[Closed Post: Caught]

[timebethine]

Laertes is in love. He's in love, and he's carrying his whole heart tucked into his coat, held close against his chest. The pup wriggles and squirms and makes little noises that to Laertes's ears are more curious and interested than distressed. "Soon, pet," says Laertes softly as he undoes the lock on the door to his and Sagramore's rooms. Then, louder: "Sagramore! I've brought a friend for thee!"

And he pulls the tiny puppy out of his coat. It blinks ice-blue eyes at Sagramore, then gives an amiable bark.

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[sagramore]

Much as was the case after the truth spell, Sagramore has been staying more in their rooms since the exchange of bodies. He hasn't even been trying to pretend that everything is fine (which is admittedly partly because he's trying to be more forthright with Laertes). He's sitting at the table thumbing through a book he isn't reading when he hears Laertes at the door, and he rises and turns.

It takes a moment to process what he's seeing: his expression is strangely unreadable, and for once he's rendered speechless. But he holds his arms out all the same.

[timebethine]

Laertes very carefully settles the dog into Sagramore's arms, giving its ears one last, fond scratch. "Lan Wangji found it in a bird's nest. Poor creature," he says. "I know not how it came to be there--but it will be safer in thine arms."

[sagramore]

"Hey, little one," he murmurs, cradling the tiny warm body against his chest: the puppy begins wagging its tail almost immediately, squirming up towards his face. "What's this? What dost thou?" the sort of silly rhetorical questions one asks of babies.

[timebethine]

As soon as the puppy gets within licking range, it launches itself up toward Sagramore's face, covering his nose and cheeks with puppy kisses. Laertes can't help laughing. "Is it not the sweetest creature? I love it. I've never loved anything so much. Thou wilt have to name it soon, so that I might tell everyone the name of my dearest love."

[sagramore]

"What, supplanted?" with a little smile -- if he seems subdued, it's only because he's overwhelmed, by love for Laertes, by love for the dog, by the almost painful clenching of his heart when he looks at it.

He's six years old again, cradling a black and brown puppy who'll be his dearest friend for two precious years; he's eleven, flattened under the gleeful leaping of two half-grown split-nosed dogs that hate each other but love him more than life. He's twenty-five, sleeping with one of the berners who lets him into the kennel sometimes to play with the greyhounds reserved for the king's hunt. He can't keep a dog of his own in Camelot -- he has no lands to draw revenue from and mostly exists on the goodwill of other people, and maintaining a horse is expense enough -- but Rory thinks it's funny to watch him get down on the floor and wrestle around with the hounds, and likes how wild and ebullient his mood is after.

The puppy slams into his face with all the gleeful energy of a creature that has no concept of its strength or anything else except affection, and Sagramore has to hold back tears, because he'll be damned if he weeps about this. Instead he says, a bit gruffly, "We'll have to stop leaving things about the room."

[timebethine]

"Ay, I'll hang shelves to keep them out of reach," Laertes agrees--more softly, now, watching that torrent of feeling wash over Sagramore's face. "Can dogs open drawers?"

[sagramore]

"Clever dogs can." He tips the puppy over on its back to inspect between its hind legs, then helps it right itself, during which process it clambers all over him, scratching at his chest and shoulders with blunt nails. "It's a bitch."

[timebethine]

"Sweet little girl," croons Laertes, sitting on the edge of the bed and gesturing Sagramore over. "I'll build thee little stairs, that thou might'st climb into our bed to sleep."

[sagramore]

She's going to sleep with them. She's theirs. Laertes has brought him a dog, and she's not going to be taken away from him when he can't get better or has to leave or their keeper falls out of love with him.

Sagramore brings the puppy hurriedly over to the bed and sets her down on the coverlet, and grits his teeth against the stinging in his eyes. He's not a child, he's not even drunk--

"Thou chosest well. She's a fine creature."

[timebethine]

"Thou art worthy of the care of fine creatures," says Laertes gently, even as he unwinds his scarf a little to tease the puppy with the end of it. (She doesn't pounce, like a kitten; she gambols across the bedspread as though the scarf is a playmate.)

[sagramore]

He doesn't answer -- he doesn't have an answer that won't make him feel like an idiot -- in favor of watching the puppy grab Laertes' scarf in her teeth and shake her head, growling softly.

[timebethine]

"Fierce little beast," says Laertes fondly, and he tugs the scarf just enough to encourage her to pull harder. "We shall have to feed thee soon."

[sagramore]

"Christ, she'll need broth and bread and water," as she pulls backwards against Laertes' grip. "It's been years since I had a pup, I should look in the library--"

[timebethine]

"She'll want exercise, too--and training, so as not to soil our floors," says Laertes. "But that can all be done. Thou hast done it before."

[sagramore]

"Aye." Sagramore gazes at her, with that same overfull look. "Hey, Szarka. Szarike. Thou dost not know thy name yet, but thou wilt."

[timebethine]

"Szarike," says Laertes, tasting the name. "Does it mean something?"

[sagramore]

"Szarka. Szarike makes it little. Or Szari. There are lots of ways to make a name more affectionate." He smiles a little. "I learned a trick the day the translation broke. Listen: Magpie means magpie. Her name is Szarka."

[timebethine]

Immediately, Laertes hears what he means--there's the same flavor to the word magpie, and although he didn't know the word in Hungarian before, he immediately grasps it. "Dost thou mean to tell me," he says, laughing, "that Lucien doesn't know thou hast been calling him 'Cat'?"

[sagramore]

Laertes' delight breaks a grin out of him in spite of himself. "No, he's hearing the name I gave him. His name, my love, don't give the powers," with a glance upwards, "the wrong idea."

[timebethine]

"My heart, thou art the cleverest man alive." Distracted by Sagramore's cleverness, Laertes has let his grip on the scarf lapse; Szarka tugs so hard that she bowls herself over, flopping with her tiny legs milling the air.

[sagramore]

He snorts at both of them -- Szarka rights herself after a moment and looks up at them with no reproach for her felling. One of her ears stands upright and the other folds, and Sagramore lets out a great sigh. "Christ, I'm the happiest man alive."

[timebethine]

"Good," says Laertes, and he reaches for Sagramore's hand. "I would always have thee thus."

[sagramore]

"Come on, let's go get her something to eat and then we can tire her out a little." Now that he's past his initial stunned reaction, he's fairly humming with energy. "We've no starting place with her, so we'll have to make our own. Thou didst carry her here, didst thou not, so she's probably ready to stretch her legs, and I don't know when she was last out. We should find her some bones for gnawing on so she has something to occupy her, and--"

[timebethine]

"Wait, wait, I can only hold so many things in my head!" Laertes laughs. "Let's feed her first. Bread, broth, and water, didst thou say?"

[sagramore]

"Aye, whatever clear broth we have, and bran bread sopped in it, and a little meat of whatever kind -- we should tear it into small pieces for her -- and all tepid, hot will hurt her stomach."