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Danny Hayes, town asshole and genius loci, hits some crossroads.

This story has been a long time coming. Danny deals with his future in the town, his future with not-girlfriend-(probably) Melissa Dean, and some loose threads from a few years back.. Patreon subscribers, this should also be live for you with notes and maps and stuff. Thanks to Spudz and kergiby for help with this, structurally and from a character perspective.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute--as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

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Dramatis Personae:

Danny Hayes is a long-running character in Cannon Shoals. The stoat is licentious, sharp-tongued, and closest to being the genius loci of the town and its insular nihilism. Despite his cynicism and dubious reputation, he's legitimately protective of his friends. This includes Carlos, whom he calls "Scout." He's been friends (?) since 2016 with...

Melissa Dean is the daughter of Bobby Dean, who runs the millworker's union. She came to Danny for help, he failed to be his usual asshole Danny self, and they hit it off, sort of, with Melissa getting Danny to apologize for his behavior. Nobody is really sure what they are, relationshipwise, including Mel.

Carlos Ortiz moved to Cannon Shoals a few years ago and thinks of it as home. He struggles with his role, though, and the sense that his life is uncomfortably close to a "dead end" for someone in his 30s. Ironically, for a coyote, he's one of the least... problematic people in the Cannon Shoals Police Department.

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"The Paleontology of Regret," by Rob Baird

"Are we dating, or not?"

She was staring into coffee, pale as the fur of her muzzle. Can I ask you a question? she'd begun--abruptly, looking into the mug instead of at him--and continued before he could say one thing or another.

Are we dating, or not?

Danny Hayes raised an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

"Like... I dunno." Melissa hadn't lifted her gaze from the drink. "I can't tell what we are. I've slept over here for... a long time. You don't seem to mind. You let me buy a new griddle for you. You let me cook for--heck, I mean, you let me teach you how to cook..."

"Yeah."

"We share a bed."

"Yeah."

"But you've never... I mean. You've never..." Melissa Dean's paw clenched tightly on the handle of the coffee mug as she brought it to her muzzle. "We've never said, like... 'I love you' or anything. Or even, uh. Or even talked about it."

"I guess it hasn't come up," Dan said, aware that it wasn't a satisfactory answer without being able to gauge whether or not he thought that was, in itself, a problem.

"We also haven't..." Another drink of coffee bought the mixed-breed some time. "I kissed you once and you didn't seem to mind, but we haven't done anything... else?"

She said it as a question, like there were lines that needed to be read between. And Danny felt the reflexive answer, snapped between sharp teeth. Yeah? You want me to fuck you, then? 'Cause I got a reputation--ain't you said that? Just bend you over the table right here, bitch?

There was some discomfort in that reflex. As if it felt almost defensive. As if when, instead of answering her, he said that he had to get to work, that was an excuse. Avoidance.

Melissa Dean had, at some point--probably when she all but moved in to his apartment--gone simply from being a friend of the stoat's to something else, though he didn't know what that was. Her attempts at domesticity no longer seemed an unwanted intrusion, her tendency to the cheerfulness no longer seemed grating, and her presence in his bed no longer seemed imposing.

And he was not about to tell her that he hadn't dated anyone since high school. Fooled around enough, sure. Fucked plenty of girls. But it sure as hell wasn't a thing, just they wanted it--or he had, anyhow--and it was a good way to pass the time in the Shoals.

There was no reason for Danny to get to the police station early: it was a paperwork day, cleaning up their records and seeing what could be sent to the storage unit that served as their archives and what could simply be destroyed. He spent the twenty minutes before his shift started making a pot of coffee, listening to the radio, and listlessly skimming the past few days of logs.

His partner arrived on time, nodded a good morning to the stoat, and set about his own work. Scout had been taking continuing education classes in Lincoln City, something about computers--making the best use of a grant from the state to digitize the department. The clack of his claws on the keyboard faded into white noise.

Their records were not, for the most part, any more interesting than the logs had been. Drunk and disorderlies. License problems. Domestic squabbles. The kind of shitty things that happened in a hard-luck town where many of the inhabitants had about as much common sense as they had opportunity for anything better.

"You suppose Jerry's ever getting out?"

