#he does think he's sneaky with the butt flap

[lyrouxx]

its been weeks and im still thinking abt his panties btw. so have a thing for when I first laid eyes on them

[sian22redux]

He followed me home, ch 2

Title:  Hew followed me home,,   

Rating:   Has gone up a bit.  Oopsie., grin.  This is I for  interrupted sex. 

Summary Chapter 2 Dilemma :  Chris and reader adjust to the realities of having a ‘new furbaby’ in the house and try to settle on Puppy’s name. 

 You can find Chapter 1 here:    He Followed Me Home,   There will be one more after this.  For @theycallmebecca    Thanks so so much to @arizonapoppy for her awesome and timely beta’ing.  And to Linus the Story dog for making a cameo.  

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“Aowwoooo….”

“Aowwoooo....”

“What time is it?”  Chris slurs softly into your ear as you shake off the heavy sand of sleep.  You lift a limp hand to the headboard and fumble blindly for a minute: it’s broad and deep, hides an entire bookcase inside, and is way too handy for dropping things.  Tv remote?  No. Book? No.  Sir Richard’s wrapper.  Snork.  A minute’s awkward searching finally finds your phone; you drag it back down to the safety of the blankets where you blink blearily at the screen.  

5:05 AM.

Oh god.  Too early.  Waaay too early to be awoken when you’re both off from work today.  

And have already been up at two.  

  You stretch and drop the phone back down.  “Five,” you offer to the furnace-hot, starfish-shaped figure in the bed. You’re pinned.  One long leg is draped across your calves, one arm is heavy on your stomach and the other is folded below Chris’s pillow.  Even sleeping on his stomach, he keeps the connection between you both.  You poke gently at a muscled shoulder and try to shift your hips.

“Hey.”

Chris turns his pillowed head back your way and cracks an eye half open.  “Must be Abbey nex’ door. Go back to sleep.”  

Abbey, his neighbor’s eight month old, is teething.  When the wind is just right you can hear her crying plain as day. Could be.  You shrug and pull the sheet higher up your shoulder, tuck your head back down, trying to drop off.  It’s futile.  Tired limbs might be sinking lead-heavily into the cushy expanse of high-tech foam but your brain won’t let it go.  Abbey usually sounds a little flatter; more wail than howl--she must be suffering, poor thing.    

You turn underneath that heavy arm and slide across the bed to lie sideways against his solid frame, tucking your head below Chris’s chin.   “Hun, I can’t.”  

There comes a quiet sigh.  “Hmmm.” You nuzzle at Chris’s throat.  A slow smile spreads across his lips.   The hand that had rested on your stomach skims up across your back; draws lazy circles at the same time the suede-soft top of his foot caresses along your calf.

Sneaky man.  He knows you can’t resist the incongruous delicacy of his touch; the feather light brush that makes you melt and ache for something stronger.    The unhurried glide--- back and forth, soft and smooth and warm---reminds you of other, more interesting bits of his skin you like to touch.  Hnnggg.  You shiver. Little flames of need lick across your skin to settle in your core.  

 It’s torture, slow and lazy, and does not stop.

  “Chriss….” you moan and his answering chuckle rumbles enticingly at your ear.  He knows exactly what this is doing to.   And he is enjoying every minute.

  “What would you like me to do about that?” he whispers, twisting his hips; tugging  you closer and  spooning snuggly up behind so that a particular warm muscle throbs insistently along your butt.

 Oh god. Not fair. Someone is now clearly more awake. Downey, new-trimmed beard tickles as he noses softly behind your earlobe, drops open-mouthed hot butterflies at the cool of your nape.  

You shudder.  Not fair at all, the way he plays your body like an instrument.  

Strong fingers grip harder at the curve of your hipbones, pull your backside tight against his groin.  A telltale stripe of warm and wet paints along your folds.

Very awake, your boyfriend.  And ready.  And needy as you are.    

“Aowwoooo....”          

Both of you still at once.  The high wail knifes through the door again; louder this time and with it, quite obviously more near. Realization dawns.

“Puppy!” you cry, bolting upright up in the bed. He’s just outside the bedroom door, next to Dodger’s comfy bed in his shiny, new, bought-just-in-time-before Ace-closed, puppy crate.  

