(M to Saint Bernard)
Nick looked to his film collection with a quiet smile, and a surprisingly poignant clench in his chest. He couldn’t help feeling the ache of sympathy for Black Widow, with the rough end that had been given to her in the latest Avengers movie.
“I know it’s silly, and so is talking to myself,” he said, running his hands through his brown hair with a sigh. Then he looked to a pristine and enviable stack of comics, and he rested his hand on it. “But I wish there was some way that I could have helped her, or could cheer her up.”
The man moved his hand slightly, looking to his limited-run copy from Avengers Unleashed. When he’d bought it, the shop’s owner said it was ‘magical,’ and he wasn’t wrong. It was great to see Black Widow again, and just reading it had made his day. “I’d probably give anything to give her that happiness from the comics.”
The sound of flipping pages filled the air, and Nick nearly jumped out of his skin. It was the same sound that he’d come to associate with the opening crawl of Marvel’s movies, and he looked to his television in confusion. Sure, he’d been on a movie marathon lately, but his screen shouldn’t have spontaneously flicked on.
Only… As he looked to the screen, it was totally blank. His brow furrowed, and he tilted his head to the left. “Okay… Not a good sign that I’m hearing things, either. Talking to myself, too… Oh no, it’s finally happened. I’m finally getting older.”
Nick meant it as a joke, but no sooner did the words leave his lips than a massive surge of vertigo overtook him. The man wobbled in place, squeezing his eyes shut as his world swirled and spun. It was like a massive bender and a week of all-nighters rolled into one. He tried to remember where his couch was relative to his body, and fell in its general direction, palms held out to break his fall.
They met a familiar softness that decidedly shouldn’t have been there. If Nick wasn’t sure he’d been alone in his apartment, he’d have assumed that he’d landed hand-first on a woman’s breasts.
“Whoa! Down, boy,” a dulcet female voice cooed, a hesitant wariness to her voice.
Nick’s eyes snapped open, and the world resolved itself. Several things went through his mind, too many to process at the same time, so he sorted them one by one. First, he wasn’t in his apartment. This room smelled clean—not to say that his room wasn’t, but rather that this place was sterile like a laboratory. Second, there was an unfamiliar weight along his neck, like he was wearing a leather choker. Third…
Third was that he was face-to-face with Black Widow. It wasn’t an actress, of that he was immediately sure. The hands that she cupped around his waistline sported a pair of gauntlets that glimmered with iridescent energy. It was an effect that would have looked at home in a movie, but one that was too complicated for real life.
Nick backed off, a little too quickly. He lost his balance, and fell onto his side with a huff. In the fall, he must have wrenched something, because he couldn’t immediately right himself. Instead the best he managed was a stumbling shamble onto all fours.
“I’m sorry please don’t kill me! Not that you would or anything… Or maybe you would? I don’t know what canon this is, so I feel like I’m hedging my bets and maybe I’m rambling? I feel like I’m rambling,” Nick babbled, looking up to her with wide eyes.
“Yeah, I know, I missed you too…” Widow said, a little stiffly. She rubbed at her arms, sighing and rolling her eyes.
Of all the responses Nick had expected, that certainly wasn’t it. His eyes went round as saucers, and he struggled to understand what was happening. First and foremost, comics were real. Or he’d somehow gotten into a comic. Next, THE Black Widow apparently knew him. Lastly, she also couldn’t understand him for some reason.
He decided to test the last one of those, warily eyeing her. “Um… I’m an interdimensional—intradimensional? One of the two—traveler in need of amnesty?”
Widow looked to him in vague bewilderment, before she ran a hand through her hair. “And why are you wearing clothes?”
Nick’s brow furrowed. Again, not quite the answer he’d expected. “Um… Because I guess inter…tra… timey-spacey-stuff doesn’t follow Terminator rules?”
“Yeah, right,” the redhead chuckled resignedly. “Seriously, what’s going on here? Did Clint put you up to this?”