Sergeant Ortiz looked over, eyes briefly turning to the folder Danny had open before him. "Porter? Probably not. I mean..." The coyote shrugged. "He can rot, for all I care."

Jerry Porter, fresh off his last DUI, had stumbled into the Lincoln Street Roadhouse, pulled a gun on Leo Mazzi--he blamed the bartender for calling the cops, which hadn't actually been the case--and then converted that into attempted robbery and a brief hostage situation.

He'd worked for Martin-Barlow and, like most of the Barlow refugees, wound up adrift when the mill shut down. If only the dumb fuck had waited a couple more years, the stoat thought. Coulda got his job back. But Scout was right: Porter was liable to rot in prison, and it probably served him right.

Danny put the folder into the stack they'd marked for destruction--the police department was short on space, and anything important for the Porter case would've been saved separately for the trial. And he grabbed the next folder, with an irritatingly familiar name.

Harlan Crow's case was even more minor. The fox--another Barlow fuckwit, he thought darkly--had fled in the aftermath of a somewhat unclear allegation about what he'd done to, or with, Jenna Rourke, at the time a teenager working for a Martin-Barlow parts store.

Nobody'd heard anything of him since. The file was scanty: an initial report from Jenna's sister Lisa, the transcript from a talk they'd had with Harlan at the station, and a few notes about his disappearance. And, Danny saw, a scrap of paper in his partner's handwriting.

"Yo, Scout. You remember Harlan Crow? You wrote something here about following up with his wife."

Carlos Ortiz closed one eye; the other twitched as he searched his memory. "Karen? No--Kayla? Kayla, right? She wanted to talk after he skipped town, yeah. Asked me to call her to talk."

"Did you?"

"You'll recall we wound up pretty busy just after that, Danny."

He grunted, pushed back from his desk, and went to the cabinet, rummaging around until he found Lisa Rourke's file. That one was a bit thicker: witness depositions, and a toxicology summary, and Lieutenant Kendrick's sworn statement...

And the coroner's report.

When he sat back down Dan leafed through them idly, barely scanning the actual words. "Y'know. Do you ever..."

Scout arched an eyebrow, waiting. "Yes, Danny?"

"You ever think this wrapped up awfully... tidy?"

The coyote's expression turned scornful. "Lisa Rourke getting shot?"

"Well..." It was a bit more complex than that. "Remember after we brought Harlan in on that Jenna thing, he said Barlow was up to something down on Kydonia?"

His partner shrugged. "Kinda. Didn't you investigate that?"

"Yeah, the chief asked me to. Didn't come to anything--nothin' in his file, so I guess we didn't even trust that fuckin' asshole enough to make a note of it. But..." The whole stupid mess had taken up too much of Danny's time, and he wanted to forget it. Except. "Like, then he disappeared."

"Uh huh."

"With a possible sexual assault charge on him, if Jenna'd come around. But then Lisa bought it, and that bitch was the one pushing everything."

"Uh huh," Carlos repeated.

"You remember what Kayla wanted to talk about?"

Scout thought some more, and then rolled his eyes. "Promise you're going to stop watching conspiracy theory videos on YouTube, Danny? She said Harlan was worried Bobby Dean had it out for him, and he... uh, I think she said he hadn't packed or anything when he left. He just didn't come home that day."

"But you didn't follow up?"

The coyote rolled his eyes, and mouthed a silent Jesus Christ. "You think Dean had Harlan Crow knocked off? Really, Danny? Bobby Dean?"

The dingo could be a little gruff, and definitely overprotective of his men, but Hayes had to admit the idea was absurd. "And Harlan's an idiot. No reason to think he would've packed."

"And Kayla wound up deciding he'd just took off. So either Bobby is a criminal mastermind, or..."

"Or there were a few coincidences and I'm just being paranoid." The stoat tapped his claws on the file, thinking. "Shit. I dunno, Scout. Martin-Barlow ain't exactly clean."

"Big difference between 'not clean' and 'murder,'" his partner reminded him. "Do any of the, uh... 'coincidences' add up to anything? You check to see what Reddit thinks?"

"Fuck off." He flipped through a few more of the notes. "We never found that tiger, either--the delivery driver. We wanted to get a statement from him. Jeff Reed said he saw a tiger at the Roadhouse, too. Just after Lisa came to him complaining about Dean."

"And?"

