RPF Fic? Sorta/Kinda - Jungle Dog
Title: Jungle Dog.
Author: Saberivojo
Genre: Gen. PG RPF? Maybe? I guess?
Characters - Jeffrey Dean Morgan and Bandit
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just like playing with the boys. And dogs too it seems
Summary: From the comment meme rozabellalove.livejournal.com/70137.html and the prompt: The story of how Bandit got adopted, from both his and JDM's point of view offered by grouchydrake -
He could be a good dog
**
No beta. Just me and early morning ramblings.
**
He didn’t have a name. He didn’t need one really. He had a good nose and he was pretty quick. Fast like the strange little lizards that scrambled in the hot sand. It hurt his paws, the sand did. So he stuck to the jungle most of the time. But today he was hot and the hunger was like a living thing, gnawing at his narrow, empty belly. He didn’t mind the physical hunger so much but there was another hunger so deep that no amount of food could touch it. He wanted a person. Needed -ached for a person. His person. He was a good dog. Good dogs needed people. It was just the way things were.
Just a short while ago he had stumbled onto a little one outside. The puppy tried to play, front paws in the dirt, butt waving frantically in the air. The chubby baby had squealed and clutched his fur and the dog had tasted his neck and face. So good. Almost as good as food. The baby was rough but happy and the dog didn’t care about the sharp tugs on tender ears. This is what he wanted. A boy! The puppy was having such fun that he didn’t hear the large one approach. Stupid dog. A sharp kick to his ribs and a terrified. “Punta!” had him scampering away from the baby. So sweet and smelly. He would have stayed but for the ache in his ribs.
They were hard to find these good people.
The man watched him. He couldn’t see his eyes, but the dog knew. From his vantage point on the jungle’s edge he could smell him. He smelled of good things. Food for one, but not just that. The dog was young, but he learned quick there were good smelling men and bad smelling men. This one smelled perfect. He lifted his nose again, scenting the hot air. His tail wagged with the thought of the man. But he was no dumb dog so he sat in the sand and watched the man watching him. It was hard. Waiting was hard. His tail wagged harder and his nose twitched. He whined low.
He could be a good dog. He would be a good dog.
He just had to be closer. His nose needed more of the man. He knew he could get close enough for a good smell but would still be far enough away that if the man decided to throw a stone he could dodge. The man didn’t smell like bad men who threw stones but the dog wasn’t quite sure. He was so young and hungry.
He trotted down from the jungle, across the short bit of sand. He heard the growling thing a moment before it caught him. He was a fast puppy, nothing in the jungle had caught him before but this thing bit him hard and threw him down.
He yelped, it hurt so bad. The puppy knew about eating or being eaten, it happened all the time in the jungle. But the growling thing made no sense. It didn’t keep biting or eating. It bit him hard and then left as fast as it came.
*
He was a jungle dog. No doubt about it. Standing quietly where the trees met the sand, tail waiving tentatively, just past a hard sand packed access road.
Jeff had a thing for dogs, always had but shooting on location in Puerto Rico meant 16 hour days and longer nights. And there were dogs all over the place, half feral things that would as easily take a bite out of you as not. Sometimes you could see them, slinking back to the jungle after grabbing a bit of stolen sandwich from the crew. Jeff got it, he did. Hell, he’d been known to leave a little something laying around once in a while. It was discouraged of course, rabies and God knew what else but the thought of those poor dogs, half starved tugged at his heartstrings.
He glanced back up to the tree line, the dog, a puppy really, had dropped his haunches in the sand, tongue lolling in the God-awful heat. Jeff adjusted his sunglasses and looked hard at the puppy. Soft wheat colored fur, dark masked almost tear dropped eyes and a stripe down his forehead that opened into a full white muzzle. The puppy was adorable, if scrawny.
He shook his head. Of course he was adorable. Puppies, even jungle puppies were off the scale when it came to cute.
The puppy stood eyes locked onto his and then trotted brazenly down from the jungle heading across the little road, just as the jeep turned a corner.
Jeff didn’t see the impact, didn’t hear the normal scream of breaks but he heard the high pitched kiy yi yelp of puppy.
**
The dog was scared. Pain. Terror. He struggled to get up and run.
Run. Run. Run. Before the growling thing could get him again.