He’s awake and wants to be let out.  

“Jeez, it is.”  Chris sighs, throws an arm across his eyes.  Yup.  He’s just been cockblocked by a furball somewhere between a breadbox and a microwave in size.  For a second you worry he is annoyed but then the wail becomes a steady whimpering and your heart breaks a little bit.  

 Puppy’s been kenneled his whole life but now he’s separated from his pack.

Chris feels it too: his frown melts into a worried twist of concern.  “I’ll get him.”  

 He rolls away, nabs his discarded boxers from the floor and hops in place struggling to pull them on.  Another sound has joined the first.  The odd scraping thud of Dodger pawing at your door.

  “Fuck. I’m coming.”  Chris yanks on the door handle and reaches for a collar. “Dodger, sit!”  

Dodger obediently sets his haunches down and you hear the squeak of new metal clasps.

 The whining immediately stops.  

 “He didn’t cry at 2!”  You call hastily pulling one of Chris’s rattier NASA sweatshirts down over your head. It’s too long and covers you to mid-thigh.  Enough to chase away the chill if you are racing for the piddle pad.

“We had to wake him to let him out!” Chris calls back.  True, Puppy had been tuckered out from an entirely exhausting day, but you hadn’t processed the fact he’s on a baby’s schedule: waking and feeding every few hours at a time.  

Thank heaven Chris reacted fast.

“Good boy!”

The chorus of encouragement rings quietly in the cool pre-dawn air after the black ball of fluff scrambles out of Chris’s arms to squat on the still dewy grass. Just in time.  Puppy would be miserable if he had to wet his bed.

You both sit, bleary-eyed and yawning, knee to knee on the nearest lounger while Puppy snuffles happily.  He seems bouncy and alert, snapping unsuccessfully at the drunken wobbling of a moth.  Over by the firepit Dodger marks ‘his’ tree and trots back in through the sliding door. He knows the sun won’t be up for an hour yet.

“Did Dodger cry like this when they came home?” you ask, half knowing the answer that you’ll get.  Dodger may be high energy, a pup at heart, and ready to play at the drop of a hat, but he is almost preternaturally quiet voiced.  You’ve hardly ever heard him bark.  

Chris shakes his head.  “Naw. He’d been in the pound so long I think he learned not to add to the fray. But oh man, the moment I opened the door of his crate.  He just exploded out.”

 You both grin.  Of course he did.  Dodger is always overjoyed to be out in the wider world, with his Chris and playing, so much so that you’d been unsure how he would take to you at first.  You had quite literally evicted him from his place on Chris’ pillow--but the past three months showed the pooch could take some change in his stride.  He was fine as long as he had his Chris.  In time he leaned happily against your side when you all flaked out to watch a show; ran with you obediently on lead; listened when you told him no.  He was a good dog. The best, Chris always said, although he’d said that about East too.

Chris yawns, pushes off the chair with his hands, stands and stretches as the faint breeze raises goosebumps on his skin.  It’s not warm enough yet to be naked out of doors.  He reaches out a long arm to pull you up.  

 You smile and you wrap your arms as far around as you can reach.   “You don’t have fur.  You need a shirt.”  

“I do,” he agrees, planting a quick kiss on your forehead.  “And food.  I think my stomach is still on London time.”  Sure enough, it rumbles. Right on cue and loudly enough for you both to hear.

 Chris turns around, runs his fingers through his hair and scans for the pup.

A tie on the other loungers pad is under an adorably ferocious attack.  Puppy’s growling, shaking his head back and forth and tugging on the string.  

“Hey! Stop that,” you scold, lacing both hands underneath his fuzzy tummy.  You lift the wriggling, protesting bundle up in your arms and frown.  Day two and he is chewing the furniture.  Already.

Chris shrugs at the concern upon your face.  “Bound to happen sometime.”  He leans over for another kiss and laughs as he gets a lick underneath his chin. “Come on, Y/N.  Guess we better get him breakfast, too.  Doesn’t look like we’re going back to bed.”  

You don’t. Not for hours anyway,      

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The first days pass in such a blur you are so thankful you took time off.  Just like a baby, routine is important: exercise-meal, exercise-bonding time is the schedule. Five feeds a day.  Potty time every three hours and up at least once a night. ‘Good, bad, no” get repeated so frequently you begin to hear it in your sleep.    

