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Bottle it Up; Pour it Out

Dar pushes open the heavy, metal door and stomps into Arskew's only intoxicant serving establishment. A dozen orcs look his way--some nod their heads at him, some smile, and some wonder what had made him grumpy this time. Dar ignores them all. Tables, chairs and bodies block him from walking in a straight line and he frowns; he hates that. A row of stools waits before the long, flat and battered bar top. Some of the stools are occupied and Dar chooses the only stool that is, thankfully, devoice of adjacent life; except the microbial kind, but he is okay with that, germs won't try and talk to him.

A haggard and scarred old specimen of an orc lumbers over to him; broad-shouldered, but thin with age and perpetually inebriated. The bartender, and sole proprietor, lives in the second story above the bar and never seems to leave the building. Dar often thinks about how the orc had gotten the scars marring his face and bare forearms; was it from breaking up bar fights, or falling, drunk, down the flight of stairs coming down from his 'house.'

"What'll ya've, Fluffums?"

Dar grinds his teeth and glares at the old orc. Dar is one of two Hilachev in Arskew, but the bartender never calls Scarlet 'fluffums;' only him and, like most things, he hates that too. Dar figures all of the orcs in the small fringe settlement are in on some secret joke to constantly fuck with him. Perhaps they do it because he thinks they're all ugly, brutish, and annoyingly jovial. The likely reason is because they all know he especially hates being stuck in Arskew. Dar prefers his name for the town: Asskew.

"Fuck you, Argrum," Dar snarls, "give me whatever doesn't taste like you pissed in the mug."

"You say e'rythin' 'ere tastes like piss, Dar." Argrum always adds a long 'h' to Dar's name that doesn't exist.

"Fucking drunk," Dar grumbles under his breath.

Argrum ambles off to a barrel sitting atop a shoddily constructed platform. A lot of things in Arskew are locally produced, built, or manufactured (including the beer); a side effect of being so far away from the remnants of civilization. The orc holds a wooden mug under the barrel's spigot, lifts the lever, and waits until the amber liquid sloshing into the mug reaches the top, spilling some foam onto the sticky floor.

Dar slaps several heavy, inelegantly stamped coins onto the bar as Argrum sets down the mug, startling the old man. Dar smiles and Argrum lingers. The tan-furred hilachev stares down at the foam head in his mug. Like the rest of Arskew, the mug looks dilapidated and past its prime. Sure, the orcs find it to be a perfectly delight place; buildings made of concrete and recycled metal--utilitarian to an ugly, lifeless fault, as far as Dar is concerned. Half the interior of the bar is metal, including the bar top that Argrum has begun to listlessly wipe down with a grubby, stained rag. Dar sees no beauty, no elegance, not like his home: Line 05. There are many things he would give up to be back at the Line, if he could just teleport there, right now, then stay in this backwater dump another second.

While staring at the old orc, Dar lifts the mug, then breaks eye contact, tilts his head back, and chugs half his beer. The lukewarm beverage tastes exactly how he imagines piss to taste.

"This tastes like piss," Dar grunts and swallows his disgust.

"Okay," is all Argrum says, still watching the fluffy grouch of a hilachev.

"The fuck you staring at?"

Argrum opens his mouth, closes it, scratches his matted hair with one fat, stubby finger and thinks better of trying to please the surly man glaring at him. He shambles over to another patron sitting at the bar. Dar grunts and fishes a cigar out of his pants cargo pocket. Using his small, sharp front teeth, he bites the cap of the cigar off carefully, spitting the bits of tobacco onto the floor. An overly large box of matches and an ashtray slide into his periphery and stop perfectly in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees one of the Patrol sitting down the bar flash him a lopsided smile. Dar nods and flicks one of his tall, pointy ears--in truth he doesn't hate every orc, he likes most of the ones that are part of his security force.

