Hands, Paws
Title: Hands, Paws (complete)
Fandom: Ace Attorney
Spoilers: Not unless you reeeeally read between the lines.
Pairing/Characters: No pairing; Shelly de Killer
Genre: Some weird demented form of fluff
Summary: It's a wonder how someone who can easily butcher any matter of human being can have such an obvious soft spot for animals. Well...maybe it's not such a wonder, really. They're a lot alike, after all.
Warnings/Rating: Quite a good deal of swearing about halfway through, and a rather bitter lesbian taking her anger out on poor Shelly. (Not Adrian, btw.)
Notes: Outing myself for a fill on the kink meme! Obvious anon who requested this was obvious, so I felt a bit obligated to fill it, if only to try and make her day better. <3
Disclaimer: Shelly de Killer belongs to good ol' CAPCOM, guys! Non-profit fanfic is go.
Hands, Paws
--
Perhaps if he hadn't been feeling as downtrodden and deflated himself, he wouldn't have noticed it. It was only a cardboard box, after all - sopping wet and collapsing in on itself by the the slated brick wall of his apartment building, bordered by sidewalk at the front and a rusted green dumpster at it's back. The rain water pooling on the top of the trash container was running of the sides to splatter down into the already drenched box, adding to the downpour already flooding it via the wicked, roaring sky above.
His boots made a sharp click on the slippery concrete as he stopped, one foot slightly in front of the other as his head slowly turned, a gloved hand instinctively reached up to fiddle with his monocle, as if doing so would help him see any better through the sheet of rain. Staring down at this water logged splotch of cardboard on the sidewalk, how...odd. Of course he was self-trained to notice small, eveyday details - his, ah, profession required for it - but now, as he was trudging home after his most recent batshit endeavors had decided to hit the fan? It wasn't like him at all, really.
But he could have sworn-
"...m-mrrmn."
And now, without even being totally aware of what he was doing, he found himself striding briskly towards the sodden shape against the wall, bending his legs to crouch down fby it, his leather overcoat complaining with a faint squeak as he strained the stitching. One hand still tightly gripping his umbrella, the other hesitantly reaching out towards the small, brown-tan-white blob of something curled up in a position of hiding at the corner of the box.
The thing made a croon of baseless want as gloved fingers lightly touched it, the hand soaked and cold but still radiating a feeling of...life, of a feeling that it wasn't alone anymore - and the thing moved, instinctively huddling itself against his hand, the desperate want for something other than the stinging rain showing itself in the form of an unconditional trust in something it didn't even know.
He felt the sudden urge to cry, accompanied by a kind of aching feeling in his chest, his other hand jerking forward to cover the sodden mass of fur with his umbrella as the one already in the box softly came down further to cover the madly shivering ball, his thumb instinctively making a rubbing pattern on what he assumed was the thing's head.
Another croon, softer, weaker, but...happier, somehow, and at that point, the aching feeling in Shelly de Killer's chest transformed into the sensation of his heart melting between his ribs.
Even if the sight of something so helpless shivering in the rain hadn't clicked so close to home it hurt, Shelly figured it would take only the worst of men to leave the brown-tan-white thing - which he now knew to be a dog, possibly a Shetland sheepdog for all his limited knowledge of dog breeds - in that pitiful excuse of a box. He was a gentleman, even. There was no way he could have not scooped the shivering canine up in his arms, so small he could carry it along in the crook of one elbow, his chest jerking when the dog had whined and buried its face in the leather of his jacket as his free arm started to ache slightly at the angle he was holding the umbrella at, making absolutely certain that the creature was shielded full from the chilling wet pouring down around them.
Despite that, he couldn't help the tiny twinge of embarrassment as he elbowed his apartment door open - forgetting to take off his boots or jacket or anything in the sudden mad rush to the bathroom pantry, grabbing an ivory white towel and wrapping up the bundle of soaking fur in it, silently delighting in the weak but happy sounds it made as he, some what more calmly, strode back down the short hall to place the towel plus dog on the leather couch. Him, a…professional in the art of discreet, ah, "whacking", finding himself so desperately drawn to a mass of skin and fur that he had no prior connection to. Ridiculous, the public opinion-oriented part of his brain cawed, silly, naiive, ridiculous!
