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Dancing Fool

Dingo had made a host of enemies in his travels as a bounty hunter. They all paled in comparison to the heinousness, the ruthlessness, the utter unspeakableness that was Robotnik’s formal dress code.

Word Count: 4,598

Characters: Sleet and Dingo

Pairing: Sleet x Dingo

A/N: rated PG - only slight pandering to the furry gaze this time around via the olde colliding-into-a-compromising-position trope.

Ayyy, it's shorter! I had to cut some things. I like to imagine the melody Sleet hums is that part of "Grande valse villageoise", you know the one.

Dingo had made a host of enemies in his travels as a bounty hunter. It was impossible to pursue such an adrenaline-pumping line of work without coming to blows with fellow mercenaries or opportunistic outsiders. With varying results, Sleet and Dingo contended with high-profile gangs, rogue wizards, tech cultists, ninja clans, pirates of both sea and sky, and the losers at the Jackalope Lodge with their unjust hat obtaining rules.

Well, that last part was more of Dingo’s pet project. He just really, really wanted one of those antlered hats.

All of the aforementioned adversaries paled in comparison to the heinousness, the ruthlessness, the utter unspeakableness that was Robotnik’s formal dress code. He hated Robotnik’s formal dress code.

For a time, Robotnik’s galas weren’t all that bad. The finger foods for example were perfect for flicking at distracted guests. He once managed to land two deviled eggs into Lady Remington’s big pink powdered wig. Dingo thought it was a marked improvement.

But now it seemed like every week there was a gala. He’d blink and suddenly he’d be surrounded by indecipherable conversations and dresses that were entirely too long and ice sculptures he wasn’t allowed to punch even though they looked so satisfying to. It had gotten old fast.

He tried to say as much to Robotnik once. Sleet smacked a hand over his mouth and became visibly embarrassed whenever he managed to get a word in edgewise. His ideas about livening up these mandated soirées would sadly remain ideas, and the formal dress code would continue to be his sworn enemy.

Dingo never did like shirts, let alone tuxedos. The mutant couldn’t quite explain why. It was a visceral, instinctual thing. He could tolerate a tank or a crop top. Shirts though, they were downright unnatural. Even so, if there was anyone he would wear a stiff, starchy monkey suit for, it was Sleet. What was the word again, compromise? Friends compromise. And Sleet, for all his fussing and snippiness, was the best friend he’d ever had.

Presently, Dingo felt a little compromised himself. His dress pants were riding up. “Do I hafta wear this?” he asked, taking advantage of the privacy screen to pull out a wedgie. Had he done so out in the open he surely would’ve received quite the earful. “I just worry, maybe it’s a bit much?”

As Sleet had with the last Royal Hedgehog Palace party, he turned Queen Aleena’s bridal chamber into a make-do dressing room. The resourceful wolf sat some feet away at a crafting table overspread by fabrics, spools of thread, and other sewing material Dingo couldn’t identify. Despite the excess, his workspace still managed to look fairly orderly; Sleet had an enviable way about upkeep and organization. He was in the middle of finishing up some quick fixes on his own suit.

Dingo was surprised Sleet actually heard him. Typically whenever his long-snouted friend sewed he’d get all trancelike. Dingo could relate. He got absorbed in scrapbooking just the same.

It took some effort for Sleet to place his tools down and pry himself from his work, yellow eyes peering over rectangular reading eyeglasses and affixing Dingo with a scrutinous, steady gaze. Dingo gulped and licked his lips. He might get that earful after all.

Sleet’s tone was calm and measured. For now. “Elaborate.”

“Well, uh, I just think, if we were attacked, we might not fight so good. You know, with all this decoration.” It was not the most well-founded of concerns, Dingo understood as much. Being Robotnik’s foot soldiers, and in all but name errand boys, meant they were protected. Robotnik had no love for party crashers. Any rival bounty hunter foolish enough to try and settle some bygone score would have to get through a wall of SWATbots first. Simply put, if your name wasn’t Sonic, Manic, or Sonia, you’d have an extremely rough go of it. “Isn’t this supposed to be for the nobles anyway? Why do we have to dress up too?” He hurriedly added. “N-not that I don’t appreciate your work!”

“Dingo, what are our rules?”

There was a beat of silence as he considered this, eager to impress Sleet by getting the answer right. “That . . .” Dingo began carefully. “That you’re the brains of the outfit?” The phrase never made much sense to him. How could an outfit have a brain? Let alone multiple?

