Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future, so you know what keeps me hanging around...

[leosarecynical]

Fall is coming to Chicago. The air is cooler, there are clouds thick in the sky (but not thick enough to be heralding rain just yet- just enough to be pleasantly cloudy), and while the leaves haven't started turning yet, the overabundance of pumpkins for sale and preemptive Halloween decorations give all the indication that the season is coming up

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[chimaerasaurus]

"There you are," Abby says, sounding for all the world like she's desperately relieved to have found her lost doggy. This seems to satisfy the nearby pedestrians, who were starting to look a bit disconcerted at the dog probing obsessively around the crucifixion site.

Abby is trying not to think about it, except objectively.

Chicago is fucked up. She knew that already. She crouches, her tone turning decidedly dry as she raises an eyebrow at Bristow. "You bad doggy."

[stopdropanddie]

Bristow sits down and pretends to be an obedient doggy with his tongue flopping out and his tail wagging (and he hates every minute of it, by the way), but his head is a different place altogether. "You're not that funny, Maitland."

One of these days, he's going to get a police vest or something. It will make this a lot easier. Fucking Chicago and its leash laws. There are wildebeest or God only knows what lurking in the park and people flip out when one dog is off its leash.

[chimaerasaurus]

"You don't laugh enough for your opinion to count, Jack." She scratches him behind the ears, cooing the words. A bit quieter, she says, "What you doing here? You find something?"

God, what she wouldn't give to be able to change like he does.

[stopdropanddie]

The doggy lineface is EPIC, Abby. EPIC.

However, his tail is wagging more now and this time it's not an act. Dammit, that should not feel as good as it does. At least this form offers more dignity than the stupid hedgehog, even if it is susceptible to scritches.

"It's been combed over too well. There's no definite scent trail anymore and I can't get anything. If I had the number of contacts I used to have, I could have been here when it happened." Yes, he's bitter. It shows.

[chimaerasaurus]

She pauses in her petting, wanting to be of some real comfort. She knows the feeling, understands the disconnection and the feeling of blindness. In lieu of real comfort, she continues the scritches, rubbing Bristow's ears and tummyfur. It's not weird to scritch your boss if your boss is occasionally a dog. "If Connor were here, he'd've figured a way to detect Rifts and lock them by now.

[stopdropanddie]

"Have you met Sato? And the Doctor." Jack's tone has a slight waver to it that sounds ridiculously close to pleasure. Those scritches are the devil, THE DEVIL, HE SAYS. But they feel so very nice.

"Both are utterly brilliant in that field and neither of them have come close."

...That was actually supposed to be comforting. It's not really. Bristow's bad at this.

[chimaerasaurus]

Abby scritches determinedly away, trying not to think about home. "Neither of them are Connor Temple."

She will distract herself by scrubbing at Bristow's fur with the eager friendliness of a kid with her pet. If she can't take her mind off of things by being useful, she will take her mind off things by treating Bristow like a puppy. Besides, he so can't say he's not enjoying this.

...The next step might possibly involve getting a stick, if she thinks she can get away with it.

[stopdropanddie]

Bristow flops on the ground with a doggy groan, resting his head on his paws. Yeah, yeah. It's all playground bullshit- my Op Tech can beat up your Op Tech. He went through this once in the original Chicago with Torchwood and now he's just accepted that most worlds have better technology and, thus, better geniuses. Theoretically, though, most of this isn't even his field, so whatever.

Basically, all that is a really convoluted way of saying he's just going to shut up and be scritched and be generally very annoyed about it.