“Hawkeye? Wait, he’s real? I mean, of course he is. I mean. Not that I know Clint Barton is Hawkeye. I mean. You know. Is this a timeline with secret identities? Am I rambling again?” Quite understandably, Nick was at a loss for words.
“I should have figured,” Widow sighed, casting her gaze away from Nick for a moment. She returned her gaze to him a second later, with a small half-chuckle. “Though I guess mentioning him put you in a good mood. Right, Hawkeye?”
Nick’s confusion only compounded. He’d thought that they were having a good back-and-forth, but now she was back to not understanding him? And… Beyond that, it sounded almost like she’d called him ‘Hawkeye.’”
“Listen, I’ll fix this in a second, okay? So… Um. You know. Sit calm. Or tight. Sit.” Widow seemed to be rather awkward around him, which at least made him feel somewhat better. “I need to disarm before playing.”
“Huh?” Nick tilted his head to the left, confused.
“I know. I don’t get it either.” She shrugged. “I mean, I can use a toenail clipper to take out a KGB agent, so I think I can safely be around you with my stingers on. But Clint would freak out if he found out I had my combat gear on around you.”
With that, she left the room, and left Nick alone with swirling thoughts. Of them all, one stood out: she understood him when he tilted his head. Even if he couldn’t communicate with her through words, maybe he could through body language!
Except… Nick was a little awful at Charades. There was something about how his imagination made it harder for him to empathize with what people would interpret.
“So much for that idea… Unless…” He looked around the room, and saw she had a tablet on her coffee table. “Why bother with body language when the written language works so much better?” He chuckled to himself quietly.
Standing was still an ordeal, so he shuffled his way on all fours over to the tablet—only to discover that his arms didn’t work the way he wanted them to, right down to his hands. He couldn’t lift them over his head like he wanted, and even then his hands were clumsily stiff.
The man managed to get to the tablet by propping both his hands on the table, leaning over it and looking down to find it was locked… And that there was a relatively massive glob of liquid on it. He wondered where it could have come from, before another gobbet of drool spilled from his mouth.
“Oh, oh no,” Nick mumbled, trying to clean the tablet’s screen. Unfortunately, with his hands as stiff as they were, he only succeeded in smearing his saliva across the screen.
It was like he was in some sort of dream, one where things didn’t make sense, and didn’t work the way they should. Briefly, he had a non-characteristic moment of existential dread, wondering if he’d had some sort of stroke—or worse, if there was a glitch in The Matrix.
“Hey!” Widow called, snapping at him. Her tone was irritated, almost like a mother would scold a child.
For some reason, Nick felt terribly guilty. He backed off the tablet, looking up to her with wide eyes, hoping she’d know he was very, terribly sorry. In doing so, he found that she was wearing a tight pair of jeans that contrasted her loose shirt, which was emblazoned with her logo.
“You. Bad,” she began, only to pause and furrow her brow. “Wait. I mean… No negative reinforcement. Divert their attention. Focus on why they’d act out.” She spoke as if she was reciting a textbook from memory.
“Uh…” Nick wasn’t sure how to react. After all, she couldn’t even understand him if he did, right?
“Okay, so. I know you were messing with my things because I left you in person clothes. But. Here’s the thing. No weapons, right?” She explained things slowly, like some sort of stiff-boned babysitter. “So, I had to go to the other room. But now I’m back, so you do not need to play with my tablet? Understand? No. Tablet.”
“Okay, I get that you don’t understand me, but that’s kind of demeaning and you’re walking towards me oh boy,” Nick resumed babbling.
Widow dropped onto her sofa, ignoring the man’s feeble protests as she cupped her arms under his armpits, pulling him towards her lap. “Oof, you’re heavy,” she remarked, at the same time Nick marveled at how strong she was.
“Hurtful,” he replied. Then he yelped as she slipped a hand around his waistband, trying to tug his pants down.