“Precisely.” The mutant internally pumped a fist in celebration—after tearing through so many suits in the past, he’d learned not to lift his arm with too much gusto. “You don’t think,” Sleet tapped at his temple, “I think. I’m the thinker. So, please, no more thinking. You’ll give yourself a hernia.”

Dingo brightened. That was thoughtful of Sleet. Dingo didn’t want any hernias. Well, actually, he didn’t know what those were, but they sounded like they hurt. “Alright. You know best.”

Sleet tittered at this and, delighting in the compliment, lifted his head and held it proudly. “Yes, too true, old friend.” He frowned suddenly. “Stop wagging your tail. It’s improper. Gentlemen don’t wag their tails.”

“Oops. Right.” Dingo hadn’t noticed. “Sorry, the thing’s got a mind of its own! Gahah-ha!” He laughed hard, and Sleet’s sour expression reminded him that gentlemen also don’t laugh like that. “Sorry. Er, I mean, my apologies. Howsat sound?”

“You’ll get there,” said Sleet.

Dingo hoped not. The farther from gentleman the better. Gentlemen never got to do anything fun. All the same, he readily accepted the praise, the fleshy, dark brown commissures of his jowls quirking into a smile.

Sleet removed his eyewear, rose from his seat and approached the center of the room. “Let’s see it. Come.” He beckoned with a finger and, after some futzing with a particularly itchy lapel, Dingo emerged from behind the screen. The wolf’s critique was immediate. “I can’t believe this. Your sleeves are wrinkled. How’d you wrinkle them so fast?” Sleet grabbed Dingo’s arm and inspected it further. “I just pressed them!”

The inspectee shrugged one huge shoulder and offered. “Maybe you didn’t press hard enough?”

“Dingo.” There was a hint of annoyance in his voice.

“Right. No more thinking.” No more thinking. The request usually came easy.

Anxiety wasn’t something he was accustomed to. He couldn’t quite put a finger on why he was anxious. He just was, and everytime he perceived its presence, no matter how dully, Dingo felt as if his chest was moments away from caving in on itself. The fur on his forehead steadily matting with sweat, he had never before been so thankful for the existence of handkerchiefs. Whoever invented suits was onto something there.

While Sleet smartened up a cufflink, Dingo used his free hand to produce his handkerchief. He dabbed the perspiration from his brow. “Phew. It’s stuffy in here.”

“I told you so.” That was one of Sleet’s favorite things to say. “I told you, you should have trimmed.”

Dingo snorted. He wasn’t that scruffy. “I think it gives me a proud and dig-niffyied look. Like a lion!” To demonstrate, he bared his sizable chompers and clawed at the air. “Grraugh! See?” Once more, with feeling. “Grrrahh! Smart, right? Rich people love lions. They put ‘em on all their fancy royal flags.”

“Which reminds me,” Sleet said dully, “no party tricks. Your Tyrannosaurus rex impression at our last event scared Lord Beauregard half to death.”

He growled. A real growl, one markedly more intense than the offerings in his brief presentation. “Beauregard. That rotten, old codger. What kind of name is Beauregard anyway? I shoulda roared louder. Might’ve helped ‘im along, if y’know what I mean.” The wink that followed was massive. He could never get winking right.

Although Sleet shook his head, unmistakable humor played about his lips, and he had to stop fixing the sleeve to fight back a snort.

Dangit, Dingo thought. Almost had him.

“You can’t say things like that out there either. Jokes referencing death are a definite faux pas.” So many rules. How did Sleet keep up?

“I’ll be good. I’ll be the best dance partner ever.” After the latter sentence left his mouth, his stomach suddenly clenched. Dance. The word echoed in his head.

Was the suit causing all this? Was it made out of some type of bewitched fabric? Was the air filled with witchy fabric particles that were making him think? No, he’d felt this way before donning the claustrophobic raiment and before setting foot in the dressing room.

“Dingo?”

He snapped to attention. “Huh, what?”

“I said, go on.” From the way he enunciated, and the look on his face, he must have had to repeat himself. “Walk around.”

“Mhm,” Dingo drew in his bottom lip and lightly sucked on it, “I dunno, Sleet. It’s a bit tight.”

“Pain before beauty.”