There was only one family of tigers in Cannon Shoals, and none of them drove vans. It was awfully thin to hang any real suspicions on, and Danny didn't know why the whole thing had him puzzled. "I dunno, Scout."

"Don't know what?"

"Why it's bothering me."

"You want some help? You're bored. You're bored, and you've always hated the mill for causing us trouble, and now you want to take matters into your own hands and go fuck shit up. Pay it back a bit, y'know?"

Hearing it, there was more truth in Scout's suggestion than Danny really wanted to admit. "So I could still go bug Dean about it?"

The coyote shook his head, resigned. "If it would make you happy. And if you don't drag me along with you."

After all their years together, he probably owed the coyote that much, at least. Dan grunted, pulled his coat on, and left. Bobby Dean would be at the union office in Oak Valley, a few miles inland from Cannon Shoals itself--he didn't even bother calling ahead to make sure of that. Dean never left.

A late-winter morning saw the ocean's fog making its way well up the Neatasknea River, shrouding the road before the police cruiser in billowing drifts and hiding the water itself from view. Atmospheric, he thought. Good weather for a murder mystery.

And then he snorted, because of course Scout was right--there was nothing to it. Nothing to any of the inconsistencies and coincidences, nothing to the missing pieces of the story. Just a chance to hassle Dean, who got away with too much because the town depended on Martin-Barlow Western, and Martin-Barlow depended on Dean's ability to keep the union workers under control.

The old dingo was, of course, working: behind his desk, making notes on a sheet of paperwork. Alone. He tilted his head at Dan's appearance. "Hey, sergeant. Wasn't expecting any visitors today."

"I wasn't expecting to make any visits." The stoat dragged a chair over, setting it in front of the desk. "You've got a minute, right?"

"I guess." Dean turned the stack of papers over, and set his pen aside.

"Whatever happened to Harlan Crow?"

Dean scowled. "I thought I was done hearing about that son of a bitch. You know what happened to him, Sergeant Hayes. He was gonna be fired--probably gonna be arrested--and he ran. Useless coward. I ain't heard from him for three years now." The dingo caught himself, brow furrowing.

But he said nothing. "What?"

Bobby opened his muzzle, considering his words. "I think maybe I heard he was in Idaho or something. Can't recall where from, but... hey, if you want, I can try to get a name for you. You going after him, or what?"

"He said he knew stuff about the mill. Your warehouse on Kydonia."

The dingo, as Carlos had, rolled his eyes wearily. "You were the one who searched it with me, sergeant. Harlan was a lying piece of shit. I don't have a fucking clue what he thought he knew about."

"'Was'?"

"Don't see him around, do you?"

"Nah. Which is a bit convenient. I know you guys aren't clean. Don't try to tell me otherwise."

Dan could see the effort it took for Bobby to keep the growl from his sigh. "Sure. Not all those prescriptions for 'on-the-job injuries' are legit, probably. And I cut 'em some slack now and then. And back before shit was legal, I looked the other way when they borrowed some of the land we weren't working. You want to get in my face about pot, officer?"

"Not if it didn't end there. You know how often we've cut you breaks, Bobby?"

"And I appreciate it. I do. What does this have to do with that prick Harlan?"

"Lisa Rourke wasn't happy with you, either. And now she's--"

"Yeah," Dean snapped. "One of you bastards shot her. What do you want from me? I didn't send enough flowers? Christ, Hayes, this is ancient history."

"I guess." He leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. "You ever work with a tiger?" Dean's ear twitched. Huh. "Not many tigers around here. There was, a few years back. Drove a van, maybe. Hung out at Linc's, maybe. That's your territory. One of yours?"

"Not one of mine."

"But you know them?"

"No." Dean shut his eyes, giving Danny the impression he was counting to ten in his head. His voice was strained with forced calm when he opened them again. "Sergeant. I don't know what you're up to, but just... back off. What's the point? Lisa's dead. Harlan's gone... wherever the fuck assholes like him go. Hell, if we're lucky. Jenna Rourke moved. Kayla Crow moved. Brian ain't mentioned Harlan in years, and with his son back I guess he's got enough other shit goin' on without you dragging up the past."

"Son isn't back."

"What?"

"Morgan isn't a Crow anymore. And she doesn't miss it much."