But his legs wouldn’t work. The stink of the strange growling animal was all around and he could smell his own fear, sharp and pungent against his nose. He could feel his heart beat wildly. And then there was the man and suddenly, it felt better.
The man reached down and so gently, ever so softly touched his fur. It should hurt more, he should run but it felt good. Just like he knew he would. The dog didn’t understand the words, but the voice, low and rumbling, hands soft and strong. He offered a brief lick. Despite the pain he needed to taste him. He tasted so good, like the baby but different, salt and warmth and something else he didn’t know. He panted in the heat and wagged his tail as hard as he could.
**
Jeff touched the small body, ran his hand briefly down the narrow ribs and jutting hips. Poor little guy, half staved. Small but with huge puppy paws, the dog was gonna be big. He didn’t think about getting bitten. He should have, he figured, but Jeff had been known to make a mistake or two once in a while. If this was a mistake - so be it. If it had been Bisou, he would be happy that someone cared enough to stop.
Jungle dog or no, the puppy didn’t deserve to die on the side of the road with no one around.
The dog was whining low, he could see him struggle to stand but he reached down, his hand splayed over the dog’s rib cage, feeling the quick, light breaths.
The dog did a strange thing then, the little pink tongue reached out, a quick lick across his knuckles. Damn this dog.
That was all he needed. Jeff slid his hands under the dog’s body, cradling the weightless puppy and headed back toward the crew. The dog’s tail wagged madly at his touch.
“Somebody give me a hand, let’s get him to the vet.”
**
“Shhhhh, easy boy.” Low and rumbling, not at all like the squealing baby. The dog let himself relax into the sound, gentle words that made no sense. He let himself rest then, cradled in tender arms and surrounded by deep-throated nonsense words.
The man’s voice was like a rope. It tethered the dog and he was safe and warm and home.
“Good dog.”
end
AN: This was based on Jeff’s own words from an interview with People "He just wandered out of the jungle in Puerto Rico, like our second day there, and promptly got hit by a car," and this article.
http://www.peoplepets.com/news/celebrities/jeffrey-dean-morgan-rescues-a-dog-from-the-puerto-rican-jung
Author: Saberivojo
Genre: Gen. PG RPF? Maybe? I guess?
Characters - Jeffrey Dean Morgan and Bandit
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just like playing with the boys. And dogs too it seems
Summary: From the comment meme rozabellalove.livejournal.com/70137.html and the prompt: The story of how Bandit got adopted, from both his and JDM's point of view offered by grouchydrake -
He could be a good dog
**
No beta. Just me and early morning ramblings.
**
He didn’t have a name. He didn’t need one really. He had a good nose and he was pretty quick. Fast like the strange little lizards that scrambled in the hot sand. It hurt his paws, the sand did. So he stuck to the jungle most of the time. But today he was hot and the hunger was like a living thing, gnawing at his narrow, empty belly. He didn’t mind the physical hunger so much but there was another hunger so deep that no amount of food could touch it. He wanted a person. Needed -ached for a person. His person. He was a good dog. Good dogs needed people. It was just the way things were.
Just a short while ago he had stumbled onto a little one outside. The puppy tried to play, front paws in the dirt, butt waving frantically in the air. The chubby baby had squealed and clutched his fur and the dog had tasted his neck and face. So good. Almost as good as food. The baby was rough but happy and the dog didn’t care about the sharp tugs on tender ears. This is what he wanted. A boy! The puppy was having such fun that he didn’t hear the large one approach. Stupid dog. A sharp kick to his ribs and a terrified. “Punta!” had him scampering away from the baby. So sweet and smelly. He would have stayed but for the ache in his ribs.
They were hard to find these good people.
The man watched him. He couldn’t see his eyes, but the dog knew. From his vantage point on the jungle’s edge he could smell him. He smelled of good things. Food for one, but not just that. The dog was young, but he learned quick there were good smelling men and bad smelling men. This one smelled perfect. He lifted his nose again, scenting the hot air. His tail wagged with the thought of the man. But he was no dumb dog so he sat in the sand and watched the man watching him. It was hard. Waiting was hard. His tail wagged harder and his nose twitched. He whined low.
He could be a good dog. He would be a good dog.