Puppy eats and sleeps so much you swear can almost see him grow.  The first bowl of plain white fish (easy on a little stomach queasy from the meds) vanishes in a flash; chunks flying everywhere, stomach soon so full you can almost see the food poking out.

“Hey slow down, buddy.”  Chris holds him as you pull the bowl away.  He doesn’t fuss or snap, doesn’t try to eat Dodger’s food. Good boy, indeed.  It’s reassuring, as is the slowing frequency of coughs.          

The first time you let him run in the angled long backyard, Chris winds up doubled over laughing, hand over his mouth, as the little black ball streaks along behind his older ‘brother’.  

“Look at him go!”  

Indeed. Puppy is scampering as fast as his little legs will take him, silky ears flapping like he’s trying to lift off.   It’s hilarious.  And adorably awkward.  Giant paws on short stubby legs are hard to handle.   He trips over his ungainly paws, lands snout-first and whines. Dodger hustles back.  A quick sniff and nuzzle reassures that Puppy is fine and so the romp begins again.  They both find one end of a rubber bone and the inevitable tussle ends in startled yip.  Dodger, way more coordinated, has flipped over Puppy on his back.            

“Dodger, you meatball. Go easy on the little guy,”

Chris starts to jog over but Puppy seems ok. He rights himself, sneezes and looks utterly startled to find an ant upon his nose.  You’re laughing.  At Chris’s whistle Dodger bounds back, with Puppy in hot pursuit, tongue lolling out, brows furrowed as if to say  “why can’t I catch him?”    

The two of them pelt into the dining room, toenails clacking on the hardwood as they skitter to a stop.  Water is slurped messily, food bowls are dispatched and then they are off again: through the back door and out onto the deck where Puppy comes to a screeching halt.

Steps down are scary.

No amount of coaxing and cajoling from the alphas of the group can convince him to put a paw lower down.  You wind up once again carrying him down, settling him on your lap in the sun while Chris and Dodger play.      

“He needs a name,” you announce as the Frisbee soars above your head.

Chris pulls the disc from Dodger’s mouth and tosses it again.  “How about Scamp?”

Disney dogs?  Of course. Your boyfriend is the only guy you know who’s memorized Oliver and Company and Lady and the Tramp.  

You laugh and shake your head.  “Too small.”

“Tramp?”

You raise your eyebrows.  Berners are way more dignified than that. “Nuh unh.”  

‘Happy’ fits but doesn’t feel quite right. Nor does ‘Oliver’, ‘Bernard’ or “Louie.” Dodger sits patiently as Chris frowns thoughtfully and rubs his nape.  “How about Ryder, after Flynn Ryder?”

A possibility.  There is certainly every chance that Puppy will become a thief.   Soon he’ll be nicking socks and scarves any chance he gets.  

“What do you think?” you ask, shaking one of his paws.  He yawns and sprawls across your lap, not much interested in the game. Ryder does sound cool but somehow quite isn’t it.  

Licking your lips in thought, you decide, “I don’t think so.”  

Puppy yawns again, gnaws at your fingers as you pause to inspect his satin paw.  His nails are a little long: they will need clipping and you wonder how this heavy coat will do in the California heat. He’ll be sweltering.  Coat clipping will have to be introduced.  

That reminds you of the text you got last night.  Like the proudest mom around, you’ve already put Puppy up on your Instagram private page.  Your folks responded right away, sending an enthusiastic hi and a picture of their Berner, Emma;  all sleek and glossy from the groomer.  

They’re thrilled for you,  so ready to be Grandpuppyparents and have already suggested names.  

“Dad’s wants Tito,” you note teasingly, grinning at how this will be received.  No way Jose, will Chris go for a name from Bosox rival.

“That’s cuz he’s a traitor and a Cleveland fan,” Chris growls, blue eyes twinkling. You laugh but don’t demur.  It is halfway true but in point of fact, it is you that are the traitor.   Tito is Cleveland’s manager.  He’s a god in northeast Ohio and Columbus is your hometown.  

“He doesn’t look like a Tito, How about another?”