"Sh... right." Bobby sighed, turning his paws up in tired frustration. "I can't keep this shit straight, sergeant."

"Try."

"It doesn't matter. My point was that Brian's happy. Everyone's happy. We aren't causing trouble for you, so why the fuck would you start trying to cause trouble for us? Serious question, son: why?"

"I want to know what Harlan thought."

"He didn't. He thought about getting his dick wet, and if something got in the way of that, he thought about fucking things up just to fuck things up so he could get even. Nobody misses him. Nobody missed him then. Maybe he told Jenna or Kayla something, and I guess if you're really into opening old wounds you could call 'em up and see if they want to chat. Think they will?"

"No."

"Wonder why. Maybe they're covering up what we're doing here in Oak Valley, too." A whistle from outside sounded the shift change. Dean glanced in the direction of the noise, then looked back to Danny. "But it's pretty obvious. Hard to cover up sawdust."

"And the tiger?"

"Fuck the tiger. I don't know him. I'm not the goddamn census, either, Hayes. Just the den mother around here, so unless you've got something more serious than gossip, I'd like to get back to work."

Danny was sitting behind the wheel of his car when he realized, belated, that he'd never mentioned the tiger's gender. Bobby Dean had jumped to 'him' without prompting, and...

And. He started the car up, ignition squealing in protest at the maintenance the department hadn't been able to afford yet, and turned back onto the highway. And you're just being an idiot. Scout's right. What are you, Columbo? Bobby just guessed because you said the tiger was a delivery driver and hung out at the Roadhouse.

Scout, who knew he was right, crossed his arms over his chest when Danny came back to the office. "Well? Just the facts, ma'am."

"Well. Dean doesn't give a fuck about Harlan Crow."

The coyote shrugged, like he didn't know what his partner might've been getting at. "Who does? You? How old was he, Danny? What was his middle name? When'd he and Kayla get married?"

"Your point?"

Scout rolled his eyes and tossed an envelope onto Dan's desk. "Give me a hand?"

"With what?" He pulled a thick, stapled letter from the envelope. "All the way from Salem, huh? Must be important."

"ODOT wants everything on our traffic enforcement. They're doing some kind of safety analysis on the highway, is the gist of it. I pulled the data from the bridge speed camera, but our stop records are still a mess. I could use the help."

"Trying to distract me, Scout?"

"Trying to get this done. I don't need the OT. Gimme a hand?"

It was hard to see the point of arguing, even if the work was tedious. It passed the time--another day, same as the one before it. Melissa was her usual, good-natured self; she said nothing about their conversation that morning.

Indeed she said nothing of any consequence until they were both in bed, with the lights out. And then, after a few minutes of silence had gone by, she cleared her throat. "Dad said you went and saw him today."

"Yeah."

She was quiet for a bit. "Everything alright?"

"Had questions. 'Bout the old Harlan Crow thing." I dunno. And maybe I wanted to stir shit up, after all. "I figured he would know best what Crow was up to."

"Did he help?"

"Much as he could. I guess. I don't get the impression he cares much. Happy to have that fuckin' dipshit out of his hair, which... well. Can't blame him," the stoat admitted.

"No." Again, a quiet spell. "My dad's a good man, Danny. He's doing what he can. It's not always easy, but... I think the town's better off with the mill back. People are working again. They're talking about the railroad coming back..."

He didn't keep the derision from his snort. "What else is new? We'll be in the ground and up at Linc's they'll be saying Southern Pacific is 'talking about the railroad' running over our fuckin' graves."

"Maybe. But maybe not," she insisted. "It is better, Dan. Dad asked..." She trailed off, and gathered her nerves. "Dad asked why I put up with you. I think... I think a lot of the time you see things pretty clearly. But sometimes you let your... your angry side do the thinking. You get all cynical, and... you don't have to."

The world offered a lot of opportunities for it, though, especially in Cannon Shoals. He shrugged. "The mill's a good thing. Makes things quieter when we don't have to deal with them."

"See?" He felt her rummage in the darkness, and her paw found his. "I 'put up with you' because... in this weird way I... trust you. And you can be good to people. I like you, Danny."

Setting aside whatever cynicism he felt--whatever doubts--he kept himself from sighing. "I like you, too. I hope you know that. Even if I am a cynical asshole."

