The Lancer Fanfiction Archive

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BarbA

 

 

Git Along, Little Doggies

(A Lancer Crack!Fic)

It was distracting. He could smell it, from the house. More pungent than a hot brand searing a cow's rump, more alluring than a swim in a mountain spring on a hot summer's day. At least two hundred feet away, but that was nothing.     

Scott had a sharp nose and since moving to the big hacienda, the smells were ceaseless: moldy hay, foul sweat and sometimes even blood, accompanied the more muted scents of leather and tobacco, baked bread and lavender.

It was easy to get distracted by the small things. Cows were designed for only one purpose, to get counted then herded to the next meadow and counted again. Sometimes he counted them three times, just to be sure. As far as he was concerned, the phrase Lancer takes care of its own existed to give Scott license to protect the hacienda and its occupants. He had them under constant surveillance when he wasn't driven to distraction by the cows. The small human—what was her name anyway?—was always dropping bits of bread or bites of beef outside the kitchen door. The wind would catch the scent and it would drift his way, interrupting his count.

Scott heard his name being called over and over—did they not think he heard it the first time? That these ears were just for show? He was a dog for God's sake, he heard everything. And now he'd have to start over again.

A burst of black and white came into his periphery then bounded up beside him. Scott sighed. The black patch around Johnny's eye gave him a roguish look. Accompanied by a “how ya doin'” wink, the expression was deadly to any female within twenty feet. Currently, his eyes were lit with delight, a decidedly dead squirrel hanging from his jowls.

“Hey, Scott. I did it.” The words were garbled until he slid the animal to the side of his mouth. “I got one. Ya wanna look? See? Right here. Yup, finally snagged one of those sons-of-bitches. The old man—what's his name anyway?—yelled at me for being in the house, but I caught this fluffy-tailed shit tryin' to make its way into the kitchen. Sittin' proud as you please on the sideboard, near the small human's hat.”

“So whatchadoin'?” It could have been a serious question, if his brother hadn't been peeing on a spread of withered begonias. Johnny caught Scott's look of disdain and hiked his leg again. “Let' er buck!” Another stream of yellow hit the flowers, square center.

All flash and dazzle, that was Johnny. “There are other places to do that, you know. Like all those blades of grass the old man owns.”

Johnny shrugged and flipped an ear up, giving him a ridiculously puzzled expression. “Whatever. I like these.”

“Whats-her-name likes them, too. So does the old man.”

“Pfft. I'm not afraid of him.” He danced on his paws like a fighter, long squirrel tail jiggling back and forth with each bounce. “I'm a lot faster than he is.”

The squirrel stared at Scott with glassy yellow eyes from its horizontal flop over Johnny's back molars. It was disconcerting to say the least. There was something wrong, but Scott couldn't put his paw on it. “Spit it out,” he challenged.

Johnny looked at Scott, his head tilted to the side. Just a little movement, but it said a lot.

“Spit. It. Out.”

Johnny's eyebrows met above his eyes. “Try me” was the expression. He smiled and clutched his prize between his teeth, growling. Bits of saliva clung to the squirrel's fur and spattered the ground. “Why? You gonna count it?”

Scott was having none of it. He bunched to jump and that's when he heard the small one screech.

“Murdoch! He has my new stole!”

So that was his name.

Wait until they saw the begonias.  

 

 

~ end ~

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