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Dec. 3rd, 2011 07:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyjanellySort of stuck on my Jeff/Jensen werewolf story. I need a secondary plot-line or it's just 2 guys in a vacuum having a long improbable discussion about their feelings.
So I sort of started a different Jeff/Jensen werewolf story. Oops?
Let me know what you think? I was trying to get a lot of history in there without having a huge exposition dump?
Jeff’s on his back porch when the call comes. Sipping his coffee and looking over the wasteland of his yard. Weed-filled kennels and runs and pens. Contemplating if any of it is worth salvaging or if he should start getting quotes to have the whole miss-matched mess of it bulldozed. A stray cat ghosts through the morning sun, tail flicking as it stalks some unseen prey.
Jeff heads inside at the sound of the phone, leaving the circle of life to go on without his observation. Checks the caller ID and almost doesn’t answer. It’s been months since Jared’s called. He knows Jeff’s done. Burnt out and broken. No more rescues, no more dogs.
He thinks of the guys. The special network of cops and vets, foster-families and handlers. Thinks maybe someone needs something he can still give and he hits the talk button.
“I didn’t think you’d answer,” Jared says in response to Jeff’s gruff greeting, and Jeff knows it means “I was sort of hoping you wouldn’t because I shouldn’t be calling you.” He needs to hang up. Knows it was a mistake to answer at all.
“Please,” cuts in Jared before Jeff can close the phone and walk away. “I know, Jeff. I know. You’re retired. Or whatever. Please, just listen.”
The kid’s so god-damn earnest. Means every word he says with every fiber of his being. Makes it hard, but still Jeff says “No.”
“Jeff.” Jared’s voice is a whisper. “I wouldn’t call. I wouldn’t. But this. Nobody can do take this one but you. I’ve seen you turn a killing machine into a lapdog. Nobody else could handle this. I wouldn’t trust anyone else.”
Jeff wishes for a drink, for a cool bottle to press against his temple while the whiskey burns down his throat. He threw the booze away months ago though, and the pills too. He’s going to paint, and teach himself guitar and run his bank account dry for a year while he gets his shit together again. No more dogs, no more charity cases, no more seeing the worst that humans are capable of written in scars upon the skin of helpless creatures.
“Just—” Jared struggles for words and Jeff can hear the strain in his voice. The kid’s not usually so easily shaken and it takes renewed effort to not care. Not his business, not his problem. “Come look,” Jared finishes. “Come see what I’m working with. Tell me what to do, how to handle this.”
This is how it starts. Come see one dog. Take him home for a few weeks.
“Fine.” The word is out before he can stop it. God damn Jared. Six months. He had been doing so well.
So I sort of started a different Jeff/Jensen werewolf story. Oops?
Let me know what you think? I was trying to get a lot of history in there without having a huge exposition dump?
Jeff’s on his back porch when the call comes. Sipping his coffee and looking over the wasteland of his yard. Weed-filled kennels and runs and pens. Contemplating if any of it is worth salvaging or if he should start getting quotes to have the whole miss-matched mess of it bulldozed. A stray cat ghosts through the morning sun, tail flicking as it stalks some unseen prey.
Jeff heads inside at the sound of the phone, leaving the circle of life to go on without his observation. Checks the caller ID and almost doesn’t answer. It’s been months since Jared’s called. He knows Jeff’s done. Burnt out and broken. No more rescues, no more dogs.
He thinks of the guys. The special network of cops and vets, foster-families and handlers. Thinks maybe someone needs something he can still give and he hits the talk button.
“I didn’t think you’d answer,” Jared says in response to Jeff’s gruff greeting, and Jeff knows it means “I was sort of hoping you wouldn’t because I shouldn’t be calling you.” He needs to hang up. Knows it was a mistake to answer at all.
“Please,” cuts in Jared before Jeff can close the phone and walk away. “I know, Jeff. I know. You’re retired. Or whatever. Please, just listen.”
The kid’s so god-damn earnest. Means every word he says with every fiber of his being. Makes it hard, but still Jeff says “No.”
“Jeff.” Jared’s voice is a whisper. “I wouldn’t call. I wouldn’t. But this. Nobody can do take this one but you. I’ve seen you turn a killing machine into a lapdog. Nobody else could handle this. I wouldn’t trust anyone else.”
Jeff wishes for a drink, for a cool bottle to press against his temple while the whiskey burns down his throat. He threw the booze away months ago though, and the pills too. He’s going to paint, and teach himself guitar and run his bank account dry for a year while he gets his shit together again. No more dogs, no more charity cases, no more seeing the worst that humans are capable of written in scars upon the skin of helpless creatures.
“Just—” Jared struggles for words and Jeff can hear the strain in his voice. The kid’s not usually so easily shaken and it takes renewed effort to not care. Not his business, not his problem. “Come look,” Jared finishes. “Come see what I’m working with. Tell me what to do, how to handle this.”
This is how it starts. Come see one dog. Take him home for a few weeks.
“Fine.” The word is out before he can stop it. God damn Jared. Six months. He had been doing so well.