"Do you mind if I kiss you again?"

The thought occurred to him, in the second between the time she asked the question and the time he felt the dog's muzzle on his cheek, that perhaps he was a project for her, of sorts. That teaching him to bake, and cleaning out his refrigerator, and forcing him to do something on the weekends besides drinking, had all been some scheme with its own distant goal.

But it was a little late to protest. And so, when she drew away, he kissed her back, catching her lips in a quick, peck. "Goodnight," he muttered.

She'd stayed frozen in place. "Look," the dog said.

"At?"

Melissa took a deep breath and sat up. "Look. Look, if we... if--"

"Spit it out."

"I... want you to fuck me."

It might've been the first time he'd ever heard the mutt use the word--definitely the first time in that context. Danny reached over, switching the lamp by his bed on. She was giving him an odd look. "There's a 'but' here?"

"Maybe."

"You ain't done this before?"

Melissa blinked at him. "I've done it before, Danny. Just not with you."

"And?"

"And I don't know how to start after--like--when I first came to see you, I figured... uh. Well, I figured on stuff, but, uh... you didn't, and then..."

"What does that mean?"

She shifted a little uncomfortably, ears swiveling back. "I thought I knew how it was gonna go. Uh. Based on what I'd heard. And I guess it isn't quite like that? Maybe? But you don't seem like the... candles and romantic dinner type, neither."

"Not really."

"What would you normally do?"

That was, of course, not really what she was asking. Not really what she meant. Not really what she expected him to do. She'd said often enough that she knew he had a reputation. He sat up, too. "That's what you want?"

Melissa swallowed. "I was just asking."

"Uh-huh."

No good way to take 'I was just asking' seriously, the way the conversation started. He could show her. Could pin the dog down and have his way with her like she'd planned when she first came to his apartment. Could at least deal with a shitty, unproductive day by fucking a good load into her.

If she wanted their relationship to be more than just baking cornbread and watching movies on the couch, well... Danny looked her over. A nightshirt hid her curves, and the dirty-brown fur she'd picked up from her father's side. Still, he could pretty well imagine, and...

"But if--"

"Get yer clothes off." She blinked again, so he reached out, hooking claws into her shirt and tugging roughly. "Off. Now. Ain't doing everything myself."

Melissa hesitated, starting to reply and then thinking better of it. Her paw came to her waist, and she slowly started pulling the garment off. Too slowly: Dan snarled, jerked the shirt up until she had to raise her arms, and when he tossed the thing away he shoved her onto her back.

She'd yelped. The stoat held her down, growling into her ear. "Listen better. Understand?" Surrendering the initiative to him appeared to suit the mixed-breed fine, because she nodded weakly. Dan shoved his paw between her legs, fingers pressed into the fabric still shielding her crotch, and while she tensed he sat up to let her go. "Keep going."

She trembled as he stroked her. "Okay?"

He crammed his fingers under her panties, searching until he found soft, already-slick warmth. Teasing her, his sharp eyes narrowed. "Don't 'okay' me. What did I tell you?" Dan worked against her lips until they started to part around him, fingerpads working an obviously distracting pressure into the canine with each nudge. "What did I tell you, bitch?"

Melissa's muzzle worked at the last word, until the pieces fit back together and she wriggled to get her paws behind her, unfastening her bra. Her heavy chest rose and fell in hesitant, wavering breaths, and when he worked his fingers into her he caught a whine, light and whistling.

Little resistance met him as he pumped into her--between her first request and the ease of her surrender he figured she'd been working herself up to asking him for a fair bit of the evening--and he curled his fingers, shoving them firmly into her sodden cunt.

She sighed, a muddy word lost in the slurred tension of it. Then he felt her panties shift: she was trying to slip them off, and the fabric caught on his wrist. He pushed her away with his other paw. "Not yet. Not done with you."

"But..." He ground into her, and the mutt squirmed unevenly, all but whimpering the word.

"Change my mind, then. Beg for it."

"For what?"

Danny bent down to her fuzzy ear, growled softly. "Don't be stupid."

She tensed. Coughed quietly. Whispered, like with him so close she was sharing a secret with the stoat. "Fuck me."

Grunting his displeasure, he bit her ear and let the growl build a notch. "What was that, bitch?"

