and hightailing it out of the detective agency.
Ashveil blinks, “Have a good day!” He calls out.
Then, he looks at the dog. The dog looks back at him.
He grins. "I'm gonna name you Ranger."
After two days with the Ashen Detective Agency’s newest addition, there are two conclusions Ashveil has come to: one, that Ashveil positively adores this dog. And two, that Mr. N positively doesn’t.
“Aww, come on Mr. N! Don’t be such a spoil-sport,” Ashveil coos from where he’s sitting underneath a table, surrounded by paperwork, yes—but more importantly, cuddling with the most adorable dog in the universe. “She’s so cute! How do you not fall in love with a face like this!”
Mr. N makes the most disgusted face a monkey with googly eyes and a banana in his mouth could make. “You’re cooing, Mr. Ashveil! Cooing! And that dog threatens to eat me every other hour!”
As if on cue, Ranger leaps off from Ashveil’s lap to approach the monkey standing across from her. More specifically, said monkey’s ass.
“Gyah! And she threatens to eat my bananas too! My bananas!”
“I’d say it’s worth it,” Ashveil says, nodding to himself. “Besides, where else could we get such a sweet deal? I get a dog and you get a friend! For detective work, of course.”
In the past two days Ashveil has been positively delighted bringing Ranger out on walks,
(‘Hey. I got a dog now. A real dog of mine, you see?’ ‘That’s great, Uncle Detective. Now are you gonna buy anything or are you just standing at my stall for fun?’);
having her sniff out culprits,
(‘Woof when I show you who you think is guilty, okay?’ ‘Woof!’ ‘Okay, that’s a picture of Mr. N, I haven’t shown you the real picture yet. You’ll get it soon.’ ‘Woof!’);
and overall having her around the agency,
(‘Eat my banana again! I dare you! No, no! Don’t eat me!’) It’s been a fun two days.
“Mr. Ashveil!” Mr. N calls out, after finally distracting Ranger with a well timed banana peel to her face, “I don’t see what this mutt can do when it—”
“She.”
“She has been slobbering all over our documents!”
While it’s true that Ranger has eaten six, seven—thirteen or so papers of theirs, it’s really not as serious as Mr. N makes it out to be. Ashveil says as much.
“We didn’t need them anyway,” he shrugs, calling out for Ranger to come cuddle with him again, “besides, we have digital copies for a reason!”
“We don’t even have internet most days!”
“We’ll live,” Ahsveil grins, chuckling as Ranger licks a stripe up his cheek, smelling like bananas.
“Good heavens,” Mr. N sighs. It’s been a long two days for him.
Ranger, Ashveil has learned, is more than just a dog. To the blind, she is light. To the hungry, she is bread. To the sick, she is the cure. To the lonely, she is company. To the sad, she is joy. To the prisoner, she is freedom. To the poor, she is treasure.
To Ashveil? She is “The most adorable little creature in the world!”
Frankly, Mr. N finds the notion rather disgusting.
At the very least, the Astral Express folk agree.
“Wow! I didn’t know you got a dog!” Stelle cheers, happily roughing up Ranger’s short, black coat. “I thought you’d be too poor to afford one!”
Ashveil ignores the very thinly veiled barb and clears his throat. “Well, times change,” He says, then, “C’mere, Ranger.” He pats the space beside him.
He’d invited some of the crew today to discuss the Research Society. Of course, they’ve gotten off track. He doesn’t blame them. Most normal people find Ranger simply irresistible, after all.
It’s been about a week since Kuchiba so graciously left her with him and in that span of time, Ashveil had already broken his own rule and spent far too much money on proper dog care beyond what Pearl had already subsidized. Among these were a red, rounded, large plush bed; a collar with her name and a star engraved on its tag; a little doggie fedora to match his own; a red bandanna; more proper dog food (because kibble simply wouldn’t cut it); and expensive milk-scented dog soap. Because of course.
