Archive of Our Own

You had never seen Neal cry.

Not when he'd discovered as a hot-headed teen that his girlfriend was a faithless bitch. Not when he had gone mano-a-mano with a brick wall rather than bash in either of their faces. Not even when your dad broke the news that with this particular surgery, he'd be in constant pain, but without it, he might never play music properly again....

There'd been no tears in the recovery room, none at the physical therapist's, and nary a whine nor complaint when even Robby could tell from the claw-like spasms that Neal's hand had to hurt like hell.

And Neal had been stoic throughout the demise of his relationship with Alexis, never showing even a hint of the turmoil beneath the surface when your sister said "no" to leaving New York and "no" to joining him in Los Angeles and "no" forever to an almost certain marriage proposal, had she only just followed...

You'd seen Neal with broken bones.

You'd seen him with a broken heart.

But you'd never once seen your best friend shed a tear.

And now, you watched Neal carry him in, the black and white hide stretched thin over a body rendered impossibly frail and light by the ravages of age... Watched your best friend's blue eyes grow glassy and bright behind the veil of unshed tears as he cupped that broad head in his hands, whispering both a hoarse apology and a plea for forgiveness before kissing the quivering nose... Watched his throat tighten with an unfamiliar emotion, something akin to guilt, you suspected, as the beast's tail thumped quietly against the table in a tattoo of absolution... Watched his lips move in a near-silent litany of comfort and reassurance as the doctor stepped in, watched him reject the same comfort and reassurance from you as the head grew heavy in the cradle of his palms, watched his shoulders hitch and his breath catch, and seeing the exact moment when the life left both of their eyes...

But still, he didn't cry.

Not when the doctor stepped back, murmuring empty words of completion, and finality, and remorse.

Not when Neal wrapped his faithful friend in his favorite blanket and scooped him into his arms, shaking off more meaningless condolences as he followed you out the back, back to your car, laying his bundle down on the seat with the utmost care; nor when he climbed in beside him, stroking the grayed muzzle with the tenderest of caresses.

And you watched him in the rearview mirror as you drove, your gaze alternating between the road ahead, the darkening sky above, and your best friend, sharing those final moments with his best friend, his cheeks still dry, his tears yet unshed.

The sky opened up just as he began to dig, but he didn't stop, as doggedly persistent and single-minded as ever, his actions mechanical and automatic, even as the dirt turned to muck around him.

And you grabbed a shovel and joined him, within minutes as wet and muddy as he; soaked to the skin, but set on your task.

You wouldn't let him do this alone. You couldn't. And the softening in the clenched line of his jaw let you know he understood.

You took the edge of the blanket opposite to him, and he didn't make a sound.

Together, you lowered the body into the grave, murmuring soft words of blessing unbidden. Together, you filled in the soil, mounding it carefully over the hound's final resting place.

And then he turned to you, his lower lip quivering, and opened his mouth to thank you...and let out a raw, broken sob, a sound of pure grief, as he collapsed into your arms, dragging you both to the ground.

And you knelt there with him, holding him, allowing him to pretend that the moisture on his face was only the rain, washing away the pain until you were clean once more.