The match makes a pleasing swish across the dappled side of the matchbox, flame hissing to life, sputtering as it struggles to burn the crappy wood. The opposite end of the match is pointed, a toothpick. Utilitarian to a fault. Every time he has tried to use the matchstick to pick his teeth it breaks. Dar puffs on the cigar to help the flame take to the tobacco, small wisps of smoke roiling out the side of his snout. He inspects the foot to ensure an even burn; satisfied, he puts the tightly wrapped cylinder back to his lips and takes a long drag. As he exhales, smoke swirls into the invisible eddies that move through the room. The thick smoke drifts lazily up to the low rafters.

Dar twists in his seat and sweeps his gaze around the room. Everywhere he looks he sees dented metal sheets, welded together with no finesse, and dull, cracked concrete. The orcs look just as dull and cracked, as plain as the community they live in. Their clothes are old and weathered, miscolored patches on the wear points. Despite all this, they seem perfectly content. They talk animatedly and laugh over their mugs; mugs that look like something a toddler might put together. Those open displays of mirth drive Dar deeper in his own hole of self-loathing. He knows he is the unhappy resident of Arskew.

Argrum stumps over to Dar and replaces his now empty mug with another, overflowing one. Dar responds by pulling a few coins from his pocket and dropping them onto the bar, where they clatter and spin. He does his best to concentrate all his feelings into his stomach so he can drown them in beer. He raises the mug to his wet lips and drinks. It has never worked before and he knows it isn't going to work now, but he likes to believe that this time will be different.

His ears twitch at the sound of a swishing cloak and the stool next to him squeaks in protest. The stools don't squeak when he sits on them. Dar doesn't shift his eyes from the wall in front of him and puffs on his cigar. He knows exactly who has sat next to him--he's heard the stools squeak that particular squeak many, many times.

"Something crawl into your beer and die, Darsen?"

Keyba. Dar grinds his teeth so hard he hopes she can hear it. "Dar Cen."

"What's that?" Keyba asks innocently.

"My name is Dar space Cen, you cunt. Not darsen!" Dar shouts, his cigar almost falling from his lips. The volume in the bar decreases for a moment at the outburst, but quickly returns when everybody realizes it's just Dar yelling at Keyba. Nothing out of the ordinary. Argrum shakes his head and fetches a mug of beer for Keyba without being asked.

"That's what I said. Darsen." Keyba giggles at her own joke and accepts the mug Argrum places in front of her, payment already on the bar top. She is his second-best customer.

"What do you want, Keyba?" Dar grumbles. He turns way from her and puts his elbow on the bar, jaw in hand.

"To cheer you up, Dar!" Keyba says loudly, grinning. She thumps her large, meaty hand against Dar's back hard enough that the mug in his free hand sloshes beer onto the bar, narrowly missing his fingers. Argrum, noticing the mess, grunts. He tosses a rag in front of Dar and leaves the hilachev to clean it up himself.

Keyba laughs then half drinks, half slurps her beer down greedily, as if she's dying of dehydration. Dar grimaces at the grotesque sound and does his best to disappear from her attention. Trying to get Keyba to leave him alone has never worked and this time is no different. Her clumsy, sausage fingers make a poor attempt at tickling his side. Orcs have one thing definitely going for them, brute strength.

"Are you," Dar stifles an involuntary laugh, "fucking kidding me!" He locks his arm to his side to stop the assault and stands up, away from the bar. Keyba moves to continue the attack. "Fuckin--stop it!"

"Make me," Keyba says with a smirk, but relents. Utterly pleased with herself, she starts finishing off her beer in victory. A full mug appears before she's even done.

Dar sullenly takes a long drag on his cigar, smoke burning his lungs, and blows a stream of thick smoke at the orcs broad face before sitting back down. Keyba smiles, unaffected, as the fog dissipates. Dar finds most orcs unattractive, but there is something special about this particular one's smashed face. In his world view, orcs are born at the very tip-top of the ugly tree and hit most of the branches on the way down, but Keyba--Dar swears--hit every-single-fucking-branch on the way down and then, at the bottom, an artificial stomped on her face, just to make sure. It is a damn shame too, he feels, because she has huge tits, a perfect ass, and a solid, fit body. If she wasn't an orc, Dar would be happy for her attention and accepted her advances a long time ago; even though she is over a foot taller and twice his weight, but he thinks that's kind of hot, anyway.

