Work Text:
Is there some sort of cosmic conspiracy preventing you from getting your way? You’re starting to suspect that there may be. After all, the explanation for why so many of your guns and gadgets malfunction or explode is surely not shoddy workmanship. You build things just fine, thank you! You don’t need anyone’s help. Even if it does sort of sucks when they blow up in your face.
Unfortunately, this is one situation where you may be forced to ask for aid.
Your latest scheme had been focused on humiliating the Tailorbird, your nemesis, by corrupting his DNA with that of an animal. Mutants are still often regarded with a lot of suspicion and malice by the general human populace, so what better way to ruin the Tailorbird’s social standing than turning him into one?
Better yet, you used canine DNA in the concoction in hopes of it trigger some doggy behaviors in your infuriating enemy. Just imagine if you could get him to beg or fetch a stick! It would have been perfect.
You say ‘would have’, of course, because while you were building a special dispenser to spray this volatile mixture all over Dirk Strider’s face, you accidentally triggered the firing mechanism. This caused the potion to shoot wildly out of the unsealed opening in the side of the dispenser—right all over you instead.
You coughed, you spluttered, you tried desperately to wipe it off, but the damage was done. The concoction worked exactly as you planned it would, except to the wrong target. You transformed into a mix of dog and human, although thankfully more human than dog. You’re just lucky you didn’t absorb all of the potion rather than only some of it.
Not that you didn’t change. You did. Your human ears are now gone, replaced by a pair of twitching dog ears on the top of your head. Tufts of fur sprouted at your neck and arms, accompanied by the strangest sensation: you grew a tail as well. All of this was alarming enough, but it was the disfigurement of your hands (and feet? you need to pull off your boots, they feel so uncomfortable now) that was truly disastrous.
“Kicking Christ in a dirty diaper!” You stare down at your hands, panicking because there’s no way in hell you’ll be able to reverse this situation on your own. You won’t be able to hold the tools properly with your new paw-like appendages, let alone do anything requiring a steady hand or attention to detail.
“Um… uh… shoot.” Your first thought is to turn to Otto for help in restoring your humanity, but unfortunately he’s currently unavailable. Today was the day designated for a few very important improvements to his security system, meaning he’ll be busy recompiling all day. And Equius? After helping Otto begin the updating process, he left the lair to attend to his own business. Without Otto, you weren’t in the mood to plan any proper heists, so you gave Equius the day off. In fact, the only reason you started this whole scheme was you got bored without anyone around to talk to.
This is bad. Extremely so! After all, you had planned to make the Tailorbird beg for the antidote to his condition by enforcing a time limit: if you don’t reverse this mutation within the next four hours, the corruption of your DNA will become permanent. You could be stuck like this forever.
What a terrifying thought!
But who can you ask for help? Who’s close enough—or, rather, who’s skilled enough that you can trust them to do the job right? Gamzee is high more often than not, and he knows nothing about this sort of thing. Roxy is more competent, but she frequently drinks, and you’d rather not trust this mess to an intoxicated opportunistic female.
If Otto and Equius are out of the picture as well, that means the only person you can attempt to bully into helping you… is the very nemesis you wanted to humiliate. Goddammit. He’s the last person you need now!
You trek over to the Tailorbird’s apartment regardless. You hate what you will have to do, but you also know that there isn’t a moment to lose. You’d much rather have this cleared up as soon as possible, instead of waiting until the last minute in hopes you can ask someone else for help.
You knock on his door, calling his name loudly. “Strider! Strider, open up this instant!” Your tone is impatient, demanding that he answer now.
When he finally opens it—you’re sure he took extra long just to be a dick—he stares at you, one eyebrow raised in the most ironic manner possible. “I take it Halloween came early this year?”
“Haha, you are so funny!” You roll your eyes to get across the point that you are unamused. “Wow, Strider, you certainly are the last bastion of clever wit in the modern world!”
“I don’t have time for your flattery, English. Why don’t you tell me why you’re one step closer to embracing your nature as a furry?” His deadpan reply causes you to splutter. You glare at him, offended, your cheeks heating up.
“Just because you walked in that one time, Strider—” No, you don’t have time to go into this again. It’s not your fault if the Tailorbird thinks ill of you due to one ridiculous badly-timed misunderstanding. “In any case, I need you to shut your trap and leave your domicile posthaste.”
That Strider brow quirks upward as if expressing its owner’s incredulity, and he crosses his arms. “Well, shit, let me just bend over backwards to accommodate your needs. What’s up?”
You ignore his sarcasm. “As you have surely noticed, I’ve had a bit of an accident in my lab, and unfortunately I cannot correct the situation on my own.” You hold up your hand-like paws, grimacing as you wiggle the clumsy digits in his general direction.