But even those worries flew out the window when the dog's eyes had opened, later that night, only for a split second to gaze blearily at him…before widely yawning and shuttering closed again, the quaking from before replaced with a rhythmic rise and fall of contented sleep. Shelly felt a feeling of something half-satisfactory, half-giddy, and closed the book he had tried reading for the past hour with a sigh.
"You're quite the talent for inconveniencing me, little one," he commented, catching himself as his hand, still gloved, tried to creep out to scratch at the sleeping dog's ears. It was trying to sleep, for crissakes - "Although I doubt you're quite aware of how much so. Certainly not your fault, of course." He felt his lips twitch in an odd shadow of something he knew to be a smile, something he had little to no experience with, in all honesty.
"I must confess," he marveled, embarrassed again, less by the fact he had picked up the dog than by the fact he was now talking to it - "That I'm quite baffled as to why you would place your trust so unconditionally in me, a stranger whom you've never met. Is it what you do, as a dog?" A soft, sleep-laden grunt was his only reply, and this time he couldn't help himself from sneaking light pets to the dog's lightly bobbing chest. "Your duty?"
Another low sound, and his abruptly stopped his caresses, worrying he had woken the beast up - but it only shifted slightly to nuzzle instinctively at his hand before moving it's whole body against his fingers, content, eyes still firmly shut.
This time, Shelly wondered if this was what a real smile felt like.
"We're quite similar, you and I." Shelly sighed, letting his eyes slid shut as he mused, still absentmindedly scratching at the head of his newfound companion. "However much it saddens me for it to be so. What happened to you, little one?"
A noncommittal grunt was the only response once again, and Shelly's bemusement at the silliness of the situation returned, along with the thing called a smile that he had let on his features earlier. "On second thought, I guess I do not particularly need to know - after all, I can only hope you're satisfied at the moment, in the very least."
He vaguely wondered if dogs got lonely, and a tight feeling started to twist itself in his chest, smile slipping, replaced by his usual, neutral look.
Were you lonely, little one?
--
He had fucked up. He had, he had…really, truly fucked up. There were no synonyms in his slightly panic-addled mind that could replace this repeating thought, despite his usual distaste for coarse language. He hoped that his agitation wasn't visible to his client, a petite, slim woman with curled red hair decked up in a clipped ponytail, dark brown eyes wide with anger and shock as he stood before her, with nothing to show for his…efforts.
"You didn't kill him."
"…I apologize," he managed to croak out, shame and guilt and a swelling feeling of uselessness twisting his stomach into knots, "But you did not inform me that he was, ah, protected. It's a fact you're generally supposed to mention when requesting my services. I…could have planned accordingly." That didn't seem to help the ache in his stomach, though.
"I didn't know, alright?" the woman snapped, knuckles flexing with barely suppressed rage as once surprised eyes turned savage, angry, "Aren't you supposed to be some kind of professional, or something?" He spat, mocking him, and he suppressed the sudden urge to snap her neck. "You couldn't even get the picture. A stupid, fucking picture, how hard is that?"
"Their marriage photo was framed on the staircase, as you informed me - however, I had a need for a quick getaway and could not do so while carrying a rather large frame under my arm."
"I wanted to rip him to pieces!" The woman was practically in hysterics now, her hands curling in front of her chest and twisting into the material of her shirt, just above her breasts, shaking her head wildly with a low growl of pure anger. "To pieces, millions of pieces, fucking pieces! Leave me for a man, will she - like hell, she's, she's-"
Shelly was used to dealing with criminals, of course - but the situation was starting to get rather uncomfortable, and he worried that her shouting would begin to attract attention, seeing as warehouses had that nasty habit of causing voices to echo. Loudly. "Please, miss, do…do calm down. If you wish, now that I have, ah, first-hand experience concerning your request, I could make the necessary preparations an-"
"To shit with your preparations!" was the answering screech, and a sudden lunge towards him prompted, as if on command, for his arm to snap up and grab the woman's wrist, twisting her sideways to curl said arm behind her back, stopping himself just short of hurting her, as she was, after all, still his client.