The fact that he hasn't fucked her yet somewhat surprises him. He's lost count of the number of times he's ended up drunk and, often enough naked, in his--or her--bed with her. It seems impossible, but she has also never tried to coerce him into it. Even the times he was smashed so hard he couldn't see straight, he still had the self-control to abstain, or maybe it was whiskey dick. Whatever. Maybe someday he would. Hell, maybe it will even be tonight if he gets drunk enough.

"You're quieter than normal, Dar. You haven't called me 'fugly' even once today. I think it's a new record!"

Dar knows Keyba is always just trying to cheer him up. She knows he hates Arskew, resents his superiors for sending him here, alone. He'd admitted his true feelings about the place to her on numerous occasions. They were often drunk together and that is when he is most open about his opinions. She is his designated drinking buddy, probably appointed by the mayor herself. Official title and all. Maybe it was even put to a community vote.

"Shut up, Keyba," Dar mutters before finishing off his beer. Despite appearing drunk in perpetuity, Argrum is always punctual with a fresh beer for his number one customer. Dar hardly notices the exceptional service. Tonight feels like a low he hasn't reached previously; one step above walking out the main gate into the untamed wilds without a gun. Keep walking until he stumbles into a phase storm; or gets robbed and eaten by bandits; or maybe stumbles into a malignant artificial, like a Vess, at least that is a quick way to go.

"What's wrong, Darsen?" There is no mocking tone with the nickname, only genuine concern. Dar takes a long drag on his cigar, savors the burn deep in his lungs, and suspires wearily.

"S-S-D-D, Keyba."

"Huh?"

"Same shit, different day."

"Ah," is all Keyba says. She starts to rub Dar's back. He twitches at the contact and turns his head. She is looking at him expectantly, face open and friendly. Even Dar sees that in her broad, flat face, nose disproportionally small. He sighs again and hangs his head, nose touching the rim of his mug. He stares at the amber liquid.

Keyba sees Dar's sagging ears and hunched posture and knows something is different. The fact he has yet to shrug off her hand is testament to that. He says mean things all the time to her, but she doesn't believe he really means them--most of the time. It is his somewhat rude way of trying to stay detached. She just wants him to be happy. As much as he doesn't want to be, he is a part of Arskew. Everybody she's ever talked to likes having the wily, disgruntled, crass, and sarcastic hilachev around; even if he sometimes snaps at people, and professes his desire for Arskew to just disappear, he is the best security chief the settlement has ever had.

Dar puffs on the cigar jutting out the side of his snout, a long trail of gray ash clinging to the end. He notices Keyba being uncharacteristically silent and can't even bring himself to berate her to break the silence. The beer he has drank is already giving him a buzz. He taps on his cigar over the ashtray and the delicate ash shatters to pieces.

"Hey, Dar."

"What, Key--"

She cuts him off as he turns his head, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him into a hug that smashes his face between he breasts. Pressed so tight against her, he can hear her heart beating. Her clothes smell like a long day of toil, but he doesn't mind. He's been so deep down in a well of hate for so long that this hug feels good, really good. He stretches his arms around her and his fingertips barely touch. Voices around the bar mutter about the strange sight. Dar with his arms around Keyba without being forced into it. No sarcastic remark uttered. Eventually, she releases her hold. Dar sits up a little straighter on his stool. He settles the wet end of the cigar between his lips and inhales deeply.

"Thanks." Keyba smiles, showing off her imperfect teeth. "But we're still not fucking."

"You say that now. We'll see after I get a couple more beers in you."

Dar rolls his eyes, but smirks.

Yeah right.

Some months later...

There is something special about Arskew's only bar that draws him today. It isn't the two-story building, that is the same as it has ever been; or the wooden sign hanging over the front door, bearing a pristinely carved and painted overflowing tankard; or the battered door that always stays slightly ajar, due to the bent hinges, that greet customers with a squealing wail. No, nothing that lame.

