fanfic: Five Ways Digby Didn't Die (Again), And One Way He Did
Title: Five Ways Digby Didn’t Die (Again), And One Way He Did
Genre: five things, angst
Characters: Digby, Ned, Chuck, Charles Charles
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: “Comfort Food” and onwards.
Summary: Exactly what the title says.
Warning: Very sad, and, as the title suggests, soaking in character death.
Comments are appreciated.
Being a dog of uncommon intelligence, Digby had known since the day he died the first time- some thirty years, three months, two days, and eleven seconds ago- that one touch of his master’s hand would send him back to the dark place he vaguely remembered. And for thirty years, three months, two days, and eleven seconds, he and the piemaker had danced around each other, creating a strange sort of shadow-love where not touching, not hugging or scratching or petting were the best ways to show their mutual devotion.
On the day Diana, a golden shepherd Ned and Chuck had adopted five years, six months, eight days, and a handful of hours and seconds ago, whined strangely, licked her foot, and then fell over without getting up again, Digby barked at the foot of Ned and Chuck’s bed until the piemaker got up to see what was wrong. “Oh, Digby,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” He called Chuck and had her take Diana’s body out to the backyard, which was plentifully supplied with squirrels and raccoons and wildlife of all kinds, and once they were there Ned touched Diana, and for approximately fifty-four seconds Digby thought that everything would be alright, and the fairytale of a man and his undead dog would continue on track.
That was when Ned Jr. toddled out into the backyard, woken by the commotion, and both man and dog realized the small boy was currently the closest living thing in sight and the minute was almost up.
Ned reached out and touched Diana again.
Digby whined.
“I’m sorry, Digby,” Ned said, “I’m sorry, buddy, but what if it took Ned Jr.?”
Digby looked at Diana’s still form and he whined again.
“I couldn’t be sure,” Ned explained, half to Digby, half to himself. “You understand that, right?”
Digby had no way of showing he understood, and no way of explaining how he felt, which is why he wagged his tail once and then deliberately pushed his head into Ned’s outstretched, unguarded hand.
He hoped he would at least feel the pat for a moment or two, but Ned’s magic had never been sympathetic.
*
“No,” Chuck said. “No.”
It had been twenty-one years, eleven months, three days, four hours and eighteen seconds since Digby had been brought back to life, and Ned was bleeding on the Pie Hole floor. It was after hours and the restaurant was deserted. That was probably what the robber had been counting on, but Ned had needed to do some stress-baking and Chuck and Digby had stayed to keep him company.
“Chuck, stay away,” Ned managed around a mouthful of blood, “You can’t touch me.”
“You have to keep pressure on,” Chuck said. “Ned, you have to, I can’t.”
“I know, see? Pressure. I’m keeping pressure.”
“I’m calling 911,” Chuck said. “Ned? Ned?”
Ned’s hands, at his side, were red, and his head lolled back.
“Ned?” Chuck wailed, from a foot- from an eternity- away.
Digby padded across the room and sniffed at Ned. There was a smell there he knew- the hard scent of rot that clung to him and Chuck, the scent that announced there was something dead.
Deliberately, he circled three times and lay down next to Ned. Then he pushed his muzzle into his master’s cooling hand.
*
“It’s very simple,” Charles Charles said. “If you’re dead, Charlotte never has to worry again. I’m doing this for my family. I think you’d understand that.”
Ned winced. “I am her family,” he said. He talked fast. No matter how often it happened, having a gun pointed at him still made him nervous. “You think she’d want this?”
“Of course not. But I’m her dad, and I'm going to do what's best for my little girl.”
Digby leaped in front of the bullet. Of course, that couldn’t kill him. He was already dead. But the force of the bullet knocked him back into Ned’s body.
He never saw what Ned did to Charles Charles, or how many times Ned touched him, hoping to find a loophole. But there were none to be found.
*
The men in white coats poked, and prodded him with needles over and over again. They cut him and they pricked him and Digby didn’t know how long he had been in their antiseptic room because time, for once, had no meaning. He was in a cold place with no scents and there was something wrong with his legs. The door opened and he tried to shuffle back into the corner, where at least it would take them longer to get at him.
“Oh, Digby.” It was a familiar, soft voice. Olive? Chuck? Someone who had been kind to him.
“Hold on, buddy. We’re going to get you out of here.” Ned. Ned. Ned! He raised his head. He tried to wag his tail, but it wasn’t there anymore, not really, just hanging on by stitches, victim of one of the earlier experiments. He knew they would have done worse to him if they hadn’t noticed how he didn’t heal, how his wounds stayed open and red and fresh but bloodless.
“Oh God… “ The soft voice again, sounding sick and sad. Who’d hurt her? He’d bite them! “Look at him, Ned. We can’t… we can’t let him go on like this. Look at him.”
“I can’t just kill him.” Ned. What were they talking about? Digby strained for words he knew, like “walk” or “park”. He’d like to go for a walk, except for his legs. But Ned would fix it. Ned was magic.