"Fuck me," she tried again. A little louder. He bit down harder, and she yelped. "Fuck me! Danny--please! Let me have it!"

His briefs had grown tight enough that it would have to do. Danny pushed himself back, stripping out of his shirt and underwear, and then slid between her legs. "Little better," he told her, forcing her thighs wider and guiding the tip of his cock down past the silky fur of her mound to her wet, warm lips.

He entered her easily, at least the first half-inch or so. The bit of him that told her she was about to be claimed, nudged the hard, smooth taper of his length in until it became an unmistakeable, demanding pressure.

And he stopped.

She looked up, eyes locking. "Take me..." A firm, restrained thrust buried enough of him to let the mutt feel herself stretch around his girth, and when he halted again she whined. Knew what he wanted. "Give it to... f..." She swallowed, briefly averting her eyes. "Fuck me. Fuck your bitch."

"There you go..." He resumed, kept working deeper into her--pushing in until she started to tense, holding, pulling back slightly to repeat the cycle. Each movement slid the stoat a little further inside, and with every new inch Mel's breath grew a little shallower.

One last, heavy thrust pushed him in to the hilt and, breathless or not, the dog managed a startled yelp. "Oh, God--Danny," she gasped, ears back and muzzle staying parted. The snugness of it, the warmth pulsing around him, clouded his own brain, at least briefly.

So he distracted himself. "Ain't that what you wanted?" His nose was right on hers, and with the sound of his voice her ears flattened further. He gave her a few seconds to recover, pulled back just enough for her to feel him start to tug away from her, and rammed the mutt bitch full again. "Well?"

"Y-yes. Yeah. Just--bit--bit much."

He grunted--took his next thrust deliberately, sliding back easily and swiveling his hips down to work his cock smoothly into her cunt. His eyes stayed narrowed, fixed on hers, letting her know he was doing her a favor that could be traded in at any time.

But not for the next dozen strokes: just as slow, just as fluid. Bit by bit he felt Melissa relax under him, heard her breathing deepen until the rigid heat pumping into her slick pussy turned her pants into quiet moans. He gauged the moment to start taking her faster, more roughly.

When a particularly firm, particularly deep buck rolled the dog's eyes back Danny repeated it even more sharply. The tone of her yelp was different this time. He flashed a grin, darkened by the feral urges driving his tempo. "Like that, bitch?" Her muzzle opened to answer, and when he slammed back into the dog it stayed open, frozen in place, a whimper and a shaky nod serving the purpose instead.

And he stopped holding back.

With an approving grunt the stoat began to fuck her in earnest--ramming into the dog, each hilting thrust jarring her ample hips as their bodies joined. He rutted her swiftly, but it was the strength of it that had Melissa squirming beneath him, her muzzle open and working for some reply to the rough energy as he stuffed her full over and over.

She gave up on words and for a moment he felt her paws on his chest--pressing into his sleek pelt, trying for some non-verbal order. Danny snarled, grabbing her by the wrists and pinning her arms above her head. Nose at hers, he bared razor fangs and hissed: no.

And to make the point clear he kicked the pace up a notch. He could feel the twinges of his release growing less subtle and it was as good an excuse as any to let the bitch have it. He pounded into her--hard, brutal, jolting lunges that drove her body further up the bed. Her paws, still held fast, met the headboard and she tried to brace herself.

More than that... more than that she used the leverage to push back, grinding against the stoat. It was shuddering, though, erratic and uneven--he could tell even before she yelped his name what was about to happen. Melissa yelped again and then the begging turned open; desperate: "don't stop!"

His balls were drawing up taut and his cock throbbed heavily with the pleasure of impending release and there wasn't a chance in hell he would've stopped anyway but Danny obliged nonetheless. He hammered his last thrusts home as she started to thrash under him, let himself lose control...

Groaning his claim through gritted teeth, the stoat forced himself deep and held there for the first long, hot splash of his cum into his conquest. If she felt him flooding her the dog was too distracted to care--all but howling, her back arched convulsively. His firm, instinctive jerks served to keep him buried as he pumped her frantically spasming hips full, fucking his load deep into her gripping snatch.