"Actually, to shit with you, with all of this!" She continued, undeterred by Shelly's retaliation, as if she hadn't been aware that she had even approached him in the first place. "Can't get the job done right the first time, what doesn't say you won't screw up a second time?"
"Miss-"
"What do you know, anyway?" the woman snarled, twisting her head back as far as she could to glare accusing at Shelly, her eyes pointed daggers dripping with poison, "It's like a game to you, or something - can't have many friends, huh, stupid stitches face? Can't have friends, what do you know, how…how lonely it is, you have no idea, not if you're never known-"
Shelly's eyes widened.
"That's right, fucking murderer! No friends, no love, no love for the killer, huh? What kind of hell of a family you came from, you can't have had decent parents, stupid fucking murderer-"
He gritted his teeth, grip tightening until a low groan of pain escaped his client. "Be quiet. You are in no situation to be making light of my profession, wouldn't you say?"
But the woman was beyond comprehension now, it would seem, bitter tears and a steady stream of "Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!" bouncing off the warehouse walls.
Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!
---
Shelly woke with a start to a happy panting in his ears, paws pressed against his arm and kneading, startling him from the confines of his…nightmare, thing. He blearily rolled his head sideways to see an eager canine face eying him, head titled sideways in a questioning look.
"…someone's feeling, ah…chipper." He sighed, cracking his back as he stretched, pushing himself up to sit back properly against the couch, on which he had managed to slide down into progressively during the night. He made a quick, routine motion to check his watch - 6:46am. An eyebrow was raised, turning back to eye the canine that was still giving him puppy dog eyes. "However glad I am that you appear to be feeling better, I'm astonished that your internal clock would dictate that you wake at this hour. Seeing as how you'd been in such bad shape the night before, none the less."
The sheltie - whom Shelly now noticed was a male, now that the dog was on his hind legs, bracing his paws against Shelly's shoulder - gave him a look that indicated he had not understood a word of what he said (or, if he had, it automatically translated into the dog's head as something most likely concerning sasuages); instead, he bounded off the couch with dignified alacrity and proceeded in an almost beeline towards the kitchen. Almost beeline being so because of the detour the dog took to sniff at the carrier tucked away under the writing desk pushed against the wall near the door. The carrier, Shelly remembered, was used to transport Shoe, a cat of one of his…more interesting clients. A sharp pang of something hit him at this thought, so he quickly brushed it away by sighing and standing up, following the new addition to his solitary lifestyle into the kitchen. He was quite hungry himself, after all.
Oliver seemed like a good name. Shelly was back to reading his book once again, taking silent delight in looking over the pages to see what the sheltie was up to, now that he was having the chance to explore Shelly's apartment in full. Oliver, yes. It brought back memories of the classic literature he took pleasure in indulging in on days off, and of the Disney-inspired spin-offs that he had once took guilty pleasure in watching through the window of the local Toy's R Us. Oliver seemed rather pleased with the name, as well, wagging his lofty tail happily whenever Shelly called to him, bounding over as if it had been called that since the day he'd been born.
After coming to terms with the name, it finally hit Shelly that he might be getting in a bit over his head. His profession did, after all, require him to move often, and he was sure this would cause great stress to himself, and to Oliver, as well - not to mention the impending trips to the vet, pet store, park, town…
But then Shelly would feel a light pressure on his legs and, looking down, see Oliver's tongue lolling out in an expression of simple content, and he decided that it was, really, not a large price to pay.
"It's like a game to you, or something - can't have many friends, huh, stupid stitches face-"
For the third time in his adult life, Shelly smiled, a warm, comforting pulse radiating up from where Oliver had his tiny paws on his leg, and he reached down to scoop the sheltie up, plopping him down beside him on the couch before returning to grab at his book-
But not before Oliver had managed to worm his way onto his lap, settling down with a contented snuffle and resting his head on his paws.