The mutant stopped himself from groaning. Sleet always said that. No matter how often he did, the statement never became any less nonsensical. “It makes my bum look big,” Dingo tried again, more forcibly.

“Complements your fat head. Are you stalling?”

“No. Maybe? No? Not on purpose. Are we talking about the same stalling?”

“What other type of stalling is there?!”

Dingo raised his palms in a mollifying gesture and relented. “Okay, okay, I’m going, I’m going! It was just a question, s’no need t’shout.” He shook his arms out and bounced on his heels to limber up, blew a slow breath, then proceeded to take the pair of trousers for a test drive. Instructions unclear, he resisted the gnawing pang that told him to look over his shoulder at his audience of one, so as not to appear completely incapable. The initial steps were herky-jerky as expected, and he narrowly tripped after misplacing a foot, but after the walk back he felt his confidence grow.

Confident enough to do another lap freestyling, mimicking models on the covers of the fashion e-magazines Sleet liked. Confident enough to wave and blow kisses to imaginary paparazzi. The one, real member of his audience looked neither annoyed nor amused. He bore merely indifferent acknowledgement, an expression that read: here we go again.

Tough crowd, thought Dingo. Sensing his performance would soon overstay its welcome, he turned away from Sleet, stopping to catch a make-believe rose, and bowed deeply. Too deeply. The taut fabric could no longer endure his hijinks. There was a loud “rrhhip!” that seemed to echo around the room like a bolt from a blaster. When it faded, Dingo noticed a light breeze on his hindquarters. He glimpsed over his shoulder. Sleet’s facepalm confirmed it: he ripped his pants.

He looked down and surveyed the damage, tail held aloft. “Blow me down. Would y’look at that? Guess I should ease up on the squats, yeah?” Few things embarrassed Dingo. Sleet however squirmed at almost everything. It entertained the mutant to no end. Sometimes, he’d goof around just to see the look on his face. To Dingo’s dismay, Sleet hadn’t budged much at the clothing malfunction. “Awh, come now, Sleet, surely my jacksie deserves more fanfare. It’s a good one, I think,” teased Dingo, now facing him. He traced the outline of his hips and gave a small sashay.

The pelvic wiggle did the trick. “What?!” His affronted squawk was music to Dingo’s ears. “I’ve given your jacksie—” Sleet put on an affected Trailian accent for the word—“enough of my attention. Lest we forget the arrow incident.”

A tiny “ope!” escaped Dingo’s muzzle. The arrow incident did count as embarrassing. He rubbed his arm and looked away, hip-swinging bravado quickly replaced with sudden shyness. “Heh, yeah, I guess you got me there,” he admitted with a soft laugh.

“A sore spot for you? Hm?”

If it were anyone else making light of his harrowing experience, he would have punched their head so hard it span around, smashed them into a fine paste right then and there. But when Sleet did it . . .

Dingo kicked impotently at the floor and tried to say it wasn’t sore anymore and that was years ago and that he wouldn’t have been shot by their quarry’s hidden ally if Sleet hadn't been so frustrating and—

His tormentor smirked, one fang peeking out from his lips. “Still sounds sore to me.”

That fang. That twinkling, delightfully fiendish fang. Dingo’s heart fluttered at the sight, and he had to will his tail not to wag. Cheeky thing, gives as good as he gets. Sleet’s boldness, his bite, it was enchanting from the very first day. No one had ever spoken to him so . . . forwardly before. Not without their legs turning to pudding or their bladder vacating halfway through the confrontation, that is.

They returned to their respective corners, Sleet muttering something about liking another color better anyway, Dingo’s eyes trailing after Sleet’s wake. Looking back while moving forward, the mutant dog wound up bumping into the folding screen. He promptly excused himself, then remembered it was an inanimate object and manners weren’t necessary. Once behind the screen, he ended his rubbernecking with a yearning sigh.

Robotnik’s shindigs were more up Sleet’s alley. If they were good for anything, it was seeing him smile. Sleet was a gossip hound. Gossip hawk, he liked to correct, arguing his more coordinated and strategic methods afforded a stronger, sharper title.

“Get this, Lord Ambrosius is about to croak. The old fool’s giving his entire estate to some nobody friend, and the in-laws are incensed!” He had once excitedly told him, hands rubbing together, his smile gleeful and toothy. “This is going to be a bloodbath, I just know it!” Sleet’s eyes had burned with an ineffable intensity. He had such pretty eyes, and they got even prettier when he was on the trail of a potential scheme. And his laugh, it made the whole world light up.