“You do seem happier with her,” the young lady—March 7th, he recalls—says, giggling as Ranger’s doggie tag jingles with her excited tap tap on his floors.
“Is that so?”
“I think so too, yeah!” Stelle crouches down, seeming to find immense joy in rubbing Ranger’s belly, “I am curious, though. Why’d you name her ranger?” Stelle tilts her head.
Ashveil hums, sorting through the few documents they managed to go over today. “How about you take a guess?”
A dog, it turns out, can do a lot of things. Of those, Ashveil’s found out that she can: sniff out furbos, eat bananas, terrorize a monkey, force Ashveil to actually go outside to take consistent walks and, most impressively, she’s learned how to open fridges. That last one has caused a slight amount of trouble.
You see, when Ashveil’s in the fridge, he’s in there for a very, very good reason.
To sleep, of course.
The fridge is cold, yes—uncomfortably so—but it means it’s uncomfortable for his shadow, too. The longer he stays in, the less active his shadow is. The less it threatens to spill out from his hand and thus the less he has to actively fix the nails on his wrist so really, what’s a bit of cold and discomfort for that?
The first time it happens, Ashveil didn’t even know it was possible. The fridge was closed, Mr. N was in an upstairs closet that they’d made into a cushioned sleeping area because even monkeys need their rest, and they both know just how loud Ashveil’s time in the fridge could be. And Ranger…well, truth be told, he didn’t know where Ranger was.
She was always left alone at night. Mainly because Ashveil really didn’t have the heart to put her in the kennel Pearl had provided, and partly because Ranger was so well behaved that there really was no need for it. Sure, she chewed up a stray document here and there, but that was why they had digital copies, damnit! Mr. N just liked the aesthetic!
He’d gotten a real scare, the first time it happened. Being interrupted like that while he was sleeping was dangerous, for one. Being in the fridge was one of the few times Ashveil could let his shadow loose. Having it out—vulnerable—was one of the few things Ashveil had learnt to live with. While he was in the fridge, sure, his shadow could lash out at him but at least he could get back at it until it too returns as the constant, aching pain of his right arm.
These days, he keeps the fridge locked up better. Ranger can’t exactly open it anymore, but she does try. Opening his fridge and having her be the first thing he sees isn’t half bad, either.
“Good morning to you too, Ranger,” Ashveil blinks slowly at his ceiling, greeted by Ranger’s panting, almost grinning face, by the fridge door.
Ranger leaps at him, excitedly licking the frost off the corners of his eyes. “Arf! Arf!”
“How long have you been waiting here, hm?” Ashveil’s been in the fridge all night. It’s bright out, now, so it must’ve been a long wait. He eyes the plush dog bed, dragged out beside his fridge, “Did you wanna keep me company or something?”
“Arf! Arf!”
He chuckles. “How cute.”
Ranger can’t really keep him company for long. The fridge has to close eventually, and he drew the line at his dog getting hypothermia. Still, he thought as Ranger licked his cheek, the warm drag of her tongue against the cold of his cheek felt nice.
It felt nice to be warm again, if only for a bit.
“Oh? Has my dear assistant finally warmed up to our newest member?”
“Hah! You wish. I’m simply educating her to become another assistant of yours,” Mr. N says, pointing the banana in his hands at Ashveil, “this mutt has to earn her keep around here, after all!”
Ashveil decides not to comment on the fact that Ranger is, probably, the only resident of their agency who actively brings in consistent profit (courtesy of monthly stipends from Pearl) and instead observes what exactly the two have been up to.
Mr. N is standing on a stack of rather precariously placed documents, using a pair of bananas to…train Ranger to fetch?
“Go on, girl! Grab it! Yes! That’s exactly it!” Mr. N cheers as Ranger trots happily back by his side, a rather mangled banana in her mouth. “It’s better you keep a more gentle touch but for now, this will do.”
Ranger yips as Mr. N pats a gloved hand on the top of her head and below her chin. Ashveil stares in mild disbelief, “Huh. You really have warmed up to her.”