‘Einstein’? ‘Francis’? ‘Patch’?  All are rejected.  ‘Lucky’ fits but you point out it is already taken by Clint Barton’s one-eyed sidekick.  

Chris keeps tossing the Frisbee out and Dodger keeps running back.  

“How about Frodo?”  It is something of a tradition in your family to use Lord of the Rings for names as you and your little sis are huge Tolkien fans.  Your old guy Buck had been short for Brandybuck.

Chris laughs.  “What kind of nerdy name is that?”

“No nerdier than Einstein.”

Dodger bounds out past the pool and roots beneath the scarlet glory of a giant rhododendron.  He doesn’t find the Frisbee but pops up with something else, A baseball.  Roughed up and grass-stained, ropy-looking but with the red B still visible.

You are appalled.  An official Red Sox ball and Chris let’s his mutt slobber on it?!  You are about to take the piss from him but then a thought occurs.  Red Sox names.  What’s not to like?  If anything you are the bigger fan in this fledgling household.

“How about ‘Yaz’ for Carl Yaztremski?”

Chris prys the ball from Dodger’s mouth, walks over and settles down on the stone beside your knee; scratching his patiently standing pal behind the ear. “Not bad, but I like Carlton better.”

Carlton? Seriously?  A guy otherwise called ‘Pudge’?  No thanks. “How about after David Priiiice?”

Chris raises an eyebrow at your admiring tone.  “Oh, so you like him do you?”

“Unh hunh, that is one hot pitcher.”  

Hoowee…he is.  Funny and ferocious, your favorite guy on the team, though he can’t hold a candle to Chris in looks and charm.  You grin and stroke Puppy on the back, smoothing the waves of curly fur, waiting for the response.

Chris pulls a mock angry face.  “No way. Not namin’ him after my competition.”

“No one can compete with you.”  You plant a kiss on Chris’s cheek and as you lean across Puppy doesn’t budge.  He must be tired.  Soon it will be nap time but right now you’re having fun.  The sun is warm.  The day stretches ahead with no responsibility and Chris is home, happy and relaxed.  Turning his head, he captures your lips in his.

Mmmmm.  He tastes of coffee and chocolate from the croissants you bought at Viktor Bene’s.  For a moment you are both lost.  Dodger flops down with a heavy sigh, sets his head on his paws and waits.  He’s seen this before.  The hoomins are at it again.  

You lean farther in, tangle a hand in Chris’s hair but a sudden indignant squeak reminds you your lap is full.  Oops.   “Sorry pup.”  

Where were you?  Oh yes. Names.  Reluctantly you pull apart and try again.  

“Brock?” Brock Holt, the Sox’s young outfielder, is puppyish enough.  

Chris shakes his head.  “Not going there.  All I can think of is Rumlow.  Puppy is too sweet and loyal and besides, Frank would never let me live it down.”

He has a point.   “Mookie?”

“Maybe if he was a cat.”

“If he was a cat then he would absolutely be ‘Sox’.”    

This is true.  You’re ready to give it a rest but Chris is biting his lip, knee jangling, energy pent up. You know that look. Determined and hyper-focused.  He wants to settle this right now.   “We could call him ‘Gronk’.  His feet are big enough.”

Gronk for the Patriot’s Rob Gronkowski.  You laugh out loud, just picturing yelling that at the local dog park. “Only if you want to sound like a goose.”

Chris chuckles.  “Ok, how about ‘Brady’ then?”

This sets you laughing so hard you can hardly speak, coughing and spluttering, trying to get your breath under control. “ ‘Brady?’  Seriously?  You’d name him after your main bromance?”  

Chris sits up straighter.   “What? It’s a great name.  Too much fanboi?”

You shake your head, holding onto an excited pup who’s trying to nip at  your ear.   “Hey, off.”  Puppy settles at once and you smile.  Good boy.  He’s learning fast. 

You cock your head and look across at Chris. He looks little offended but is trying not to let it show.  “Hun, the whole world knows you are in love with Tom.  You spilled your drink on national television.  The rags would troll you so hard.”