Dingo didn’t know who Lord Ambrosius was, let alone who his in-laws were. He didn’t understand much of anything Sleet said when he was hobnobbing and muckraking. Nevertheless, Dingo played along to the best of his abilities, keen to support Sleet’s interests.

A part of him wished Sleet would take the time to do the same for his interests.

Dingo quickly quashed the notion, as he always did whenever it wriggled into his skull. With Robotnik breathing down their necks, there wasn’t much free time allotted for either of them. He shook his head to further dislodge those negative thoughts. In doing so he caught a glimpse of the room’s wall clock. His mouth, usually so profuse with saliva, went dry. Maybe it’s faster than it should be.

He didn’t have much experience with dancing. Until now, no one’s ever asked him to, and he had no reason to consider the idea. A brisk victory jig, maybe. Dancing though? Like, formal dancing? Not a chance. He was familiar with proms and homecomings byway of watching teen flicks, and those sometimes ended with messy drama and pranks from bitter rivals.

What if tonight’s dance ended up like that? Being laughed at by a bunch of self-important nobles wasn’t ideal, but he’d get over it. For Sleet though, the shame would be too great.

It’d destroy him.

At the revelation, Dingo’s anxiety struck anew. Barring his family back home, he’d never cared so deeply about someone before, never had anyone to lose before.

So when it was time for another inspection and test drive he said. “I don’t wanna dance, Sleet. I’m no good at it.”

“Oh, Dingo, you’re no good at many things. Why should this be any different?”

“I’m bein’ serious, Sleet.”

Sleet searched his face, head cocked birdishly. Apparently finding what he was looking for, his dubious expression softened. “Oh. I see.” His ears and voice lowered, and Dingo’s accelerated sense of smell detected, however faintly, a pheromonal note of regret. “I’m sorry.”

Dingo blinked. He was no mathematician, but it seemed to him he could count on one hand the times Sleet had verbally apologized to him. The phrase sounded odd. Not displeasingly so, just . . . different. I’m sorries weren’t bestowed to anyone, the wolf favoring prim and proper forgive mes and my apologies.

“There is something on your mind. Please, go ahead.” He extended an imploring hand. “You have my full attention.” Sleet was sorely lacking in the area of heart-to-heart conversation. He seemed so unsure, sounded stiff, like he was pulling from a script he’d only just begun to rehearse. Maybe he was. It didn’t upset Dingo any. Script, no script, Sleet was reaching out.

And Dingo obliged. More effusively than intended.

The following deluge was just barely discernible. Dingo knew as much. There wasn’t anything he could do about it, words coming out a mile a minute. His voice spiked and cracked and wavered. Many times he had to choke back a sob or circle back after a tangent.

“—and I don’t want you to end up like Cindy from Passing Notes 2!” The closer reverberated off the walls. At last he allowed himself to breathe, taking in big gasps of air. Sleet was blurred behind unshed tears. Dingo scrubbed his eyes with his arm to see him properly.

The wolf looked more than a little taken aback and stood in silence for a good while. Intermittently, he made attempts to respond. His mouth would part, close, open again, then close again. He would raise his finger, drop it, raise it again, then hook it and place it to his lips—a thinking gesture, one he assumed when parsing through information.

Dingo frowned reflectively. He had dumped a lot of information on him. Some essential, some ancillary. Mostly loud, he realized late.

Just as he was about to apologize for his ungentlemanly volume, Sleet came to, albeit slowly. “So you’re saying I’d be better off dancing with someone else . . . because of a motion picture?”

“Movies,” Dingo corrected. “And shows. And a mini-movie TV special. You know what, that’s not so important. I don’t want to make a mess of things.” He slumped. “I know I’m a bit of a mess myself.”

“Dingo, if I wanted someone else, I would have chosen already. You’re a mess, yes, but,” Sleet cupped Dingo’s face and coaxed him out of his hunched posture, then said so silkily Dingo felt the tips of his ears tingle, “I can appreciate a challenge.”

Dingo leaned into Sleet’s palm and shut his eyes, a happy rumble reverberating in his throat. It was a treat when Sleet initiated contact. This type of tender, touchy-feely contact, anyway. He had no qualms about yanking Dingo’s ears, whacking him upside the head, or kicking him square in the backside when he blundered.