“It’s cruel to leave him like this!”
“Okay.” Rough voice. “Just give me a minute. Digby. Digby, can you hear me? Good boy. Good boy.”
He knew that one. He was a good boy. Ned picked up one of the sharp things in the room and turned it around, and used the handle to scritch-scritch behind Digby’s ears, just the right spot. “Good boy, Digby,” he said, and then Digby felt his arms around him for just a second, through the jacket, and then Ned’s hands touched him very gently.
*
Ned breathed in and out and then he stopped, but Digby and Chuck didn’t. They just went on, and when Chuck lay down next to Ned and hugged him, for real with no plastic wrap, nothing happened.
Digby stayed with Chuck for a long time, until it hurt more to be reminded than to forget, and then he went walking out, out, very far out, and found a family that could love him and that would touch him.
He was the perfect dog for that family-always energetic, never sick, always well-behaved except for how he would not go to the vet, and wasn’t it amazing how he never seemed to get old? After it stopped being amazing and got creepy he found another family and did it again, and again, until they noticed that his fur was drifting away like dandelion seeds from his skin and his teeth were dropping out of dry old gums, and that their beloved dog was less a dog than a stuffed animal.
So Digby wandered, found homes, found friends, and had no way knowing how much time had passed because the only thing time had ever been food for was measuring time with Ned, time apart from Ned. And sometimes he got very tired and he lay down, but he could never remember how to lie down properly and forever like Ned and Chuck had, and he could never find anyone with the touch, so he always had to get up again.
*
Ned was seventy and very old. Ned was eighty-four and couldn’t walk anymore, and when he threw the stick it only went a couple metres. Chuck and Digby were old, too, but they didn’t look it. They lived in the aunts’ house and didn’t go out much, but that was okay, because they were happy and they had a lot of stories to live on.
Ned was out on the porch dozing in the sun. Ned smelled like summer and fields of flowers.
Digby curled up at his feet and whuffed in, out, dust and dirt in his nose. He wanted to go for a run but Ned was tired. Ned was sleeping. Ned was clutching vaguely at his chest and making soft hurt sounds. Digby heard Chuck come running, and then Ned stopped, and a second later Chuck collapsed, dropped like a sack, and then Digby was-
-somewhere dark-
and then
there was a field of flowers, like the ones he and Ned had run through as a boy and his puppy and there was Ned and he looked better, younger, and there was Chuck, and suddenly Digby realized that here it was okay to run to Ned and to lick him and to be petted, petted properly again.
So he did.
Genre: five things, angst
Characters: Digby, Ned, Chuck, Charles Charles
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: “Comfort Food” and onwards.
Summary: Exactly what the title says.
Warning: Very sad, and, as the title suggests, soaking in character death.
Comments are appreciated.
Being a dog of uncommon intelligence, Digby had known since the day he died the first time- some thirty years, three months, two days, and eleven seconds ago- that one touch of his master’s hand would send him back to the dark place he vaguely remembered. And for thirty years, three months, two days, and eleven seconds, he and the piemaker had danced around each other, creating a strange sort of shadow-love where not touching, not hugging or scratching or petting were the best ways to show their mutual devotion.
On the day Diana, a golden shepherd Ned and Chuck had adopted five years, six months, eight days, and a handful of hours and seconds ago, whined strangely, licked her foot, and then fell over without getting up again, Digby barked at the foot of Ned and Chuck’s bed until the piemaker got up to see what was wrong. “Oh, Digby,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” He called Chuck and had her take Diana’s body out to the backyard, which was plentifully supplied with squirrels and raccoons and wildlife of all kinds, and once they were there Ned touched Diana, and for approximately fifty-four seconds Digby thought that everything would be alright, and the fairytale of a man and his undead dog would continue on track.
That was when Ned Jr. toddled out into the backyard, woken by the commotion, and both man and dog realized the small boy was currently the closest living thing in sight and the minute was almost up.
Ned reached out and touched Diana again.
Digby whined.
“I’m sorry, Digby,” Ned said, “I’m sorry, buddy, but what if it took Ned Jr.?”
Digby looked at Diana’s still form and he whined again.
“I couldn’t be sure,” Ned explained, half to Digby, half to himself. “You understand that, right?”
Digby had no way of showing he understood, and no way of explaining how he felt, which is why he wagged his tail once and then deliberately pushed his head into Ned’s outstretched, unguarded hand.
He hoped he would at least feel the pat for a moment or two, but Ned’s magic had never been sympathetic.
*
“No,” Chuck said. “No.”
It had been twenty-one years, eleven months, three days, four hours and eighteen seconds since Digby had been brought back to life, and Ned was bleeding on the Pie Hole floor. It was after hours and the restaurant was deserted. That was probably what the robber had been counting on, but Ned had needed to do some stress-baking and Chuck and Digby had stayed to keep him company.