Not anymore.
Fandom: Ace Attorney
Spoilers: Not unless you reeeeally read between the lines.
Pairing/Characters: No pairing; Shelly de Killer
Genre: Some weird demented form of fluff
Summary: It's a wonder how someone who can easily butcher any matter of human being can have such an obvious soft spot for animals. Well...maybe it's not such a wonder, really. They're a lot alike, after all.
Warnings/Rating: Quite a good deal of swearing about halfway through, and a rather bitter lesbian taking her anger out on poor Shelly. (Not Adrian, btw.)
Notes: Outing myself for a fill on the kink meme! Obvious anon who requested this was obvious, so I felt a bit obligated to fill it, if only to try and make her day better. <3
Disclaimer: Shelly de Killer belongs to good ol' CAPCOM, guys! Non-profit fanfic is go.
Hands, Paws
--
Perhaps if he hadn't been feeling as downtrodden and deflated himself, he wouldn't have noticed it. It was only a cardboard box, after all - sopping wet and collapsing in on itself by the the slated brick wall of his apartment building, bordered by sidewalk at the front and a rusted green dumpster at it's back. The rain water pooling on the top of the trash container was running of the sides to splatter down into the already drenched box, adding to the downpour already flooding it via the wicked, roaring sky above.
His boots made a sharp click on the slippery concrete as he stopped, one foot slightly in front of the other as his head slowly turned, a gloved hand instinctively reached up to fiddle with his monocle, as if doing so would help him see any better through the sheet of rain. Staring down at this water logged splotch of cardboard on the sidewalk, how...odd. Of course he was self-trained to notice small, eveyday details - his, ah, profession required for it - but now, as he was trudging home after his most recent batshit endeavors had decided to hit the fan? It wasn't like him at all, really.
But he could have sworn-
"...m-mrrmn."
And now, without even being totally aware of what he was doing, he found himself striding briskly towards the sodden shape against the wall, bending his legs to crouch down fby it, his leather overcoat complaining with a faint squeak as he strained the stitching. One hand still tightly gripping his umbrella, the other hesitantly reaching out towards the small, brown-tan-white blob of something curled up in a position of hiding at the corner of the box.
The thing made a croon of baseless want as gloved fingers lightly touched it, the hand soaked and cold but still radiating a feeling of...life, of a feeling that it wasn't alone anymore - and the thing moved, instinctively huddling itself against his hand, the desperate want for something other than the stinging rain showing itself in the form of an unconditional trust in something it didn't even know.
He felt the sudden urge to cry, accompanied by a kind of aching feeling in his chest, his other hand jerking forward to cover the sodden mass of fur with his umbrella as the one already in the box softly came down further to cover the madly shivering ball, his thumb instinctively making a rubbing pattern on what he assumed was the thing's head.
Another croon, softer, weaker, but...happier, somehow, and at that point, the aching feeling in Shelly de Killer's chest transformed into the sensation of his heart melting between his ribs.
Even if the sight of something so helpless shivering in the rain hadn't clicked so close to home it hurt, Shelly figured it would take only the worst of men to leave the brown-tan-white thing - which he now knew to be a dog, possibly a Shetland sheepdog for all his limited knowledge of dog breeds - in that pitiful excuse of a box. He was a gentleman, even. There was no way he could have not scooped the shivering canine up in his arms, so small he could carry it along in the crook of one elbow, his chest jerking when the dog had whined and buried its face in the leather of his jacket as his free arm started to ache slightly at the angle he was holding the umbrella at, making absolutely certain that the creature was shielded full from the chilling wet pouring down around them.
Despite that, he couldn't help the tiny twinge of embarrassment as he elbowed his apartment door open - forgetting to take off his boots or jacket or anything in the sudden mad rush to the bathroom pantry, grabbing an ivory white towel and wrapping up the bundle of soaking fur in it, silently delighting in the weak but happy sounds it made as he, some what more calmly, strode back down the short hall to place the towel plus dog on the leather couch. Him, a…professional in the art of discreet, ah, "whacking", finding himself so desperately drawn to a mass of skin and fur that he had no prior connection to. Ridiculous, the public opinion-oriented part of his brain cawed, silly, naiive, ridiculous!