Word of your new addition gets around.  That afternoon a text comes in from Scott.  He’s in Vancouver, finishing a shoot of another episode of Daytime Divas.  Chris pauses with Puppy under one arm and his phone in the other hand, showing you the screen.  “He votes for Copper.”  

“I didn’t know there was a diaper emoji,” you remark, gazing at the string of characters. If there is one thing his family knows about Chris, it’s that his clock is ticking louder than Big Ben.

“Well, we know there is a poop one.”    

Uhm, yes. Just like a baby, Puppy eats and poops a lot.

Carley and Shanna and Lisa all call or text, thrilled for Dodger and you both. It feels like you spend the morning on your cell and tucking shoes away that are far too tempting for a teething little guy.  After lunch Chris’s iPhone buzzes once again.  He’s on the floor, has lost a game of tag and is letting both Dodger and Puppy pile on.

You hand over the phone and pull a way-overly-excited, yapping bundle off.  

It’s Mackie from New Orleans.  As usual he is the worst.  “Another dog? Dude you are so going down. That’s a training baby right there, is what that is.  Tell Y/N she better watch out.  Finally found a chick who’ll put up with a pooch who is a bigger star than you and before you know it you will be stuffing little plastic plugs in sockets.”  

Rude.  But Anthony does have a point.  Having a new puppy is a bit like being parents.  He cries in the night. Needs to be toilet trained.  Soothed when the brief instances of separation anxiety hit.

You so need baby-proofing.

The point is brought graphically home the next breakfast time.  The perimeter fencing is set, no matter how big Puppy grows he’s safe from the rather startling cliff, but it is the interior you’d not thought much about.

“Can you get that?”  Chris yells from the shower when the doorbell rings.  

You leave aside your yogurt and granola, open the front door and sign for the script that’s arrived FedEx from New York.  Puppy, over his fear of steps, darts out, tail spinning, to investigate the exciting new visitor.  

For a minute or two you chat with the brown-clad messenger about the haze of wildfires in the air.  You’ve signed for the package and begun to head back inside before you realize that something’s missing.  

Where’s Puppy?  

Oh god.  You can’t see him anywhere.

You whistle the double note that worked before and take a quick turn around the yard, heart in mouth, worried sick that he’s somehow out on the busy street. He’s not in the garage.  Not by the front firepit.  Not struggling caught on the glossy but annoying summer holly. You are just about to call for Chris when you hear his booming laugh.  From the kitchen.  Inside the house.  

“Y/N, come look at this!”

Puppy stands on the granite island, one paw on the table mat and one ear in your breakfast bowl.  He’s slurping down the last of your cereal like it’s his last meal on earth.  

Droplets of milk and yogurt are flying everywhere.  

“Puppy, no!”  

Puppy looks up, his brown liquid eyes pleading forgiveness, and a big blob of yogurt on one corner of his muzzle.

Oh boy.  He knows he is in big trouble.  

You glare at Chris who is still over by the fridge laughing hard.   At the shocked expression on your face.  

Thanks, you think, wondering which of them is the bigger kid.   Chris.  Probably.  Although only by a hair.  

You grab a paper towel and lift Puppy down from the countertop.   Yes he is big.  And smart.  And going to be more trouble than Dodger ever was.    

After lunch you go shopping for a baby gate and outlet covers.

“Congratulations,” chirps the Target salesgirl brightly, as she scans the tag on a white safety gate. “Tara” is the name on her red polo top.  You’re sure she’s served you both before, has seen you in the checkout several times with Chris and once asked for his autograph.  

“Babies are such fun.” she goes on, placing the last pack of clear plugs into the bag. “You’re Chris Evan’s new girlfriend aren’t you?  When are you due?”

Due?   What?!  “I’m not pregnant. I’m not..”  you hasten to explain, beyond shocked that she would think you were expecting. “We just got a puppy,”  

“Oh. That’s great!”  Tara is beaming.  Obviously she’s the type who is positive no matter what you say,   but then, as she hands across the credit card receipt, the impact of what you’d answered sinks in.  

“We.”   Oh god.   You’ve just admitted you are a thing.  No one til now has twigged that you were a couple.  Had any reason to notice you, at least not when you were away from a Marvel event, and honestly unless you are at Chris’s side, why would anyone care?  