Inside are the usual faces--wide, flat, snaggle-toothed and smiling. His preferred stool that creaks when anyone but him sits on it beckons, as always. The bartender, Agrum, wobbles for and aft, as he always does, because he's perpetually drunk.

Argrum places a beer, in a tankard Dar is intimately familiar with, on the bar top, unprompted, and walks away. Beer isn't the special thing that brings him here. The same beer as always isn't enough today. Today requires something Dar has only had once before, and only because Keyba had dared him.

Today, he needs it. Almost even desires it.

"Argrum," Dar calls and rests his elbows on the bar, leaning forward conspiratorially.

"Eh?" Most things Agrum says come out as affable grunts.

"That bottle behind you on the shelf. No, the big black one on the top," Dar says, pointing at it. "A shot of that, please."

Argrum stops mid-step and stares at the small-framed, fluffy raptor. The double shock of Dar saying please and wanting a drink from the black bottle too much for his brain, swimming in alcohol, to process right away. He blinks and looks up at the top shelf as Dar points again, sternly, at the bottle.

The shot glass lands on the bar with a metallic clink. Though drunk, Argrum's hands stop their usual tremors as they handle the ominous black bottle sporting a crudely drawn skull-and-crossbones on the label. With uncharacteristic grace, he pours and doesn't spill a drop.

Dar slides the glass closer and stares in the syrupy liquid, equally as black as the bottle that held it. Rumor has it the bottle had originally been clear; rumor also had it that the stuff turns your insides black, too. Silently staring into the glass, Dar hopes that it will do more than turn his guts the color of coal--he hopes it will do the same to his brain.

"To the best bartender in town. Even if it's because you're the only fuckin' one!" Dar shouts, tilts his head back, pours, and swallows.

The drink numbs his tongue, burns his throat so bad it feels raw and starts a tiny ball of fire in his stomach. He pounds his fist against his thigh, squeezes the shot glass dangerously tight and stares at the ceiling. Involuntary tears soak into the short fur on his cheeks as the burning roars through his sinuses. Suddenly remembering his beer, he takes a long drink to cleanse his palate.

"Fuck," Dar grunts, then slides the shot glass toward Argrum. "Another, please."

The stout bartender, with his scarred face that shouts 'he's seen some shit,' blinks in response, stupefied. Dar notices the rest of the bar's patrons have gone silent as the dead. He twists his head and sees every orc in the joint staring at him with wide eyes. Nobody drinks from the black bottle willingly. Argrum never even charges for it. The reactions of the unfortunate are more than enough payment for Argrum.

"The fuck ya'll staring at!" Dar yells. "Acting like you've never seen me before," he mutters as he turns back to Argrum. Seeing that the shot glass is still empty, he looks up at the orc. "Argrum, I asked for another, even said 'please!'"

"Dar, I don't think--"

"Damn right you don't, shouldn't either. Pour the damn drink," Dar snarls.

Argrum does as he's told, but this time his hands quiver and some misses the glass, splashing onto the bar. He wipes up the spill, but the liquid has etched the metal bar top black. An orc shouts, "I'll get Keyba!" and, very unlike an orc, runs out of the bar without finishing off their beer first.

Dar huffs and takes a swig from his room temperature beer. The molten core in his gut remains unquenched. He knows the voice of the orc that had run out: his secretary that just so happens to be best friends with Keyba. He decides to wait until she shows up to down the second shot.

The bar starts coming back to life.

Dar fishes a stubby cigar out of his jacket pocket and nibbles off the cap. Argrum quickly fetches an ash tray and a small glass full of high-quality matches, an upgrade he only offers to his best customer. Struck against the bar, the match lights easily and burns bright. He cups one hand around the foot of the cigar and puffs shallowly to help the flame take to the tightly rolled tobacco. A steady cloud of smoke builds around his snout. He flicks his wrist to extinguish the match before it singes his fur and drops the gnarled black stick into the ash tray. The familiar warmth invading his lungs feels good.

It only takes a few minutes before the front door flies open on screaming hinges. Dar takes a long drag on his cigar. The stool to his right creaks loudly. He exhales a long stream of smoke between pursed lips. "Evening, Keyba."