But even those worries flew out the window when the dog's eyes had opened, later that night, only for a split second to gaze blearily at him…before widely yawning and shuttering closed again, the quaking from before replaced with a rhythmic rise and fall of contented sleep. Shelly felt a feeling of something half-satisfactory, half-giddy, and closed the book he had tried reading for the past hour with a sigh.
"You're quite the talent for inconveniencing me, little one," he commented, catching himself as his hand, still gloved, tried to creep out to scratch at the sleeping dog's ears. It was trying to sleep, for crissakes - "Although I doubt you're quite aware of how much so. Certainly not your fault, of course." He felt his lips twitch in an odd shadow of something he knew to be a smile, something he had little to no experience with, in all honesty.
"I must confess," he marveled, embarrassed again, less by the fact he had picked up the dog than by the fact he was now talking to it - "That I'm quite baffled as to why you would place your trust so unconditionally in me, a stranger whom you've never met. Is it what you do, as a dog?" A soft, sleep-laden grunt was his only reply, and this time he couldn't help himself from sneaking light pets to the dog's lightly bobbing chest. "Your duty?"
Another low sound, and his abruptly stopped his caresses, worrying he had woken the beast up - but it only shifted slightly to nuzzle instinctively at his hand before moving it's whole body against his fingers, content, eyes still firmly shut.
This time, Shelly wondered if this was what a real smile felt like.
"We're quite similar, you and I." Shelly sighed, letting his eyes slid shut as he mused, still absentmindedly scratching at the head of his newfound companion. "However much it saddens me for it to be so. What happened to you, little one?"
A noncommittal grunt was the only response once again, and Shelly's bemusement at the silliness of the situation returned, along with the thing called a smile that he had let on his features earlier. "On second thought, I guess I do not particularly need to know - after all, I can only hope you're satisfied at the moment, in the very least."
He vaguely wondered if dogs got lonely, and a tight feeling started to twist itself in his chest, smile slipping, replaced by his usual, neutral look.
Were you lonely, little one?
--
He had fucked up. He had, he had…really, truly fucked up. There were no synonyms in his slightly panic-addled mind that could replace this repeating thought, despite his usual distaste for coarse language. He hoped that his agitation wasn't visible to his client, a petite, slim woman with curled red hair decked up in a clipped ponytail, dark brown eyes wide with anger and shock as he stood before her, with nothing to show for his…efforts.
"You didn't kill him."
"…I apologize," he managed to croak out, shame and guilt and a swelling feeling of uselessness twisting his stomach into knots, "But you did not inform me that he was, ah, protected. It's a fact you're generally supposed to mention when requesting my services. I…could have planned accordingly." That didn't seem to help the ache in his stomach, though.
"I didn't know, alright?" the woman snapped, knuckles flexing with barely suppressed rage as once surprised eyes turned savage, angry, "Aren't you supposed to be some kind of professional, or something?" He spat, mocking him, and he suppressed the sudden urge to snap her neck. "You couldn't even get the picture. A stupid, fucking picture, how hard is that?"
"Their marriage photo was framed on the staircase, as you informed me - however, I had a need for a quick getaway and could not do so while carrying a rather large frame under my arm."
"I wanted to rip him to pieces!" The woman was practically in hysterics now, her hands curling in front of her chest and twisting into the material of her shirt, just above her breasts, shaking her head wildly with a low growl of pure anger. "To pieces, millions of pieces, fucking pieces! Leave me for a man, will she - like hell, she's, she's-"
Shelly was used to dealing with criminals, of course - but the situation was starting to get rather uncomfortable, and he worried that her shouting would begin to attract attention, seeing as warehouses had that nasty habit of causing voices to echo. Loudly. "Please, miss, do…do calm down. If you wish, now that I have, ah, first-hand experience concerning your request, I could make the necessary preparations an-"
"To shit with your preparations!" was the answering screech, and a sudden lunge towards him prompted, as if on command, for his arm to snap up and grab the woman's wrist, twisting her sideways to curl said arm behind her back, stopping himself just short of hurting her, as she was, after all, still his client.
