Warren let the engine idle as Tate climbed out of the backseat, watching as he hobbled up the cement driveway to the quaint little homestead that had obviously belonged to the brothers' parents at some point.  The dog tapped a claw on the steering wheel as he waited until Tate disappeared inside before turning to Henry, who was still visibly upset.  Warren leaned in close to him, burrowing his nose in between the neck and shoulder, causing Henry to tilt his head at an awkward angle and pull back, refusing the affection.
     "Come on, hon.  Its more likely than not he's just trying to deal with the accident--he did say he killed someone after all.  I'd cut him some slack if I were you."
     "Don't call me that." Henry said this without turning.
     Warren switched off the ignition, figuring he would be here a while anyway.  "Why not?"
     "Because it sounds stupid coming from you.  You're too...guy-ish."
     The shepherd shrugged it off, pulling the petite male closer to rest his head on him.  "Just give him some time.  Okay?  I may not know the whole story here, but I know how he spoke to you at the hospital, and that didn't sound the least bit angry to me.  Seems more like he's just frustrated he can't understand you properly.  I know less about you than him, so unfortunately that's just a theory, but a well-founded one nevertheless."
     "That's because we've only known each other a few hours," Henry grumbled from the folds of Warren's polyester.
     "True...which is why I suggest we get inside as quickly as possible so I can learn as much about you as I can with the time we have."
     Henry pulled away from the canine's arm.  "Innuendo only gets you so much information, y'know."
     "Wasn't innuendo."  The expression Warren wore was one of blank innocence.  "That can wait for now.  I'd prefer if it did, really, while we talk about you for a while."
     He saw the thoughts processing beneath the otter's twitching ears, and smiled to himself as he heard the passenger door click open.
     "Fine...but I'm hungry, so I'm gonna make a sandwich first."

     Warren was instructed to wait in Henry's room while he fixed his breakfast.  He sat on the edge of the remarkably tiny bed, looking around the cluttered space.  It clashed with the rest of the tidy house he'd seen on his way in, probably kept that way in respect for the deceased parents.  Henry, however, didn't seem to care one bit--a veritable mountain of dirty laundry was piled in the corner, with all manner of candy and snack wrappers tossed about.  The walls were obscured by dozens of posters advertising movies, bands, and video games.  A closed laptop hummed quietly on Henry's desk, which was relatively clean in comparison to the floor of the room. Warren surmised he wouldn't be breaking any code of etiquette by removing his shoes, which he placed neatly by the bedside dresser.
     Henry slipped in and closed the door behind him, his paw and muzzle playing tug-of-war with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  Warren tried to make as much room on his side of the diminutive bed as he could, while Henry settled himself cross-legged on the sheets, taking another bite with a vacant expression.
        “Gonna offer me a bite?”  Warren asked jokingly.
        Henry stopped chewing, turning and shaking his head slowly, cheeks bulging as he clutched his sandwich closer to himself.
        “Alright then, nevermind...guess that’s a good way to start off a list as any.”
        The bulges in Henry’s cheeks merged into a singular lump traveling down his throat.  “List?” He asked, licking a glob of jelly from his whiskers.
        “Of you.  What you like, what defines you.”
        “But that’s what all the posters are for,” Henry replied, obviously still a bit miffed.
        “Okay...”  Warren sensed this would be more difficult than he originally intended it to be.  “Well then, how about you show me something a bit more private?  Maybe something other people don’t appreciate as much as you think they should?”
        The sandwich had been demolished at an alarming rate, leading Warren to believe he should schedule times to feed Henry from that point on.  The satiated otter licked his fingers clean and sighed, his dexterous tail disappearing under the bed momentarily before reappearing, wrapped around the handle of a black leather violin case.  This immediately piqued Warren’s interest, his ears perked.  “A musician, then?  Now that’s something.  Am I going to be audience to a demonstration?”
        Henry laid the case in his lap, wiping his paws on his jeans before unsnapping the buckles and raising the lid.  The instrument was of fine quality; not the most expensive, but well-taken care of.  The polished spruce glistened, the initials HJ burned into the surface in a simple but elegant print.  Warren watched as the violin and bow were taken from their resting places in turn, their owner staring down at the floor.