“Hey! Stop squirming, okay? Jeez, Hawkwye, did Clint even buckle your belt? He’s much too thorough.” She mumbled, overpowering Nick with ease and succeeding in exposing his rump.
At that moment, the strangest sensation of Nick’s life thus far coursed through his body. He could feel something strange happening to the base of his spine. It was a numb tug, like his hindquarters had been dosed with Novocain, and that somehow someone was tugging on his tailbone.
Confused, he looked back and discovered how appropriate the location’s name was. Bone was stretching from his backside, giving him what was definitely a tail. He knew it was for two reasons: first, it was covered in thick, white fur. And second, it was wagging like crazy the more it grew.
As Nick focused on it, he realized he could actually feel the shaggy fur come in. It was like a massive, poofy duster attached to his rear, and every one of its thousands upon thousands of hairs tickled him as they grew in.
“Yes. That is your tail. Which you are wagging,” Widow said stiffly. It looked for all the world like she was trying not to smile.
“But… I… How does… How…” Nick stammered. Some part of him knew that she couldn’t understand him, but a larger part of him felt that vocalizing his thoughts was helping.
He kept his wide eyes fixated on his tail, watching as brown hair started to join the white. It looked like his tail—and it was his tail, there could be no doubt of that—was going to be brown at the base, and white at the tip.
“Tail!” He managed. “I have a tail!” Then he squeaked as Widow tugged the rest of his pants down. In an instant, thick and poofy fur burst across his thighs and calves, and he yelped as his legs spasmed. Their muscles realigned, and he felt them shortening in the legs of his jeans.
“Oh, right. Shoes. Damn it, Clint,” Widow muttered.
Nick yelped as she manhandled him onto his side, her dexterous fingers unlacing his shoes with a speed that he didn’t know was possible. His feet bulged as she tugged at his shoes, and the man groaned he felt them swell.
“S-so tight!” Nick managed, only to just then realize that his cheek was pressed firmly against Widow’s chest.
Then, she worked his shoes finally free of his feet, and he came face-to-face with a pair of goofily oversized paws. They were canine, of that Nick was somewhat sure. His toes looked big and swollen—all four of them. What were once his big toes were now simply a set of small dewclaws.
“There we go! Okay, lower half down,” Widow mumbled, seemingly unaware what she was doing to the man, or how true her words were. “Now, let’s work on that upper half…”
Nick didn’t even have time to panic. There was no belt around his shirt, and his arms couldn’t move to try to keep his shirt on even if he tried.
The air was driven from his lungs as his shirt was pulled over his head and off his arms. His chest compressed in some places and broadened in others, barreling out and growing thick and wide. A similar white-and-brown fur pattern covered his torso, brown on his back and white on his belly.
At the same time, his arms shortened, and his hands twitched uncontrollably. With each wiggle of his fingers, they grew a little shorter, a little wider. At the same time, his palms slowly puffed out, growing thick and plump.
“I’m turning into a Saint Bernard…” Nick muttered aloud, staring in shock at his body. From his neck down, he looked just like a dog of his favorite breed, which was probably for the best. If he was turning into anything else, he’d be too panicked to even come to that realization.
“You know, when you act all surprised by your own body, you’re really giving away the fact that you’re six months old. And still bigger than Janet, even when she’s not all… Pym Particle’d,” Widow sighed. “I’m talking to myself. Or to a puppy who can’t understand me. This is your fault, you realize. I didn’t used to do this.”
Nick dearly wanted to comment on the irony of her words, but he found himself incapable of responding as her hands rubbed his cheeks. The man’s skin stretched like dough, with thick and soft jowls slowly tugging from his cheeks, to the point where they flopped well past his collar—
His collar! That was the weight from earlier!