He just had to be closer. His nose needed more of the man. He knew he could get close enough for a good smell but would still be far enough away that if the man decided to throw a stone he could dodge. The man didn’t smell like bad men who threw stones but the dog wasn’t quite sure. He was so young and hungry.
He trotted down from the jungle, across the short bit of sand. He heard the growling thing a moment before it caught him. He was a fast puppy, nothing in the jungle had caught him before but this thing bit him hard and threw him down.
He yelped, it hurt so bad. The puppy knew about eating or being eaten, it happened all the time in the jungle. But the growling thing made no sense. It didn’t keep biting or eating. It bit him hard and then left as fast as it came.
*
He was a jungle dog. No doubt about it. Standing quietly where the trees met the sand, tail waiving tentatively, just past a hard sand packed access road.
Jeff had a thing for dogs, always had but shooting on location in Puerto Rico meant 16 hour days and longer nights. And there were dogs all over the place, half feral things that would as easily take a bite out of you as not. Sometimes you could see them, slinking back to the jungle after grabbing a bit of stolen sandwich from the crew. Jeff got it, he did. Hell, he’d been known to leave a little something laying around once in a while. It was discouraged of course, rabies and God knew what else but the thought of those poor dogs, half starved tugged at his heartstrings.
He glanced back up to the tree line, the dog, a puppy really, had dropped his haunches in the sand, tongue lolling in the God-awful heat. Jeff adjusted his sunglasses and looked hard at the puppy. Soft wheat colored fur, dark masked almost tear dropped eyes and a stripe down his forehead that opened into a full white muzzle. The puppy was adorable, if scrawny.
He shook his head. Of course he was adorable. Puppies, even jungle puppies were off the scale when it came to cute.
The puppy stood eyes locked onto his and then trotted brazenly down from the jungle heading across the little road, just as the jeep turned a corner.
Jeff didn’t see the impact, didn’t hear the normal scream of breaks but he heard the high pitched kiy yi yelp of puppy.
**
The dog was scared. Pain. Terror. He struggled to get up and run.
Run. Run. Run. Before the growling thing could get him again.
But his legs wouldn’t work. The stink of the strange growling animal was all around and he could smell his own fear, sharp and pungent against his nose. He could feel his heart beat wildly. And then there was the man and suddenly, it felt better.
The man reached down and so gently, ever so softly touched his fur. It should hurt more, he should run but it felt good. Just like he knew he would. The dog didn’t understand the words, but the voice, low and rumbling, hands soft and strong. He offered a brief lick. Despite the pain he needed to taste him. He tasted so good, like the baby but different, salt and warmth and something else he didn’t know. He panted in the heat and wagged his tail as hard as he could.
**
Jeff touched the small body, ran his hand briefly down the narrow ribs and jutting hips. Poor little guy, half staved. Small but with huge puppy paws, the dog was gonna be big. He didn’t think about getting bitten. He should have, he figured, but Jeff had been known to make a mistake or two once in a while. If this was a mistake - so be it. If it had been Bisou, he would be happy that someone cared enough to stop.
Jungle dog or no, the puppy didn’t deserve to die on the side of the road with no one around.
The dog was whining low, he could see him struggle to stand but he reached down, his hand splayed over the dog’s rib cage, feeling the quick, light breaths.
The dog did a strange thing then, the little pink tongue reached out, a quick lick across his knuckles. Damn this dog.
That was all he needed. Jeff slid his hands under the dog’s body, cradling the weightless puppy and headed back toward the crew. The dog’s tail wagged madly at his touch.
“Somebody give me a hand, let’s get him to the vet.”
**
“Shhhhh, easy boy.” Low and rumbling, not at all like the squealing baby. The dog let himself relax into the sound, gentle words that made no sense. He let himself rest then, cradled in tender arms and surrounded by deep-throated nonsense words.
The man’s voice was like a rope. It tethered the dog and he was safe and warm and home.
“Good dog.”
end
AN: This was based on Jeff’s own words from an interview with People "He just wandered out of the jungle in Puerto Rico, like our second day there, and promptly got hit by a car," and this article.
http://www.peoplepets.com/news/celebrities/jeffrey-dean-morgan-rescues-a-dog-from-the-puerto-rican-jung