“You really are nervous about this,” Sleet said when he pulled away, frowning. “You sweat through my glove.”

“Oh no! I’m sorry, Sleet!” Dingo buried his face in his hands and despaired. “I ruined your glove, it’s already happening! I know you said not to think, but I have. And there’s so many thoughts! It’s ‘orrible!”

“Tell me one.” Sleet sounded farther away.

“Well, I-I could . . . I could accidentally knock you into a fondue fountain.”

“I like fondue.”

“My pants could rip again!”

Light footfalls. His voice was close again. “I’d fix them. Another.”

“I could crush you!”

“Must be a day ending in ‘y’.”

Dingo uncovered his face. “Uhh, I could accidentally knock you into a fondue fountain?”

“You already said that.”

“But I didn’t specify the type of fondue.”

With importance, Sleet raised his hand and held it out as if taking an oath. The glove was no longer sweat-stained. It looked brand new. “I’m the thinker, Dingo,” he reiterated. “I plan ahead.”

“Wow, Sleet,” Dingo awed, “how’d you do that? Magic? I didn’t know you could do magic. Hey, how come you don’t use your magic when fighting the hedgehogs?” He added in a mutter out the side of his mouth. “Coulda come in handy . . .”

“It’s not magic. It’s forethought. I simply replaced the glove,” he said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at his workspace. “I’ve accounted for every possible social gaffe.”

“Ohhhh. Yeah, that makes more sense. Wait, I thought accounting was about money?”

Sleet ignored this, continuing. “And, should anyone dare laugh at us, we can just frame them for conspiracy and have them roboticized.”

“Hah! Good idea, Sleet!”

“My ideas always are.” Sleet took Dingo’s hands into his own. “I bet all you need is more practice. That’ll stop your jitters.” Not for the first time, Dingo silently marveled at just how small and thin Sleet’s hands were without his gauntlets. Dingo’s hands were big and calloused, thickened from uppercuts and haymakers, from punching through concrete walls and tearing weapons transports straight down the middle.

He was so fascinated by Sleet’s svelte digits that the wolf’s “Follow my lead.” was just barely perceptible. His brain might have missed it, but his body heeded, venturing the first steps of a waltz. It was not as straightforward as the aristocrats made it appear—right out the gate he stepped on Sleet’s foot—but with every subsequent figure, and every affirmation from Sleet whose footwork was considerably more deft, his clenched stomach eased. They weren’t gliding across the floor per se, but they certainly weren’t bumbling either.

Draping his arms around his dance partner’s bullish neck, Sleet began to hum a melody. He had a habit of humming while he worked. Dingo didn’t get to hear it often, not since he pointed it out. Every now and then however Sleet would slip up. In this instance, his hums sounded more purposeful, but no less pleasing, Dingo hanging onto every mesmerizing note. Although the tune was familiar, he could not recall its name; a classical music enthusiast he was decidedly not. The best he could describe it as was swoopy, because of its gentle, dreamy rocking.

Just like with the pants, each leisurely spin stoked his faith in himself and encouraged him to try something new. Calling back what he had seen in previous balls when he wasn’t busy catapulting deviled eggs into wigs, he swept Sleet into a twirl. Not missing a beat, the wolf theatrically outstretched his arm as if reaching for an imaginary audience of his own—he held the pose for a not insignificant instant, perhaps for an equally imaginary spotlight—and upon the twirl back he closed their distance, rewrapping his arms around Dingo’s neck and pressing himself lightly into him. They danced cheek-to-cheek, allowing Dingo to drink in his faintly perfumed fur. Sleet’s humming drifted off into a contented, purring sigh that vibrated through Dingo’s entire being.

Then, Sleet noticed Dingo sorting through his memory for another move. “What is it? You’ve got that ‘I have a cabbage-brained idea look’ in your eyes.”

“I do. Er, I dunno if it’s cabbage-brained, but I do have an idea. I think it’s called an angel lift? I saw it on TV once.”

Sleet squinted.

“It’ll be cool, I promise!”

He acquiesced, and in one grand, effortless swoop, Dingo grabbed Sleet by his pelvis and held him above his head. Initially, the wolf was startled, eyes wide and hackles prickling at his newfound altitude. But soon Sleet’s distress gave way to a hard-won, whooping laugh, Dingo feeling his dance partner’s muscles untense and, without any guidance, flow into the intended, soaring position.