Nick felt his tail begin to wag, a natural and instinctive canine response to his excitement. That gave him a moment’s pause, as he realized knowing he had a collar was an odd thing to be excited about. After all, it basically just said that he was owned by a beautiful woman—not something he was entirely opposed to—and that he had some goofy name—
Hawkeye! That was why she called him Hawkeye!!!
“Well, at least now that you’re out of those clothes, you’re acting like yourself,” Widow smiled, absently stroking at the man’s ears, pulling them out larger and floppier.
It was an incredible feeling for the changed man, and yet it was oddly familiar. A part of Nicky knew that he loved having his big, goofy ears stroked, especially when Widow held them in her hands. It was right up there with her itching his fluffy butt.
Another part of him knew that these things shouldn’t be familiar to him in the slightest. This part was soon distracted as Widow stroked his head, smoothing his brain and yet thickening his hair at the same time. Dense, warm fur burst across what remained of his handsome features, distorting them into a shaggy canine countenance.
“Guuhhuhuh…” Nickye started to pant dumbly, thoughts whirling in his head that it was getting so hard for him to vocalize. Even if his lengthening tongue was able to wrap its way around the words, they were flitting quickly from his thoughts.
Oddly enough, it was one of the best feelings in his life. Stresses, worries, and concerns all vanished in the face of unconditional love for his owner. He found that he wanted to spend every second of his life with her, and to make her as happy as humanly possible. The fact that this mirrored his human sentiments earlier that day completely escaped his addled mind.
“Who…” Widow began, a little haltingly. A small flush spread across her cheeks, and she looked left then right as if to check that the two of them were totally alone or not. She nodded to herself, looking down to her pet and cupping his jowled cheeks in her hands.
The loose, furry folds of skin easily hung over her fingers, and they jiggled as she shook her hands gently. Nawckye felt them sway, and his tail wagged like crazy as he hung onto her every word.
This was a private moment between them, for a master and her loving pet. To the changing man, it was as though this moment was his life’s fulfillment; that everything had been building up to this.
“Who’s my good boy?”
“GrrwooOOF! Nghawk! Huhhuhhawrkeyehuhuh!” Hawkeye’s eyes glazed over, intelligence forever traded for devotion, higher thought replaced by canine content. He lunged for Widow’s face, slopping his tongue against her features from chin to forehead.
“Awph!” She sputtered, trying and failing to gently push him back. “T-that’s right, it’s you. Now please stop aiming for my mouth.”
Hawkeye had no idea what the words she was making were, but he could tell from her scent that she was happy, and that made him happy! His tail thumped from side to side with an incredible eagerness, and he still found a way to wag it harder as his master angled her head a little, so he’d lick the side of her face instead.
She was so clever! That was way easier to lick than her not-a-dog nose!
“Okay, there. I can tolerate cheek licks,” Widow said, smiling despite the fact that she looked as though she’d just been caught in a torrential downpour.
Said drooly monsoon licked her loudly enough for the wet smacks to echo across the room. He couldn’t help it, he just loved his master so much! Everything was great and exciting and perfect!
“Okay, and that is more than enough,” Widow said, feeling drool literally dripping down her cheek. Fortunately for her, part of her job meant that she knew how to exploit a weakness—and Hawkeye certainly had one. “I appreciate your affection, but I don’t want to feel like I need a shower.”
Her long fingers slipped around his rump, and she began to work his backside like a mixture of masseuse and groomer. The effect was immediate and expected: Hawkeye flopped atop her like a puppet whose strings had been cut, melting into a furry puddle of satisfaction.
“And there we go. Just like I like you: nice and happy,” Widow sighed in relief, and looked to her puppy with a small smile. “You know, maybe Clint was right when he gave you to me. Of course, he could have warned just how big you’d get…”
Hawkeye didn’t understand a word she said, but he understood that she was happy—if not from her words, then at least from how her scratches took on a gentle, attentive motion. He knew that he had made her happy, which meant that he would be able to make her happy forever.
And that was everything he needed.