Red.
Gordon’s sight narrows to a point. Red. Time slows until each second feels as if it’s being threaded to the next, squeezed through the eye of a needle. The familiar red of a pair of Benrey’s boxer briefs. In his hand. Dark and ruddy, fabric still damp with— No. There’s no way. Gordon wrenches his gaze from Benrey’s hand to his face like he’s dragging it through molasses.
“so barney said something today,” Benrey starts, toneless. Sweat beads on Gordon’s forehead. “said my laundry’s been smelling weird.”
“What are you talking about,” Gordon chokes out on autopilot.
“oh? you don’t know? that’s kinda, uh, kinda weird. puppy nose not workin’ too good? got a cold, maybe? need some, uhhh, vitamin D?” He takes a few steps closer, starting to circle around Gordon.
“I don’t—”
“’cuz i thought it was… uh, didn’t make any sense. you woulda told me. woulda whined at me,” he continues, voice edging up into a lilt. There’s something delicate behind it that Gordon swears is going to break. Any second now. His tail twitches back and forth in nervous anticipation. “you’re always whinin’ at me, being all mean to your best bud. sayin’ i smell bad. you think i smell?”
Gordon licks his lips, eyes darting back to Benrey’s hand. Or rather, what he’s still holding up in front of him. Red. As red as his face.
“No?”
“no?” Benrey raises his eyebrows, letting it linger. Letting Gordon squirm. “so, uh, i got to thinking. did a lil’… private investigation. security check.” He clicks the syllables smugly, like he knows something Gordon doesn’t.
Gordon’s stomach sinks.
“found something in my dirty clothes. you know what it is?”
There’s a pause while Gordon struggles to make words come out of his mouth. It’s right fucking in front of him. He *knows*. But he can’t even bring himself to nod, because that would mean… acknowledging it. Making this real, and not just some kind of fucked-up anxiety dream. (He’s still not fully convinced that it isn’t.)
Benrey looks up at him, distressingly close, and Gordon averts his gaze as best he can. The flat line of his mouth finally curls up. Then he murmurs, “why are you shaking?”
Gordon stiffens. “I’m not,” he insists hotly.
“huh. coulda fooled me. seems like you, uhhh,” Benrey smacks his lips, “you’ve been a bad dog.”
Something hot and ugly curls in the pit of his stomach. A noise filters into his ears, and he realizes, belatedly, that it’s a quiet whine. Coming from him. “I’m not a— fucking— I’m not a *bad dog*, okay, I can explain—”
He’s cut off by a snort. “go ahead, bro. explain.”
Oh. He walked himself into that one, didn’t he. But what the fuck is he supposed to say now? ‘Hey, so, I know I’ve been making a big deal out of still being a guy, and not a real dog, but I’m gonna need you to forget all that shit I said about not being a slave to my instincts or whatever’? Gordon can already feel the mortification dripping down his skull like a raw egg. Cold. Slimy. His mouth opens, then closes, thinking better of it. Then he opens it again.
“I can’t,” Gordon says at last, voice weak.
He doesn’t like the way Benrey’s smiling at him one fucking bit. Doesn’t like the way he says, “can’t, huh? need, uhh… need your lawyer first? veranda rights?” either.
“What? That’s *Miranda* rights, Benrey, and—”
“i’m gonna take a guess,” Benrey interrupts him again. He keeps circling around Gordon, slow and predatory. “feelin’ a little… territorial, maybe? wanted to… get your smells on good friend benrey?”
Gordon rotates with him, matching his pace. As if he’s got something behind his back that he doesn’t want Benrey to see. But he doesn’t say anything. He can’t.
“i’ve seen you, man. all… markin’ the trees and stuff outside. didn’t train you too good. you’re not supposed to do that.” Another disappointed click of the tongue.
He snaps to attention at that. “Hang on, have you been… watching me?”