He went completely still as the last of his release spilled into the dog, coming off his peak to hear her yelp again, trapped paws bunched and tense. Melissa bucked, humping unevenly on his cock, the mess he'd spurted into her squelching wetly, starting to gush in pearly ribbons around the shaft stuffing her cunt. For nearly half a minute every time he thought she was calming down another spasm jolted the mutt senseless again.

She slumped by degrees, gasping, until she was flat on the bed under him. Wild eyes searched; eventually she found him, and focused, her muzzle gaped. "Oh--oh, God. Danny. Oh my God."

"Not what you figured?"

Melissa panted a hoarse, harsh laugh. "Maybe not exactly."

"What you wanted, though."

She didn't answer. But there was something different about her. Not in her tangled hair, or her mussed pelt, but in the contented splay of her ears, and her sated expression. Quiet and pleasant and easy-going as she was, Melissa looked softer under him, fur glowing in weak lamplight.

Relaxed, finally.

As he shrank, threatening to slide from her, she took a slow breath. "Forgot... you don't have a knot, huh?"

"Sorry."

She giggled, and he slipped free, a sticky rush of seed following immediately to soak her fur. "I should clean up. I'll be right back to cuddle you."

It was his turn to stay silent, then. Flat on his back, looking up at the ceiling, listening to the shower switch on. Wondering when it would be time to ask himself: what the fuck did I just do?

The shower turned off, and a minute later the bedsprings creaked as Melissa rejoined him. And then she was snuggled up to the stoat, sighing. "That was... intense," she said. "But... like... in a good way. A good kind of intense."

Her tail wagged. Not much, but enough to feel it thumping against the sheets. He could feel the dampness of her fur, too, where she'd rinsed off, and again what had just happened struck home. "Happy?"

She hugged him. "Don't gotta make it sound like you were just doing your job, Danny," she said, but if she was chiding him the tone of her voice was still friendly. And she pressed her way closer. "I'm happy. 'Course I'm happy. That was--you were... you were really good. I'm all tired now... good kind of tired, too..." And a giggle, quiet and reserved.

This was not the way it usually went. The conversation was not usually so... heartfelt. Half the time there wasn't even conversation, really--a breathless spell, at best, and then they parted ways. He was on good terms with Jackie Cormier, and when they hooked up she was always eager about it, but not...

The mutt's blunt muzzle worked into his neck, nuzzling him. Not that, he decided, even before she whispered softly: "I'm glad I know you."

He was supposed to answer her, but the first thing that came to his mind was an acknowledgment. He could hug her, tell her I'm glad I know you, too. Something simple, and the suspicion that he probably would prefer to say that gnawed at him.

So he said nothing instead: let the mixed-breed's breathing slow, until she didn't stir when he moved. He found the edge of the blanket, pulling it over them both. The lamp switch was more of a stretch, on the other side of Melissa's relaxed body, but he managed. And when he settled down, his arm stayed put atop her.

Danny shook his head. He tilted it down, resting between the dog's ears. The faint scent of her shampoo filled his nose, and it was troublingly familiar. He laid back, brow furrowed invisibly in the darkness, and worried the question, trying to tease an answer from it.

What the fuck did I just do?

***

But it was still on his mind the next morning. The whole sequence, from her hesitant question to the warmth of the dog's body against his side. And the way his arm had felt, draped over her. And the smile she'd given him when he left for the station.

And before it all: you can be good to people. 'Assuming facts not in evidence,' he believed the phrase was.

Except that if he regretted it, he wasn't entirely sure what part he regretted.

"You've been staring at that for like an hour, Danny," his partner said. He'd gotten up, poured the last of the coffee into his mug, and was waiting for the new pot to brew. "It's really that interesting?"

"Slow day," Danny suggested.

"What is it, anyway?" He leaned over. "Still on that Crow thing? Really?"

He looked down at the folder. The coyote's note was still there, incomplete. He could track Kayla down--try to figure out what she still remembered. If she still cared. And then... Why the fuck would you start trying to cause trouble for us?

Or: you can be good to people.

"Yo. Do me a favor."

The coyote tilted his head. "Yeah?"

Danny closed the folder; held it out to him. "Fuck it. You're right--ain't worth reopening. It's all ancient history. Even if I'd been onto something, I mean... fuck, just old wounds, you know? But it doesn't matter. Nothing there."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure, Carlos. Toss it."