The one thing Sleet apparently hadn’t accounted for was the spool of thread that had rolled onto the floor.

It made itself known by catching Dingo’s heel when he’d taken a step back, aiming to spin. “Whoa!” He immediately slipped and pitched backwards. Before they hit the floor, he managed to pull Sleet into a protective embrace, hoping his muscular frame would act as a cushion.

THUD!

His head connected hard with the tiling. Luckily, Dingo’s skull was thick, and he had a lifetime of experience handling falls. He hissed a small “oww” before checking in on Sleet, releasing his grip from his skinny form. “You okay?”

Eyes squeezed shut—Dingo presumed he had been steeling himself for a harsher impact—the wolf lay prone against him. This was entirely unusual. Typically whenever they fell Dingo was the one who ended up on top of him, and in such heaps their muzzles rarely ever faced each other. “Yes, I’m—” The novelty of the moment shook him a bit when he opened his eyes. “Oh!” Perhaps a bit was an understatement.

In their descent, Sleet’s hands had landed squarely on Dingo’s fulsome chest, one on each ab. That wasn’t so unusual. Dingo didn’t know why he reacted so strongly. Sleet touched his chest all the time, pulling the skin there as if it was an inbuilt leash. When he had an aside to share, he’d pull him in. When they were late to a meeting, he’d pull him along.

“Good sirs, Lord Ro—” They both looked over to the opening door. “Oh dear, have I interrupted something?” A robot, small, stately, distinctly not hailing from the SWATbot lineage. Hovering shiny and chrome, it didn’t have pockmarks or the spindash dents of a fighter, speaking in plummy chirps instead of impassive drones. This model probably had a specific name or designation. Dingo wasn’t sure and didn’t care. Right now, it was just an expensive-looking pest.

Sleet evidently agreed, launching upright and stomping towards him, fists balled tight. “Ever heard of knocking? I should have you melted into slag for such carelessness!”

The pest cowed. “I—er—I—” Dingo hadn’t thought it possible for a robot to be ashamed and embarrassed, at least not one of Robotnik’s, but the bot was proving him wrong in record time. Tapping its forefront digits together, it said. “His Lordship. H-he sent me to inform you that the guests have begun to arrive. ”

Sleet’s hackles relaxed. “Tell His Lordship we’ll be right down.” He took an authoritative step forward. “I’m feeling magnanimous today, so I shall forgive your gross imprudence. See that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Yeah!” Dingo chimed in. “You pop your funny little frisbee head in here again without knockin’ I’ll . . . er . . . well, it won’t be pretty! Piss off before we ain’t so magnanimoose no more!”

It hurriedly dipped its funny little frisbee head and babbled penitential nothings before peeling for the exit.

“Nosy bots. Hmph.” Sleet slackened his power pose and dusted himself off. “Guess we better get going.” He extended a hand towards Dingo, offering to help him up. “Think you can go another round?”

Dingo’s gaze dropped to the floor. Considering, he sucked on his bottom lip again.

“Hey, Dingo.” The mutant looked up. “Doesn’t Cindy win in the end, and Tabitha gets her just desserts?”

He accepted Sleet’s assistance and, stunned, was slow to respond. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess she wins.” Did he hear him right? Musta conked my head real bad. “Y-you’ve seen Passing Notes 2? But I thought—you said you don’t—”

“It was for educational purposes,” Sleet explained. “Your behavior can be quite puzzling. I figured if I studied one of your favorite pieces of media I could better understand you.”

This time, Dingo let the tears run. Rather, he burst into tears, big, blubbering buckets of them.

“Why are you crying? Did you twist something?”

“I’m happy!” The word came out more like HEH-HHHAPEEE because of his sloppy, hitching breaths. “They’re tears of joy!”

“Oh,” Sleet said, sounding somewhat discountenanced. “Well, that’s good. I’m glad you’re happy.” He grimaced when Dingo loudly blew his nose into his handkerchief. “Do see that you replace that. Will you dance?”

“Bloody oath I will!” Not gentlemanly. “I mean, uh, yes. Yes, I’d love to.”

Sleet put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll get there. Clean yourself up.” Then, a pause, and a sigh. “And stop wagging your tail.”

#get reblogged lol 2x #sonic fanfiction #sonic underground #sleet and dingo #sleet sonic underground #dingo sonic underground #slingoposting

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