It’s with a RARE smile that Ruby crouches down, letting a sandpaper tongue attack her face as her fingers run through spotted fur. With no other people in sight but Pongo still by her side, a nearly forgotten sense of ease finally settles into her bones. No matter what she’s done, what she’s been through, Ruby knows with a certainty she could swear she had lost long ago that she would never -- never -- harm Pongo.
And the dog’s touch doesn’t send her reeling, either; not the way a human’s still does. A slobbery tongue against her cheek is no reminder of a guard’s rough hand, grasping her so hard that he leaves bruises. His presence, warm and solid beneath her fingers, grounds her to this moment. Keeps her from shooting back -- to Peter, blood on her hands and tears closing up her throat; to that glorified box, a solitude so ALL-ENCOMPASSING that it slowly eats away the lines between day and night, civilization and survival, sanity and madness.
Besides, with a voice still rusty after years of disuse, one that trips over its own tongue and never quite manages to recall words once conjured with ease... It’s a RELIEF that for once, Ruby doesn’t have to say a single word for someone to listen.