((This is merely a continuation of my Sample RP. I shorted it for my application, and now wish to post the other half along with it. It is a solo thread, nothing much. Enjoy))

Ryan McClary staggered out of the Black Horse Pub and headed for his flat. It appeared to be nearly dawn, with streaks of light flashing through the brightly lit New York sky. At least, it felt like he'd been drinking all night. What with first Doyle, and then Pittman and then Derrick buying him round after round for making the latest arrest of the week. He began to stagger slightly, but it wasn’t an issue. Ryan only had one more block to go, anyway. All smart (and slightly alcoholic) detectives had flats close to the Black Horse. With another chorus, he aimed for the front door of his building, and was sent sprawling as he tripped over something in thedoorway.

"Wauugh!"

A whimper answered him from the pile of rags at his feet. He peered blearily at the pile and cursed. A dog lay there, liquid brown eyes shining sadly in the light at him. "No." He barked, clambering to his feet and opening the front door. "No, you f*** off and find some other lazy bastard to take care o' ya."

With a finality to it, he slammed the door and stalked up the stairs to his apartment. He listened the whole way for more whimpers and cries from his erstwhile companion. There were none.

Slamming open his apartment door, he staggered in and collapsed onto his couch. Still no sound from the dog on the stoop.

McClary let out a curse and rolled off the couch. Damn. Something was beginning to assert itself in his memory. Something about being kind to animals and keeping them warm, and frolicking with puppies. When the f*** had he ever frolicked with puppies?

He staggered back out his still-open door and down the stairs, cursing enough to peel what was left of the blue paint on the walls. The little dog was still huddled under a pile of rags on his front step. He glared at it. It whimpered softly at him. "Fine then," he snarled, "but this is only for the f***ing night. I'm taking you to a shelter in the morning."

Re-entering his apartment, ragged dog behind him, he realized something. "One of us smells 'orrible. And it ain't me." He glared at the dog and dragged it--her, he realized later on--towards the tiny room that was his bath. A problem presented itself immediately. He had no bath tub, only a small tile box that housed his mold-grown shower.

"Damn."

Making a quick decision, he shed his clothes, leaving them strewn on the bathroom floor, and started the shower up. He needed it anyway. Turning back to shove the dog under the spray, he swore. She'd scarpered.

"You little b****! Get back 'ere!"

A search of his apartment finally produced her in his closet, curled on his one good shirt. He growled at her. She sort of whimpered back, and then he picked her up and stalked back to the shower, where he proceeded to mercilessly cleanse both of them, though he accidentally used toothpaste on his hair due to his drunken stupor. Oh well.

There weren't any clean towels, he discovered as he stepped out of the shower. Another oath escaped him and he reached down to pick up the shirt he'd been wearing. With a grimace at the shivering dog, he bundled her into it, then stalked towards his bedroom. He thought he remembered there being a towel in there, somewhere.

He had. But it was filthy, so he just used the sheet off his bed, wrapping it around himself in a sort of toga fashion. Ryan set the dog on the bed and sighed. Sleep was seeping through him, dragging at him, triumphing over the adrenaline. Even the booze he'd ingested was conspiring against him.

With a mumbled comment on females everywhere, he collapsed onto the bed
and fell asleep, half-covered by the sheet.

--

Ryan woke with a jerk, and rolled out of the bed, taking the sheet with him. There was someone there, in the room with him. Without even opening his sleep-glazed eyes, he reached under the pillow and grabbed the pistol hidden there. Carefully, he looked around the room, searching it, scanning for an enemy.

There was nothing and no one there. Except an odd little mewling sound coming from his closet. He frowned and slowly straightened, yelping as cold air hit certain portions of his suddenly exposed anatomy. The sheet pooled on the floor at his feet.

He rewrapped the sheet and headed for the closet, carefully pulling the door open the rest of the way. "Oh, f***."

Ryan sank to his knees and stared in horror, "My shirt. You b****, that was my best shirt." He moaned, staring at the shirt the dog was currently curled upon. She was surrounded by five squirming little replicas of herself. And she looked so proud of herself as he looked at them.

