Disclaimer: So totally not mine.

Notes: Written for Malnpudl, who is awesome. This is a coda to In Which There Are Turtles.

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In Which There Is A (Half) Wolf

Diefenbaker gives Not-Here-Bob an expectant look as the door between Boss-Ben’s work den and the not-here den clicks shut.

“I think that went better than I expected,” Not-Here-Bob says brightly. “Well, they got there in the end. And by a rather unconventional route—I must ask Benton to find out how the Yank ended up in here while awake—but still. Thank heavens for small mercies.”

Boss-Ben did not get chance to make dinner, Not-Here-Bob, Dief says, sitting down in the middle of the cabin.

“Yes, well, I’m sure you noticed him being rather distracted before we were unceremoniously ordered out of the room.”

I am really very hungry, Not-Here-Bob.

The ghost, who has sat down behind his desk, leans forwards and peers over the edge at Diefenbaker. “Yes, well. Feel free to avail yourself of the door. There’s the whole of the Northwest Areas out there. I’m sure that you’ll find something to eat.”

Dief looks at the door, which rattles with the buffeting of the storm that appears to be outside, and then looks back to Not-Here-Bob, who has perched a pair of glasses on his nose and seems to be deeply absorbed in writing something.

It is snowing out there. There is a storm, Dief feels compelled to point out.

“Naturally. You hardly thought that I was going to leave the doorway open to Benton’s office, do you? Eavesdropping is neither politic nor polite and besides, there’s no telling what we’d hear. I can hardly imagine that the Yank is any quieter during— well, you know— than at any other time.” The pen scratches a few more words before Not-Here-Bob glances up. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Benton assures me that you have Arctic wolf in your parentage and this is nothing more than a little blow. It’ll be good for you: clear out the cobwebs and all that.”

Dief shakes his head and stalks over to the rug in front of the fire. Turning in a circle, offense in every bristling hair, he curls up in a tight circle and rests his chin on his own tail, the better to stare at Not-Here-Bob in a heartrendingly mistreated fashion.

Not-Here-Bob seems singularly immune to the soulful looks, so Dief sighs loudly.

“You know where the door is,” Not-Here-Bob says without removing his attention or pen from paper. “And do not think for a moment that I will be as tolerant as Benton is over your flatulence problems.”

I do not have a f-l-a-t-u-l-e-n-c-e problem!

“The current odour of your existence contradicts you.”

Dief grumbles to himself and inches around until he’s staring into the fire. He wonders, vaguely, how long Boss-Ben and Spiky-Ray will be, and just how large a pizza he should demand as compensation for being stuck in a closet with Not-Here-Bob.

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