"Shan says you're acting crazy. What's wrong? Are you okay? Why are your eyes red?" Her words come out in one long stream between quick breaths.

"Nothing's wrong. You didn't have to run all the way here."

"The hell I didn't. What's that?"

Dar turns his head to the she-orc towering over him. He puts his elbow on the bar and rests his cheek in his palm and smiles up at her. "What's what?"

"In the glass!"

"Oh, this," Dar asks, trying to sound bored. He glances up at her and smirks, takes his cigar between two fingers, grasps the glass with the remaining, and downs it. Keyba gasps in horror.

"Argrum!" Keyba calls, her tone dangerous. "Why did you give him that toxic shit."

"He said 'please.'" The bartender has his hands up, palms forward in self-defense.

"Bullshit."

Keyba looks at Dar in total disbelief, like she would if he'd told her he, finally, wanted to have sex with her. She snatches the empty shot glass away when his hand twitches toward it. He shrugs and drinks from his beer instead. His throat feels like it's bleeding and his stomach is starting to cramp. More of that vile black concoction is not what he wants, especially since his head is already starting to swim. He shakes the sensation away and wonders if his gray matter is turning into black matter.

"You'd better tell me what's wrong, Dar. You're acting strange," Keyba says, voice quiet.

"What makes you say that?"

"For one thing, nobody drinks that shit without a bet, or a dare. Second, you never say please. Third--"

"Maybe I'm turning over a new leaf."

Keyba laughs. "Liar."

"Is it that hard to believe?" Dar asks seriously, looking Keyba in the eyes.

"Well, kinda."

Dar nods. "Yeah. I'm a pretty shit person."

Keyba hears the conviction in his words and it saddens her. She puts a hand between his splayed ears and tousles his short, unkempt crop of fur. "That's not true."

"Liar," Dar grunts in a mocking pantomime.

"So, sometimes you can be mean, but that doesn't make you a shit person. I get that you hate being here, but that doesn't mean we don't like you. For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here. So, tell me what has you so fucked in the head that you've resorted to drinking Argrum's rat poison."

Dar sighs and folds his arms on the bar, sliding them forward until his cheek is resting on his forearms. His cigar juts up from the side of his snout like a chimney, sending smoke signals to the ceiling as he puffs on it.

"Doesn't matter."

Keyba scoots her stool closer and starts rubbing the surly security chief's back. She knows that whatever is on his mind isn't the only thing making him feel like shit anymore and glares at the black bottle sitting on the bar.

"It matters to me. Whatever it is has taken away the foul-mouthed Dar I've come to know. I kind of miss him. A little."

Dar rolls his eyes, but can't resist a small smile. He scratches idly at the cold metal beneath his claws but stays silent. Keyba's back rubs feel nice, in stark contrast to the twisting in his guts. It wouldn't be hard to tell her, he knows, but to do that he has to start thinking about it and then he might start crying again. If he does that, he thinks he might look weak in front of the people who his job is to protect. He suspires wearily. Keyba feels his body quiver.

"You really wanna know?" The raucous laughter and unnecessarily loud voices in the bar make him hard to hear. Keyba leans closer. She squeezes the back of his neck gently, thin in her huge hand.

"Yes."

"Alright. My dad he... he died last week. My brother finally got hold of me earlier today and told me."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

"Oh, Dar. I'm so sorry. I," Keyba pauses, "don't really know what to say."

"It's okay." Dar feels his eyes start to water and squeezes them shut. The muscles in his throat constrict. Not here.

"Come on." Keyba stands up and gently tugs on Dar's shoulder. "There is a bench outside. It's quieter there. This place blows anyway."

Dar appreciates her attempt at levity. He isn't sure he wants to sit outside, it is a chilly evening, but he knows he doesn't want to stay here either. Although, being outside is a good idea; he might need to throw up soon. He sits up and grinds his cigar into the ashtray.

"Yeah. Fuck this place."