He saunters over, careful not to knock over the already teetering stack of documents Mr. N has claimed as his training perch. Ranger spots him immediately—of course she does—and bounds over with all the enthusiasm of a creature who has not yet learned the concept of moderation.
“Ah—gentle, Ranger—”
Too late.
She skids to a stop just short of colliding into him, tail wagging hard enough to constitute a small storm, the poor, thoroughly defeated banana still clamped proudly between her teeth.
“…Right. I guess we’ll work on that too,” Ashveil chuckles, crouching slightly as she nudges his knee, insistent.
Mr. N clicks his tongue. “Focus, Ranger! We are in the middle of a lesson here.”
“Arf!”
Ranger turns back to him immediately, dropping the banana at his feet with a wet plop.
Ashveil watches, brows lifting despite himself. “Well, I’ll be damned. I suppose you don’t plan on ditching the agency to become a dog trainer yourself?”
“Hah. As if I’d choose to work with pets,” Mr. N huffs, straightening to his full, albeit unimpressive height, “unlike some detectives I know, I am capable of discipline.”
“Is that so?” Ashveil hums, amused, before gesturing vaguely with his left hand. “And what exactly are you training her for? Banana retrieval?”
Mr. N sighs, “Aren’t you the detective here?”
He bends down, picking up another slightly less mangled banana, and tosses it a short distance across the room.
“Go on girl, fetch.”
Ranger darts off, nails clicking rapidly against the floor.
Mr. N watches her go, then glances—pointedly—at Ashveil’s right arm. “Connect the dots yet?”
Ashveil blinks, “Ah.”
Another thing you might not notice about the great Ashen Detective, other than the fact that he is broke, sleeps in a fridge, and seemingly subsists solely off of bananas, coffee, and takeout, is the fact that he is ambidextrous. Not by choice, certainly—he is right handed from birth—but he has learned to be, over the years. Though moreso, lately.
“You drop things far too frequently to be a respectable detective,” Mr. N tuts, “you should at least build a better reputation for yourself.”
Ashveil glances at his right hand, the nails digging in and out of it, and maturely insists, “I don’t drop stuff that often.”
Mr. N gives him a flat look. “You do.”
“Don’t I have you to help me?”
“Unfortunately so,” Mr. N answers.
Ranger comes skidding back into the room, banana in mouth once more, tail wagging triumphantly. She slows this time, right by Ashveil’s feet, before presenting her prize with a proud little huff.
Mr. N nods approvingly, taking the banana and—after a brief consideration—placing it not back in his own hands, but nudging it toward Ashveil.
“Take it,” he says.
“No thanks?” Ashveil says as he tilts his head, “Look I’m not picky but I don’t think that’s really sanitary.”
“Not to eat it you fool! Throw it again!” Mr. N groans.
Ranger looks between them, expectant.
Ashveil sighs, reaching out with his left hand. Mr. N immediately swats it away.
“Use the other one.” He pauses.
Ashveil’s smile thins, just slightly. “Mr. N—”
“The other one,” Mr. N repeats, firmer this time. “She needs to learn.” Ranger tilts her head.
Ashveil exhales through his nose. Then, slowly, he reaches out with his right hand.
This is something you certainly do not notice about the great Ashen Detective. Other than the fact that he is indeed great, a detective, and ambidextrous, is the fact that he has lost almost all feeling in his right arm. Moreso, lately.
Ashveil reaches his hand out. It’s not a large motion. Barely a stretch, really, but there’s a stiffness to it, a hesitation that lingers just a fraction too long before his fingers close around the banana.
Ranger’s tail picks up speed immediately, ready to snatch it out of his hands.
“Good,” Mr. N says, softer now. “Go on.”
Ashveil takes the banana, tosses it across the room, and internally congratulates himself for not flinching at the shock in his wrist.
“Fetch.”
It’s late, when Ashveil wakes up. Which isn’t surprising nor unusual, but it’s been happening less. Not tonight though.