“Chuck, stay away,” Ned managed around a mouthful of blood, “You can’t touch me.”
“You have to keep pressure on,” Chuck said. “Ned, you have to, I can’t.”
“I know, see? Pressure. I’m keeping pressure.”
“I’m calling 911,” Chuck said. “Ned? Ned?”
Ned’s hands, at his side, were red, and his head lolled back.
“Ned?” Chuck wailed, from a foot- from an eternity- away.
Digby padded across the room and sniffed at Ned. There was a smell there he knew- the hard scent of rot that clung to him and Chuck, the scent that announced there was something dead.
Deliberately, he circled three times and lay down next to Ned. Then he pushed his muzzle into his master’s cooling hand.
*
“It’s very simple,” Charles Charles said. “If you’re dead, Charlotte never has to worry again. I’m doing this for my family. I think you’d understand that.”
Ned winced. “I am her family,” he said. He talked fast. No matter how often it happened, having a gun pointed at him still made him nervous. “You think she’d want this?”
“Of course not. But I’m her dad, and I'm going to do what's best for my little girl.”
Digby leaped in front of the bullet. Of course, that couldn’t kill him. He was already dead. But the force of the bullet knocked him back into Ned’s body.
He never saw what Ned did to Charles Charles, or how many times Ned touched him, hoping to find a loophole. But there were none to be found.
*
The men in white coats poked, and prodded him with needles over and over again. They cut him and they pricked him and Digby didn’t know how long he had been in their antiseptic room because time, for once, had no meaning. He was in a cold place with no scents and there was something wrong with his legs. The door opened and he tried to shuffle back into the corner, where at least it would take them longer to get at him.
“Oh, Digby.” It was a familiar, soft voice. Olive? Chuck? Someone who had been kind to him.
“Hold on, buddy. We’re going to get you out of here.” Ned. Ned. Ned! He raised his head. He tried to wag his tail, but it wasn’t there anymore, not really, just hanging on by stitches, victim of one of the earlier experiments. He knew they would have done worse to him if they hadn’t noticed how he didn’t heal, how his wounds stayed open and red and fresh but bloodless.
“Oh God… “ The soft voice again, sounding sick and sad. Who’d hurt her? He’d bite them! “Look at him, Ned. We can’t… we can’t let him go on like this. Look at him.”
“I can’t just kill him.” Ned. What were they talking about? Digby strained for words he knew, like “walk” or “park”. He’d like to go for a walk, except for his legs. But Ned would fix it. Ned was magic.
“It’s cruel to leave him like this!”
“Okay.” Rough voice. “Just give me a minute. Digby. Digby, can you hear me? Good boy. Good boy.”
He knew that one. He was a good boy. Ned picked up one of the sharp things in the room and turned it around, and used the handle to scritch-scritch behind Digby’s ears, just the right spot. “Good boy, Digby,” he said, and then Digby felt his arms around him for just a second, through the jacket, and then Ned’s hands touched him very gently.
*
Ned breathed in and out and then he stopped, but Digby and Chuck didn’t. They just went on, and when Chuck lay down next to Ned and hugged him, for real with no plastic wrap, nothing happened.
Digby stayed with Chuck for a long time, until it hurt more to be reminded than to forget, and then he went walking out, out, very far out, and found a family that could love him and that would touch him.
He was the perfect dog for that family-always energetic, never sick, always well-behaved except for how he would not go to the vet, and wasn’t it amazing how he never seemed to get old? After it stopped being amazing and got creepy he found another family and did it again, and again, until they noticed that his fur was drifting away like dandelion seeds from his skin and his teeth were dropping out of dry old gums, and that their beloved dog was less a dog than a stuffed animal.
So Digby wandered, found homes, found friends, and had no way knowing how much time had passed because the only thing time had ever been food for was measuring time with Ned, time apart from Ned. And sometimes he got very tired and he lay down, but he could never remember how to lie down properly and forever like Ned and Chuck had, and he could never find anyone with the touch, so he always had to get up again.
*
Ned was seventy and very old. Ned was eighty-four and couldn’t walk anymore, and when he threw the stick it only went a couple metres. Chuck and Digby were old, too, but they didn’t look it. They lived in the aunts’ house and didn’t go out much, but that was okay, because they were happy and they had a lot of stories to live on.
Ned was out on the porch dozing in the sun. Ned smelled like summer and fields of flowers.
Digby curled up at his feet and whuffed in, out, dust and dirt in his nose. He wanted to go for a run but Ned was tired. Ned was sleeping. Ned was clutching vaguely at his chest and making soft hurt sounds. Digby heard Chuck come running, and then Ned stopped, and a second later Chuck collapsed, dropped like a sack, and then Digby was-
-somewhere dark-
and then
there was a field of flowers, like the ones he and Ned had run through as a boy and his puppy and there was Ned and he looked better, younger, and there was Chuck, and suddenly Digby realized that here it was okay to run to Ned and to lick him and to be petted, petted properly again.
So he did.