As Dar expects, the temperature outside is chilly. While it never gets very hot in Arskew, summer has passed and his jacket isn't just for looks. Keyba has him by his wrist as she leads him around the corner of the building to where a small bench--barely large enough for two orcs--waits against the wall. She sits down first and pulls Dar to sit beside her. One of her muscled arms wraps around his shoulders and pulls him in. This is far from the first time he's ended up with his face pressed against the side of her ample bosom; it was just a fact of life that his stature puts his head at the exact height of Keyba's tits.

The sun had set while he was in the bar and the bench happens to be in the building's moonlight shadow. Arskew is near silent, only the sound of distant voices. Keyba starts rubbing Dar's arm and he scoots his hip against hers. Being held by her feels like a swapping of status; instead of it being his job to keep her, any everyone else safe, it's hers now. He feels vulnerable. Maybe it's the role reversal, or maybe it is being held, or maybe it is Keyba's dogged friendship, in spite of his jerk tendencies, but he doesn't feel like he has to keep the bottled emotions capped tight anymore.

Dar slips his arms around Keyba's torso and squeezes tight, cheek pressing against fabric and supple flesh. He realizes that she must have been in such a rush to get to the bar that she hadn't put on a jacket and that she might be cold.

"Do you want my jacket?"

Keyba chuckles, a deep resonance in the ear pressed against her.

"It wouldn't fit, dumbass." She pets his head. "Thanks, though. You're keeping me warm. The side of my boob, at least."

"Hah." Dar stops squeezing her, but doesn't let go. "I didn't know him very well."

"Your dad?"

Dar nods and stares at a nearby building, but doesn't see it. "My parents split up when I was a kid. My brother and sister are older than me, so they got to know him more. It's stupid for me to feel this sad. This is a lot harder on them."

"Can't compare your grief to anybody else's," Keyba says sagely. She starts rubbing one of his long, soft ears between her fingers.

"As an adult, I only saw him a few times when he visited, since he lived far away. I went to visit him once. I hardly ever talked to him over the phone. He was an alcoholic and I didn't want to talk to him when he was drunk, so I just never did." Dar closes his eyes, feeling tears build. "Last time I talked to him was probably six months before he died. He'd been in the hospital in the past, but this time he was there for a while." It starts getting harder for him to talk without pauses. His jaw feels tight and his lips pull away from his teeth. "He was sober and it was kind of like talking to a different person.

"It was nice, really nice. I enjoyed talking to him for what felt like the first time. As the months went by, I knew I should call him again, but I just didn't. Was I scared to call and find out he was back to drinking? He couldn't call me because of this job, living in far flung outposts. And now that chance is fuckin' gone." He sniffles and takes a deep, shuddering breath. "My sister lives, lived, near him, helped him out, and now has to deal with the aftermath alone. There isn't much I, or my brother, can do being far away. It's selfish of me, but I'm also kind of glad. I don't want to deal with it. I've been depressed for a long time. I just want to let someone else take care of it." Dar is dimly aware of the wetness soaking through the short fur of his cheeks. The rest absorbed by Keyba's thin shirt.

"We all cope with loss in different ways. I know I've been lucky. The only members of my family that have passed have been from old age." Keyba shrugs. She moves her hand from Dar's ear, cups his cheek and gently strokes his tense jaw. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his face against her. The tears refusing to ebb.

"And despite the total piece of shit I am, here you are," Dar blurts out in fits, lungs spasming.

"You're not a piece of shit." He shakes his head against her. "You're not," Keyba repeats firmly. "You say mean things, but I know, we all know, you don't mean them. I think your teasing is funny. I know you hate being here, but it's easy to see that you care about your work. You just put up walls between yourself and anybody that tries to get close to you." She pauses to brush her thumb along his wet cheek. "I assume it's because you're only at places like Arskew for a set period of time and then you leave. Maybe constantly leaving behind friends has made it easier for you to just to not make any than face losing them. But you're my friend and nothing can change that."

"See right through me so easily," Dar chuckles.

"It's pretty easy to see." Keyba smiles and hugs his head.

"Oh, thanks," Dar grunts. "You're right though. It is easier for me to leave people behind that I'll never see again if I keep them at arm's length."