But now?  Your stomach sinks.   What was it Jenny said?  ‘One of the most objectified men in the world?’    

The last thing Chris needs is a wild rumor starting up.

You grab the ties of the ridiculously enormous cloth shopping bag in your suddenly sweating palms and practically bolt for the door;  hustle through the parking lot and slide the bag into the Lexus’s back seat.  

Once you drop down into the driver’s seat, your heart starts pounding.  A 350-pound gorilla of anxiety sits on your chest.   Was that too close?  Have you blown your cover?  Should you have tried Amazon same-day so no one puts two and two together?  You’ve only been living together for a little time.  Now that you have a joint ‘responsibility,’ how ever will you keep your status hidden from the paparazzi’s spying eyes?        

The key hovers poised at the ignition for far too long. What had you done? Had you ruined everything on an impulse? With a whimper your forehead falls slowly forward to rest on the steering wheel.  

A rap comes on the glass.

“Miss are you ok?”  

You roll down the window.  A worried looking teen in cap and red and khaki uniform has one hand on a row of carts and the other on your door.  He looks vastly relieved now that you’ve lifted your face from the steering wheel. The yellow light on the cart-pusher in the back of the row blinks at you while you try to pull yourself together.  

“Fine. Fine, thanks,” you add belatedly, doing your best to smile.  You are fine, you are. The boy seems convinced, because after a nod he begins to push the row of red plastic carts toward a small corral.

You shove the key into the column, turn the engine on, check the back up camera and the mirror, noting how pale you look.  And tired. That must be it: you’re tired from getting up in the night and not quite thinking straight.   Gingerly, you pull left onto Mulholland’s winding, palm-lined drive, only half-focused on Beverly Hills’ usual congested traffic, navigating by instinct, vastly relieved when you climb Laurel Canyon up to the familiar white stucco’d wall.  

There is no one lurking by the access gate.  Ok. Maybe you’ve overreacted a little bit   but you pull quickly through just in case, stop behind your more prosaic CRV.  

“Babe, I’m home!” you call, dumping the bag on the coir front mat.  

“Hey, he did a sit!”  Chris bounces excitedly from the dressing room, Puppy following in his wake.  “For just a minu…”  

His words trail off suddenly.  You’re chewing on the end of your ponytail.  Just as you always do when you’re upset 

“What’s wrong?”  HIs blue eyes look just as pleading as Puppy’s did before.    

How could you explain?  It was ridiculous, getting so panicked by a clerk but the truth that is you’re not quite wired for this.   Keeping things secret had been fun at first but now you’re finding it a strain.   Spontaneity is one of the things Chris loves about you.  You can’t stop being impulsive and blurting out the truth just because he’s famous. It’s too hard.  

You recount your awkward conversation at the store.   “I think I blew our cover. I’m sorry,” you mumble at last into Chris’s chest.  He’s brought those big strong arms up to cradle you, strokes his hands gently up and down your back while you blow out a long steadying breath.  A firm press of lips brushes at your temple.  

“Not sorry, Y/N.”   You start to protest but he puts a finger to your lips.  “It was bound to happen sometime soon.  We’ll handle it.  Get Jay to put out a note.”  

Jay Sekulow is his lawyer.  A pro. Knowing that he has a team who work it through makes you feel a little better but still you’re worried.  Chris pulls back, tucks one finger under your chin and tilts your head up to gaze into your eyes.   “It’s ok.  Really. The red carpet for ‘Red Sea’ is just a month away.  You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

A debut? You nod is a little wobbly.  Of course you’d like to be there with him, but coming out at premiere?  It would be a zoo.  He’s sees your hesitation.  

“We’ll keep it under wraps ‘til then.  There’s no guarantee she will say anything.”

There isn’t. Not everyone in Hollywood wants to make a buck from hotline tips.  

You sigh and feel a warm heaviness land upon your feet.  The dogs have found you.  Dodger is pressed anxiously against your calf.  Puppy is licking at your shin.  You can feel their anxiety: their ‘mom’ is sad and they want to help.

You drop a hand down to pet each fuzzy head.   “Yes,” you nod, smiling shyly through a sudden rush of tears.  You’re home.  And loved. By three awesome guys. Everything will work out all right.  ”  

 You hope.