        “If I play for you, you have to promise to actually listen to the song.”
        Warren shrugged nonchalantly.  “Of course.  I’m excited to hear any—“
        “No.”  Henry looked at him intensely, unblinking.  “I mean really listen.  Not just pay attention, but try to understand it.”
        The canine bit his tongue thoughtfully, mulling over the meaning behind this statement before nodding silently.  It was the best he could do.
        Henry stood, straightening his body and using his rudderlike tail for support as he assumed a stable stance, wedging the violin between his shoulder and jaw.  His eye’s closed as the bow was drawn smoothly across the strings once to test the smoothness, and with but a moment’s pause he began to play.  Warren struggled to determine the proper way of absorbing the music for a brief period, but the less he thought about it and the more he listened, the more obvious Henry’s demand became.
        It started with only two notes, of seemingly neutral tone, repeated in steady succession.  Within time, however, their pattern changed, and the tone climbed momentarily before returning to its foundations.  It was a slow, careful march, its somber framework making itself apparent as the song progressed.  Conditioned to sound as if it had been composed in media res; Warren got the impression that it was meant to fit a very specific scene from a story or play, one of a tragic nature.  The mood was set, indicative of a downward spiral of events reaching their climax, and eventually the story itself—or rather, the theme of the story—began to present itself.  Something important was in danger of being lost, or had been lost and this was its lament.  A thread began weaving itself in Warren’s chest, following a consistent path, unwavering, lest its emotional burden be lost.  He began to understand hopelessness, resignation, faceless and nameless entities clinging together to keep from severing this fragile thread. 
        Warren was growing somewhat uncomfortable, as if he were on the receiving end of a sieve, one that was filtering everything but the dark, uncompromising thoughts and feelings Henry kept locked away.  The mourning sound filled more than just his ears—it probed at his insides, wresting away his inhibition and exposing a part of him even he didn’t quite understand.  His claws dug into the sheets, ears lowered, but tilted forward, chills running up his spine.  He examined Henry’s face closely, watching every muscle twitch, every crease beneath his fur.  This was uncomfortable for him as well, but he played anyway, unfaltering.  It was a test.  Henry was showing who he felt he was through what he was capable of creating, and if Warren couldn’t understand that then there was no hope of ever reaching him through any shallow form of communicating, verbal or otherwise.  This song WAS Henry, essentially.  It lined his inner depths, confining his greatest fears, serving as a monument to what he longed for but could never have.
        The harsh, eerie melody trailed off all too soon as Henry let his arms hang limp at his sides, opening his eyes.  Warren blinked.  “Why did you stop?”  He asked quietly.
        Henry sniffed, looking away.  “That’s as far as I’ve gotten so far.”
        Warren remained silent for a moment before beckoning Henry to sit with him.  He wrapped an arm around the otter and nuzzled at his ears, breathing in the scent of his unwashed hair.  He felt a surge of admiration well in his chest, accompanied with a nagging sense of guilt over not making a greater effort to treat Henry as the individual he was.
        “I think...I have to apologize for this entire morning, Henry,” he said.
        “Why?” Henry mumbled, remaining still in Warren’s arms.
        “Because...I’ve been rushing this since the start, not stopping to listen to you and what you want...I’ve said some things you probably weren’t ready to hear...all in all I’ve failed you miserably, and I need to make it up to you.”
        Henry lowered the instrument back into its case, snapping the lid shut and sliding it back under the bed with a footpaw.  “Make it up how?”
        Warren took a breath.  “I’m making a promise to you now.  Anywhere you go, whatever you choose to do in this life, whatever you become and whoever you meet, whether you love me or hate me—all you have to do is say my name, and I will do anything and everything that I can to do whatever it takes to make you happy at that point in time.  I will keep you from coming to harm, I will provide a shoulder to rest your head on and an ear to listen. I will be anything you want, do whatever you want, without question or complaint, and I will do it better than anyone else you will ever meet.”
