Ficlet - Hair - Woof Side Story
Jun. 20th, 2010 09:07 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
zoicite.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
z_ficFandom: Hair
Characters: Woof, Berger
Word Count: 423
Rating: PG
Summary: He had to think pretty hard to remember a time when Berger wasn't his best friend.
Woof Side Story
He had to think pretty hard to remember a time when Berger wasn't his best friend.
He knew Berger when he was still just Neil Donavon, a scraggly overgrown kid running around the city alone, running from his mother’s eyes and his father’s drink. Eventually he found Berger, connected through trees and taxis and pavement. They met on 97th street or 62nd or 25th. It didn't matter that he forgot the location. He remembered the important things. He remembered the collision of dark curls and long limbs. He remembered the second that defensive words grew warm and forgiving, the moment that Berger reached down to help him up from the sidewalk. The details didn't matter. What mattered was that suddenly instead of running alone, he was running at Berger’s scraggly heals, chasing Berger through the streets and the alleys and the lawns.
When he turned out to be loyal, a new constant in Berger's group, in the tribal whole, Dionne scratched behind his ears and said, “You’re like a dog, honey.” She turned to Berger. “Isn’t he? It's like one day you came home with a faithful family dog.”
Berger laughed and laughed and when the laughter ran out, Berger started barking. He laughed with Berger, barked back, howled.
The next time he stumbled upon Berger, spent two days hoping to run into him, Berger grinned at him, hand pressed to his back, fingers pushing in against his skin.
“Hey, Woof,” Berger said. He curled Woof in toward him, kissed the side of his face, low, almost his neck. Berger’s chin was rough where it rubbed against his skin.
“Woof,” Woof repeated, smiled. He reached up his hand, fingers touching the spot where Berger had pressed his lips. He could still feel it, like the kiss had burned into his skin, a brand made from wide soft lips and the scratch of stubble. “I like it.”
“Good,” Berger said. “Then that's your name.”
Woof had spent weeks roaming the streets. He slept on park benches, crashed with people he just met that afternoon, ate handouts. He liked it, thought it was exactly what he’d always been looking for, thought he was free. But when Berger grinned at him and reached out to take his hand, Woof knew he'd been found, that this could be even better. Woof was a lost dog, always had been, but sometimes even lost dogs found new friends. Sometimes if they were really lucky they were given new names, new homes, new families.
Woof had always been pretty lucky.
Characters: Woof, Berger
Word Count: 423
Rating: PG
Summary: He had to think pretty hard to remember a time when Berger wasn't his best friend.
Woof Side Story
He had to think pretty hard to remember a time when Berger wasn't his best friend.
He knew Berger when he was still just Neil Donavon, a scraggly overgrown kid running around the city alone, running from his mother’s eyes and his father’s drink. Eventually he found Berger, connected through trees and taxis and pavement. They met on 97th street or 62nd or 25th. It didn't matter that he forgot the location. He remembered the important things. He remembered the collision of dark curls and long limbs. He remembered the second that defensive words grew warm and forgiving, the moment that Berger reached down to help him up from the sidewalk. The details didn't matter. What mattered was that suddenly instead of running alone, he was running at Berger’s scraggly heals, chasing Berger through the streets and the alleys and the lawns.
When he turned out to be loyal, a new constant in Berger's group, in the tribal whole, Dionne scratched behind his ears and said, “You’re like a dog, honey.” She turned to Berger. “Isn’t he? It's like one day you came home with a faithful family dog.”
Berger laughed and laughed and when the laughter ran out, Berger started barking. He laughed with Berger, barked back, howled.
The next time he stumbled upon Berger, spent two days hoping to run into him, Berger grinned at him, hand pressed to his back, fingers pushing in against his skin.
“Hey, Woof,” Berger said. He curled Woof in toward him, kissed the side of his face, low, almost his neck. Berger’s chin was rough where it rubbed against his skin.
“Woof,” Woof repeated, smiled. He reached up his hand, fingers touching the spot where Berger had pressed his lips. He could still feel it, like the kiss had burned into his skin, a brand made from wide soft lips and the scratch of stubble. “I like it.”
“Good,” Berger said. “Then that's your name.”
Woof had spent weeks roaming the streets. He slept on park benches, crashed with people he just met that afternoon, ate handouts. He liked it, thought it was exactly what he’d always been looking for, thought he was free. But when Berger grinned at him and reached out to take his hand, Woof knew he'd been found, that this could be even better. Woof was a lost dog, always had been, but sometimes even lost dogs found new friends. Sometimes if they were really lucky they were given new names, new homes, new families.
Woof had always been pretty lucky.
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