The agency—if he can even call it that—is quiet, the streets are blessedly dark this time of night. If he strains, he can hear Mr. N tossing and turning in the storage cabinet above, his legs sometimes kicking at the door. That isn’t unusual either. He thought it’d been happening less.
He sits up and in the fridge for a few beats, to catch himself. It’s another nightmare, and thus another sleepless night.
Sometimes, Ashveil wakes up to screaming, sometimes cursing, sometimes begging, crying, and other sounds he’d rather not remember. Sometimes, they are his own. Often, they are not.
It’s on nights like these that his hand throbs, the nails glowing because they can’t keep his shadow in. It hungers, crawls all over his skin. He imagines his right hand reaching out, phantom pain along his wrist and forearm but shooting up to his throat. He imagines choking. He imagines the fridge door never opening again.
He gets out of the fridge.
Ashveil runs a hand down his face, boiling water on the stove. They don’t have heating here, most days, and despite what he says, Ashveil would rather not be cold forever. He watches steam shoot out as the kettle whistles and truly hopes Mr. N doesn’t wake up. He needs the sleep.
It’s a normal night, though rather unpleasant. What is unusual, though, is her.
A soft pattering of paws makes it’s way to the kitchenette. Ranger stops by his feet, bumping her head against his knee.
Ashveil startles, just slightly. He looks down at her, the faint light from the stove catching in her eyes, drowsy and entirely out of place in the hour. For a moment, he thought he must have been hallucinating again. Then she bumps his knee again, complaining about the lack of attention, and that’s when he realises this really isn’t a dream.
“You should be asleep,” he murmurs, voice rough from a number of things. He nudges at her gently with his shin, “Go on, back to bed. I paid good money for it, you know.”
Ranger does not move.
Instead, she presses closer, insistent, climbing up and nosing at the hem of his dark undershirt, then his hand—that hand—before shifting upward again as if trying to find purchase somewhere warmer.
Ashveil clicks his tongue, softer this time, “No, no, that won’t do. I’m freezing. It’s better you cuddle up with some blankets,” he mutters, half to himself as he tries to guide her away. “I’ll find you some, okay? Just shoo.”
“Arf.”
She does not shoo.
If anything, she doubles down—paws planted, head tucked stubbornly against his side, tail giving a slow, determined wag.
Ashveil exhales through his nose. “What has Mr. N been teaching you? You’re a terrible listener, you know that?”
Ranger huffs, unimpressed. She must have learnt that from Mr. N, too.
For a moment, he just stands there, kettle whistling low behind him, steam curling up into the quiet. His right hand throbs—dull, insistent—and the cold has already seeped too far into his bones. He should finish what he started. He should pour the water, warm his hands, down it while near boiling, and wait out the night like he always does. If he’s lucky, he’ll go back to sleep in an hour or two.
He should not—
Ranger nudges him again, harder, from behind knees. He stumbles.
You know, boss, you have really bad habits. Who’s gonna take care of you when we’re gone?
My friend, I understand how much this means to you, but you cannot keep going on like this. Come, I’ve set aside some tea. It’ll help you sleep.
Ha! We’ll take over from here. Let your old bones rest, got it?
Ashveil’s breath catches.
He closes his eyes. For a second—just a second—and then he isn’t in the kitchenette or the quiet. The sky is dark and the streets are empty but the sky above is full of stars. Around him are voices overlapping, hands tugging at his sleeves, someone laughing when he tries to brush them off, someone else stubborn enough to stay.
There used to always be someone stubborn enough to stay.
And then he’s alone again.
“…You’re all the same,” he blinks twice once he catches himself and tries not to say anything more, throat dry and older than he’d expected. Older and bitter and tired. A voice worn with time.
The kettle whistles louder. Ashveil turns it off.
“Fine,” he sighs, the word barely more than breath. “You win. But just for a bit.”
He sinks down where he stands, back sliding against the cabinet until he’s seated on the cold tile. Ranger is there immediately, of course she is, crowding into the space he makes, curling into him as if this was all part of her plan.