“See? Repairing the device is currently beyond the scope of my abilities. Additionally, you should be flattered to hear that I value your input over that of a stoner and a drunk, and thus feel obligated to come with me back to my lair and fix this mess for me.”
“How could I possibly refuse?” You have a suspicion he’s rolling his eyes at you, but it’s impossible to tell with those blasted shades of his in place. “I’ve got about a thousand better things to do than to de-canine you, dog. There isn’t jack shit in it for me.” If you realized he probably meant that ‘dog’ to be spelled with two Gs, it would be enough cause for you to roll your eyes right back at him.
However, the topic of rap slang is not currently where your thoughts are focused. No, for the first time since you decided he was your ticket back to undiluted humanity, you feel a flash of panic. You didn’t honestly expect him to say no in regards to coming to your rescue. He’s a hero. That’s what heroes do: help people in trouble. “But I’m in distress.”
Apparently that isn’t an acceptable reason, at least to him, because he doesn’t budge. “We’ll see how many steps I take alongside you based on how sincerely you can say please, English.”
“What!” You try to scowl, but it comes out like more of a pout. “Are you completely serious? I have to beg for your help?” Goddammit, you had planned to make him plead for your assistance. This whole plan is ass-backwards! “Ugh, fine. Would you PLEASE help me?” Loudness obviously equates sincerity.
He tilts his head slightly, and this time you can tell that he is rolling his eyes again. “You’ve really got to work on your manners. But a’ight. I guess I can spare the time.”
You can’t help your own reaction when he acquiesces: you clasp your hands together in delight and your tail begins to wag happily. “Splendid! Then let us be on our way!”
He glances toward the insides of his apartment, as if debating the need to grab anything before leaving, and finally shakes his head. “If you’re that excited about a little alone time with me, you could’ve just asked me on a date. Let’s roll.”
You choke, but he’s already stepping past you and walking down the hall. You’re forced to hurry to catch up, mortified by that particular verbal volley. As if you would ever date Dirk Strider. Geez.
The two of you head back to your lair—he’s been there before in an official heroic capacity, so it’s no real secret where you live—and you lead him to the lab where this whole disaster started.
“I do have the formula for the solution that caused my mutation in the first place, so it shouldn’t be that hard to reverse it. Not to mention that the broken dispenser will be child’s play for one as mechanically inclined as you. Your main function will be to act as my hands during this process, since I cannot do anything precise myself.” You point to the table you were originally working at. “The solution itself is fairly harmless. It’s the dispenser that triggers the chemical reaction that makes it volatile and thus able to impact a subject’s DNA. So, basically, you don’t have to worry about getting any of the leftover concoction on your person.”
While you speak, he takes initiative by rifling through your papers and poking at the gadgets on your desk. It’s almost like he’s ignoring you, which is incredibly frustrating. “Dammit, Strider, are you even listening to—” But as you go to tell him off, he picks up one of your bigger tools and you suddenly find yourself enraptured. He notices the awkward interruption in the flow of your rant and glances at the wrench. The edge of his mouth curves upward slightly. He wiggles the tool in your general direction.
Your ears pop upright, and you lose track of your train of thought entirely.
“Jake.” When he says your name, your gaze snaps to his face. He pauses. The small smile develops into a full-fledged smirk. “Fetch.”
He throws the wrench across the lab, and before you can even attempt to control these new doggy instincts and urges you find yourself lunging after it in pursuit. You, thankfully, don’t feel the need to carry it in your mouth, but you bring it back to him anyway, silently cursing yourself all the while.
His smirk widens, and he pats you on the head as he takes the wrench from you. “Good dog.” A mixture of amusement and ridicule fills his voice.
You would rather bite him than fetch that wrench again, a sentiment that clearly shows on your face because he refrains from tossing the tool a second time. Instead, he scratches your ears teasingly, a mock reward for bringing it back. You jerk in surprise, eyes widening because his callused fingers feel so good in your hair. You lean into his touch, letting out a pleased little noise in response to his ministrations.
Shit. Maybe you would have rather submitted to the humiliation of playing fetch over enduring this, because he is bound to end up embarrassing you even worse this way. You are so screwed.
“Hey, English. How long do you have until this shit becomes a permanent entry in your biography?” He’s still smirking like the douchebag he is.
Since your mind is presently occupied with how frickin’ glorious this feels, it’s taking you longer than usual for the question to sink it. How are you even supposed to think when all you want to do is crawl into his lap and let his hands move down to your belly? He repeats the question in an attempt to get you to pay attention, and finally you remember the answer: “Somewhat less than four hours, now. Why?”
He pauses and then chuckles, but his hands don’t stop their affectionate assault on your ears. You bite back a happy whine, unable to stop the blissful wagging of your doggy tail.
“Sounds like we have time to have some fun first.”