"I don't think it's a healthy thing to do. I think it would just make me feel lonely, but I can understand why you do it."

"I do feel alone. Constantly isolated from my friends back home." Dar sighs. The tears no longer coming.

"I'm your friend and I'm right here."

Dar nods. "I know. Just not the same, I guess. I'm only here for two more months."

"And you won't ever see me again. So, why bother?"

"If I'm lucky." Keyba pinches his cheek. "Ow."

Dar goes quiet, thinking. Keyba's fingers stroking him feels nice, puts him at ease. He almost relaxes, but his stomach starts to do flips. It feels like he needs to belch, except his skin goes cold.

"Oh, shit," he blurts, hastily disentangles himself from her and slides to the end of the bench, leans over the arm rest and retches. His fingers grip the cold steel and his arms tremble. The muscles in his torso contract in waves and his eyes start watering. Keyba reaches out and starts rubbing his back, but looks away as soon as she hears the poor hilachev grotesquely empty his guts onto the ground.

Despite his stomach being satisfied, Dar continues hanging his head, excess saliva dripping from his lips. After a couple minutes free of dry heaving, he hacks and spits and sits back down, suddenly worn out.

"I hate throwing up. Sorry," Dar apologizes while wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

"It's alright. Won't be drinking that horrid shit again, will you?" Keyba laughs and puts an arm back around Dar's shoulders. She lifts the bottom of her shirt toward his snout and he tries to pull back, but she holds him tight and wipes his mouth off.

"That's fucking disgusting," Dar grumbles. Keyba shrugs and pulls her shirt back down. He sighs. "Thanks, ya know, for everything."

"It's what friends are for."

"Wiping vomit off your face with their shirt?"

"It was already dirty." Keyba smiles and pats his head.

"Heh. Thanks."

"Anything for my little, Dary-wary." Dar growls in irritation. Just what he needs, a new nickname for Keyba to annoy him with. "Come on, let's get you home," Keyba says and stands up. Dar nods and follows her lead. They walk in silence for a while. Eventually, Dar comes to a decision.

"I may act like a jerk sometimes to keep you away, but I like that you're my friend."

"Aww, I love you too."

"I didn't say that."

"But it's what you meant!" Keyba ruffles his fur.

Dar takes a moment to formulate a crude jest. "This doesn't mean this night ends with me inside you."

"That's what you always say, but I feel my chances are high this time. Besides, I have to prove Shan wrong."

"Huh?"

"Oh, oops." Dar stops walking and glares up at Keyba. She knows that look very well. "Fine, I'll tell you. Shan is always telling me I'll never get into your pants, so I bet her a couple months ago that I would before you left."

Dar starts walking again. "How much?"

"Three hundred."

"Huh. I want seventy-five percent." His response surprises Keyba. He sounds serious. Normally, he'd say something like 'I'd never fuck you, Keyba.'

"Half. Final offer," Keyba retorts.

"I'll think about it. Kind of low to be taking advantage of me in my emotionally vulnerable state, though."

"Ohhh, I'm getting wet just thinking about it," Keyba giggles. She leans over and squeezes Dar's ass. He swats her hand away.

"You fucking slut," Dar laughs.

"Can't blame me. You're so small and cute and act like a tough guy. My favorite. You know, Shan secretly wants your dick, too."

"Wow. I guess she does kind of hit on me," Dar says, remembering some things his secretary has done, or said, that seem so obvious in hindsight.

"I told her it's mine and to back off. So, you don't need to worry about her."

"What a relief. I'm glad I have you around to protect my innocence," Dar says sarcastically as they arrive at his small home. He twists the knob and opens the door. There has never been any reason to lock it. "You can come in and tuck me into bed."

"I'll let you come in me in bed, but you gotta brush your teeth first," Keyba snickers, proud of her little joke.

"I'll brush my teeth, but keep your panties on." Dar runs his tongue over his teeth and they feel grody.

"Alright. On my tits works, too." Keyba grins and starts to strip off her dirty shirt.

"Ugh," Dar groans and shuts the door behind them.