"Actually, to shit with you, with all of this!" She continued, undeterred by Shelly's retaliation, as if she hadn't been aware that she had even approached him in the first place. "Can't get the job done right the first time, what doesn't say you won't screw up a second time?"
"Miss-"
"What do you know, anyway?" the woman snarled, twisting her head back as far as she could to glare accusing at Shelly, her eyes pointed daggers dripping with poison, "It's like a game to you, or something - can't have many friends, huh, stupid stitches face? Can't have friends, what do you know, how…how lonely it is, you have no idea, not if you're never known-"
Shelly's eyes widened.
"That's right, fucking murderer! No friends, no love, no love for the killer, huh? What kind of hell of a family you came from, you can't have had decent parents, stupid fucking murderer-"
He gritted his teeth, grip tightening until a low groan of pain escaped his client. "Be quiet. You are in no situation to be making light of my profession, wouldn't you say?"
But the woman was beyond comprehension now, it would seem, bitter tears and a steady stream of "Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!" bouncing off the warehouse walls.
Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!
---
Shelly woke with a start to a happy panting in his ears, paws pressed against his arm and kneading, startling him from the confines of his…nightmare, thing. He blearily rolled his head sideways to see an eager canine face eying him, head titled sideways in a questioning look.
"…someone's feeling, ah…chipper." He sighed, cracking his back as he stretched, pushing himself up to sit back properly against the couch, on which he had managed to slide down into progressively during the night. He made a quick, routine motion to check his watch - 6:46am. An eyebrow was raised, turning back to eye the canine that was still giving him puppy dog eyes. "However glad I am that you appear to be feeling better, I'm astonished that your internal clock would dictate that you wake at this hour. Seeing as how you'd been in such bad shape the night before, none the less."
The sheltie - whom Shelly now noticed was a male, now that the dog was on his hind legs, bracing his paws against Shelly's shoulder - gave him a look that indicated he had not understood a word of what he said (or, if he had, it automatically translated into the dog's head as something most likely concerning sasuages); instead, he bounded off the couch with dignified alacrity and proceeded in an almost beeline towards the kitchen. Almost beeline being so because of the detour the dog took to sniff at the carrier tucked away under the writing desk pushed against the wall near the door. The carrier, Shelly remembered, was used to transport Shoe, a cat of one of his…more interesting clients. A sharp pang of something hit him at this thought, so he quickly brushed it away by sighing and standing up, following the new addition to his solitary lifestyle into the kitchen. He was quite hungry himself, after all.
Oliver seemed like a good name. Shelly was back to reading his book once again, taking silent delight in looking over the pages to see what the sheltie was up to, now that he was having the chance to explore Shelly's apartment in full. Oliver, yes. It brought back memories of the classic literature he took pleasure in indulging in on days off, and of the Disney-inspired spin-offs that he had once took guilty pleasure in watching through the window of the local Toy's R Us. Oliver seemed rather pleased with the name, as well, wagging his lofty tail happily whenever Shelly called to him, bounding over as if it had been called that since the day he'd been born.
After coming to terms with the name, it finally hit Shelly that he might be getting in a bit over his head. His profession did, after all, require him to move often, and he was sure this would cause great stress to himself, and to Oliver, as well - not to mention the impending trips to the vet, pet store, park, town…
But then Shelly would feel a light pressure on his legs and, looking down, see Oliver's tongue lolling out in an expression of simple content, and he decided that it was, really, not a large price to pay.
"It's like a game to you, or something - can't have many friends, huh, stupid stitches face-"
For the third time in his adult life, Shelly smiled, a warm, comforting pulse radiating up from where Oliver had his tiny paws on his leg, and he reached down to scoop the sheltie up, plopping him down beside him on the couch before returning to grab at his book-
But not before Oliver had managed to worm his way onto his lap, settling down with a contented snuffle and resting his head on his paws.
Not anymore.