"My shirt..."

One of the puppies chose that moment to whimper and Ryan found himself gathering the tiny thing up. It was no bigger than the palm of one of his hands, and shivered in the air. He quickly set the little thing next to its mother and began warming up the air around them.

"Ssshhh... It's okay."

Ryan signed, and looked at the newly crafted family at his feet. He was angry. He was annoyed. He was aggravated. Yet oddly, he was… happy? What the f***? Something inside Ryan’s chest felt warm and cuddly, clashing with the smoke in his lungs and booze in his veins. Huh. Those puppies WERE adorable. Maybe he wouldn’t take them to the shelter just yet. Maybe…

The next morning found McClary shopping for dog food, water bowls and another good shirt. He also found himself picking up absurd things like chew toys and rubber bones.

Okay, so, maybe the puppies were only hours old, but they might like things to play with... McClary hit his head against the wall as he re-entered the apartment. Yeah, and they might all hate him, too. Or
Chief Myers might give him a time intensive case, like a stake-out. God he hated those. Regardless, Ryan knew he had to make sure the puppies and their mother were looked after if he had to leave.

Ryan rethought his thoughts, and barely believed what he heard. What the f*** was happening to him? God he needed a drink.

--

Ryan had no idea why he was doing this. He really didn't. After all, they were filthy, smelly animals, and not his responsibility. Yeah, and he could just go drive them to the vet's.

Great idea. Except that they were his. He didn’t know why he thought this, but they were his.

They'd come into Ryan’s world, squooshed out onto his best shirt. And he somehow found them cute. And pitiful. So, he couldn't just get rid of them. After all, that would be cruel and heartless. And it would definitely be something his father or some other sick bastard would do. Ryan didn’t we not to emulate either.

So he spent the next two weeks looking after a dog with puppies. He tried to sleep, he really did. Unfortunately, every little whimper and snort awakened him with the fear that they were all dying. Either that, or they'd run away.

Days were spent down the pub, getting sloshed. Nights were spent jerking awake and constantly checking on the pups and their mum. She spent most of her time sleeping and feeding them, occasionally eating and drinking when she could.

It seemed a strange dichotomy, but it was relaxing, in its own twisted way.

Chief Myers called him, midway through the third week. Fitfully crying little puppies were beginning to open their eyes and wander around. She told him in no uncertain terms that there was an break in a case, they needed a detective to fly down to Boston to help the Boston PD. Ryan grew up down there , and he'd be going. Period.

He had three hours to get ready. F***

--

Fiona McClary was eccentric. If she'd been poor, she would have been crazy. But she wasn't, luckily. Therefore, everyone termed her eccentric, and let her be. Mostly.

The phone was ringing, she noticed as she completed another movement of the Tao.

It continued ringing for a minute, then stopped, her answering machine
cutting in.

"I know you're there, pick up, Fiona."

She blinked, but finished a stretch.

"Dammit."

A smile crossed her lips, and then she bent over again.

"Fine. Ignore me. Stupid sister."

Another lean up.

"Listen, I need your help."

She bent over backwards, listening as things popped.

"The boss has sent me on assignment, and I... can't leave them alone."

Them? Coming back up straight, she froze, then shook her shoulders and arms and turned to the phone.

"So, I'm wonderin' if you could come down and take them."

"Who?"

"I *knew* you were there."

"Who?"

"Um... Puppies. They're 'bout two and a half weeks old. Their mum is takin' good care, but they need a human..."

"Ah." Fiona tilted her head to the side, feeling the slide of straight glossy black hair. "What's in it for me?"

--

So Ryan went on assignment, which took him a week to complete. Occasionally he worried about the puppies, and what occult things Fiona might be doing to them. He had bad memories of their first cat being shaved ritually before being frozen in the freezer. He hoped she'd outgrown that stage.

Once back in good old New York City, he made his swift way to the Black Horse Pub (with a minor stop at the 18th Precinct to report to Chief Myers).