Ashveil feels her press in insistently, the warm of her belly and her breath against the thin of his undershirt. He stiffens, just slightly, shoulders drawn tight on instinct, before he forces himself to breathe it out.
This especially, has been more than unusual. More than just unfamiliar for these kinds of nights. Ashveil’s hands hover over her coat.
Ranger huffs, unimpressed with his hesitation, and noses forward again, pushing under his arm.
“Pushy,” he pouts. Then he exhales, long and quiet, and lets his arm drop around her.
It’s an awkward thing at first. Sometimes, when he wakes up, his body doesn’t feel quite his anymore. His arms are stiff and uncertain. His fingers forget the shape of a hand, feeling like there is something else feeling through it. Still, he moves them anyway. He curls his fingers into her fur, afraid to be holding on too tightly.
Ranger doesn’t pull away. If anything, she presses closer, and he cannot help but curl in as well, because how could he?
She’s warm. And for a moment, he’s warm, too.
The heat of her seeps into him in slow, stubborn waves, chasing out the cold in a way the kettle never quite manages. Her fur is soft beneath his fingers, her heartbeat steady where it presses against his chest.
Ashveil exhales, long and quiet. He hadn’t realised he’d been so cold.
There is nothing profound in this, he thinks. There is nothing that changes, had changed, or will change tonight. The ache in his arm doesn’t go away. His shadow still coils, restless and hungry underneath his skin.
But still, it quiets.
Maybe by just a fraction, maybe not at all, but he wants to believe, still, that tonight has dulled the sharp something in him into something softer. Something easier to hold onto.
Ranger shifts, tucking her head under his chin, tongue darting out to swipe at the dampness on his cheek before he even realizes it’s there.
He huffs a quiet, genuine laugh, breath catching on the tail end of it.
“Yeah,” he breathes, surprised and elated and fond all the same, “You’re all the damn same.”
“Arf!”
Ashveil bows his head, forehead pressing into the soft of her fur, and breathes her in—warmth, bananas, cheap printer ink, something faintly like expensive milky dog soap, and something else unmistakably alive.
His fingers move, slowly tracing along her side, counting the rise and fall of her breath.
And eventually, without quite meaning to, his breathing evens out. The tension in his shoulders loosens, inch by inch, until the cold tile beneath him feels less biting, the dark less suffocating, and the quiet replaced with another heartbeat. Another bit of warmth for the night.
Ranger stays.
When morning comes, it is sunlight that finds them first.
What finds them second is Mr. N.
He wakes early, as he often does, stretching in the cramped comfort of his cabinet. He slides down the stairway and past the pile of bananas and papers and the fridge and he pauses by the kitchenette, when he gets there.
And there is Ashveil, slumped against the cabinets, head tilted just slightly to the side. Ranger is curled into him, pressed close, her body draped across his lap like a makeshift blanket.
Both blessedly asleep.
Mr. N blinks, almost in disbelief, and for all his wisdom breathes out a quiet, “Huh.”
He’s long known of his friend’s sleeping troubles. He also knows that Ashveil, either stupid or suicidal or a bit of both, would much rather throw away his wellbeing for justice or whatever other excuse he’d come up with, in order to pay as little attention as possible to himself.
Mr. N looks at them for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, with a quiet huff, he turns away, only to return a moment later with a blanket dragged from his own stash in the storage cupboard.
He tosses it over the both of them haphazardly, snickering to himself as it settles awkwardly over Ashveil’s shoulder and Ranger’s back.
“Mr. Ashveil is going to wake up with the worst cramps in the world,” he mutters, already imagining how insufferable his friend is going to be once he wakes up in a few hours. At least he’s getting some sleep though.
Ranger’s ear twitches.
“Good on you, mutt. I guess you’ve earned your keep today,” Mr. N nods to himself, turning away, already reaching for his breakfast banana to enjoy with some early morning news.
For today, it’ll do.