        Almost immediately after saying this, he began to regret it.  He cursed himself mentally as the silence between them stretched on and on, the seconds ticking past.  Just before he could take it all back and apologize yet again for his overbearing nature, before he almost stood and walked out the door in shame, his face flushed red, he felt it--a paw between his legs, squeezing lightly, shyly.  His entire body went rigid, the blood rushing to his head and groin suddenly.  Warren knew what he was needed for instantly.  Henry wanted him close, to envelop him, seal his promise.  He closed his eyes, taking that paw in his own and pressing it in closer, warming it under his touch.  Nothing more needed to be said.  Nothing would be said.

        Hauer stood before the bathroom sink, drying his fur with the mutual aide of a towel and a blow-dryer.  His fur had returned to its original maple coloration—the shower had washed away the white chalk that had been worked into his coat.  Chalk and clay, when matted into the fur, was an excellent way to prevent seepage or stains from excess offenses, such as a victim’s blood or urine.  It was efficient both professionally and criminally, as most homicide cases were closed on the deciding factor of a few rogue drops of DNA hidden in the killer’s pelt.  And as an added bonus, it was hygienic—Hauer did not fancy having to look at the splotchy remnants of some trivial, forgettable kill on his beautiful coat every time he looked at himself in the mirror.  He rubbed down his amber bellyfur with a wide-toothed comb, straightening it to follow the natural form of his torso.  Every so often, he would fantasize about what it would be like to meet a fellow marten, a creature as beautiful and fit a specimen as himself.  What would it be like, he wondered, to cradle their head in his paw, and smile down on them as they smiled back, while he tore upwards through their sternum with a pair of meat shears...
        He switched the dryer off and shook himself out of his daydream, restraining his excitement at that familiar mental image.  Someday soon, Hauer promised himself.  But for now, he had business to attend to.
        The coroner was lying right where he’d left him...the difference being that the poor bastard had allowed himself to bleed out while Hauer was grooming.  It didn’t take much to speed the process of exsanguination along when one’s throat had been torn open; a simple tilt of the head at the right angle and the floodgates would open.  Clawing excess moisture out of his ear, the marten sprang lightly over the lifeless corpse and onto the bed, settling himself down with his legs crossed.  He had kept his outfit sealed in plastic as he worked, and unsealed it all now—a slim-fitting navy turtleneck, slim-fitting black chinos.  He took every opportunity that was given to him to accentuate his perfect body, his remarkably trim and healthy figure a tool in itself in attracting potential kills.  He stood above the covers, ears almost brushing the ceiling as he dressed himself.  A perfect fit every time; were an unsightly bulge or irregularity in his muscle mass to appear, Hauer  would punish himself for weeks on end with rigorous PTing until he was whipped back into shape.  There was no excuse for self-negligence.
        Once he was comfortably dressed and looking smart, Hauer stepped lightly off the bed and to the door, scooping up the abandoned wallet along the way.  He had brought nothing with him into the room except the rat and the blade, both of which had served their uses.  Checking over himself one last time to ensure his clean appearance, he plucked a tissue from the box by the doorway and wiped the knob down once as a precaution for any rogue blood droplets, before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.  He swiped the keycard to lock it before kneeling and sliding the card back into the room under the crack of the door.  Humming to himself, he strolled down the short hallway and practically hop-skipped down the stairs, his mood bright and happy. 
        It was a cloudy morning outside; the storm had moved on, but overcast clouds remained behind.  The female desk clerk greeted Hauer with a smile as he approached, beaming from ear to ear, his tail perked behind him.
        “Yes, ah, my associate is feeling a bit under the weather, so I left the key with him while I go out to run a few errands—would it be possible for you to send someone up to check on him in an hour or so if I’m not back then?  It’s not a serious condition, though that doesn’t stop me from worrying about him.”
        “Absolutely, sir, I’d be happy to.  Will that be all?”
        Hauer grinned even wider and nodded.  “Yes, ma’am, that would be all.  Thank you for your concern.”
        He resumed humming to himself, reciting lyrics under his breath as he crossed the lobby to the exit, stepping out into the waiting morning.