The Black Horse was packed with many cops, tourists, locals, and a few barristers. Tourists had started trickling in when the old Cherub's Cross had closed down. Now they seemed as much a permanent fixture as the cops in the local area. Fan-f***ing-tastic. If it was tourist season, why couldn’t he shoot them?

He headed for his normal table, surprised to see someone already sitting in his seat. As he got closer, he realised it was his sister. She seemed to be holding court with Doyle and Pittman smiling genially at her.

"McClary! Where've you been hiding this sister of yours, she's a treasure!" Doyle slapped him on the back and smiled at Fiona. "I'll be right back with that drink, ma'am."

"Evenin', harridan, I see they let you out of the asylum." Ryan flopped into the just-vacated chair, and gave his sibling a Look.

"They haven't come for you yet." She replied, smirking.

"So. How are they?"

"They who?"

"You know."

"I do?" She widened her eyes, innocence personified.

He scowled as Jardine looked at them with interest, "And what are these things you're so curious about, Ryan?"

"None of your--"

"Puppies, Mr. Jardine." Fiona smirked, "I've been watching them for my lazy brother while he was out of town."

"Really." He adjusted his spectacles, and looked at Ryan, amusement in his gaze. "And how are they?"

"Perfectly fine."

Doyle returned then, drinks in hand. "McClary. You're in my seat."

"Yeah." Ryan swiped the beer he was handing to Fiona and took a long pull on it. "Sucks, don't it."

"Move, McClary."

Ryan held up two fingers. "Another round."

"I'll sit on you."

"You wouldn't dare."

Doyle growled, "Yes I would. You're not that great a poker player. We'd only sort of miss you."

"Five bucks he sits on McClary," Pittman said absently to his seatmate.

Derrick Smith snickered, "Done."

It was hopeless, Ryan knew. Doyle, who was a rather large man, would reclaim his seat, whether he was in it or not. Since he preferred to not to use his powers in the bar nor be a flattened detective, he moved to stand behind his sister. "B****. They still at my flat?"

"Yup. I checked 'em every day, though."

"Good." He looked longingly at the table, but knew he needed to get back to the flat and see what the combined mischief of puppy and sister had caused. "Have to bash, guys."

"Leaving so early, McClary?" Pittman looked mildly sad.

"Things to do, women to ravish, you know how it is."

"He's going home to his puppies," Fiona said cheerfully. "Now, next round was on Jardine, yes?"

Slouching back out of the Black Horse, Ryan muttered things under his breath. See if *he* ever left his puppies with his sister again. Ungrateful b****. It wasn't as if she had anything *else* to do.

--

Except his flat, apparently. He stared with distaste at the stark white
walls and shining floors. A cleaning crew had apparently been in. And painters. His lovely mint-green walls were now white, while his floors were black. It was enough to make a man cry. Or curse his sister. A check of his bedroom produced crisp white sheets covered by a shaggy maroon comforter. The pillows even had forest green cases on them. He shuddered.

A mewling sound distracted him to the kitchen, where his puppies were happily ensconced behind a barrier that kept them on a large swathe of newspaper and hay. He blinked. They were bigger.

He'd sort of been expecting that. Really. It was just amazing how big they'd grown in a week's time.

One of them noticed him standing in the doorway, and she gave a little yip before bouncing over to peer up at him. The others followed, mama watching from her perch on a large pillow. Ryan thought he recognized one of the pillows from his bed. And a shirt that was suspiciously familiar lay underneath it.

Leaning over, he picked her up, cuddling her against his face, and sighing. This puppy was rather curious as she began sniffing all over him. It was... urgh… adorable. The breath in had a sweet scent too it. And he pondered curling up in the kitchen with his puppies.

But that would give anyone who came into the flat too much ammunition.

With another sigh, he set the silky puppy back in the enclosure and turned away. There were sad little mewlings and a few yips from the kitchen as he stripped in preperation for bed, but he tuned them out.

Best to sleep. Chief Myers had warned she would probably need him in the morning.

*END*