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Description
"...Please, swallow your pride
If I have things you need to borrow
For no one can fill those of your needs
That you won't let show

You just call on me, brother, when you need a hand
We all need somebody to lean on
I just might have a problem that you'll understand
We all need somebody to lean on

Lean on me when you're not strong
And I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on
For it won't be long
'Til I'm gonna need somebody to lean on..."
-from Lean On Me by Bill Withers

It struck him then, in that odd way, that he knew everything of killing, most of dying, but he knew nothing of living. Taking care of the members of his team had seldom been his job. That was something for the humans to do, and they did it with almost cruel efficiency...sharp, cold instruments, needles, plastic string, and drugs...always drugs. P4 might have had it the worst, but Jerome and his squad didn't exactly have it easy.

So when he and his new leader had gotten separated from the rest of the pack, and the smaller akita mix had gotten grievously injured while fighting against a monstrous boar, Jerome had done what was necessary. He dealt with the immediate threat, standing over Weed, body low to the ground, waiting for the great hog's charge with uncommon patience. Each hoofbeat measured the creature's last breaths, and it was too stupid...too base...to even realize it. A tilt of his head, long muzzle open wide, the steeling of his position over his beloved leader, and the snapping and tearing of his fangs, and that was done. The dumb beast trembled, shook, and fell. They would have relished their victory, but Weed was badly injured. The pig's herd would come soon, all angry tusk and hoof. Roving packs of dogs and wolves would smell the aching scent of an injured dog and would do their best to take advantage of them both. Live to run another day. Jerome didn't like it, but it was his best choice.

He'd found the den after carrying Weed on his back for mile after mile, repositioning the nearly dead weight so many times. After poking his sharp featured head in carefully, smelling no strong odor of badger, wolf, dog, and especially not bear...only the clean scent of dirt and harmless mushrooms, he decided it was adequate. And so, he'd found a place to set about doing the thing he hated most...waiting for rescue.

At first, taking care of the teenage dog had been systematic. He brought him cupped leaves full of fresh rain, scraps from kills he raided, and even managed to kick the dry straw and grass into a sort of bed for Weed to recuperate on. All of this was easy. Tending to the physical...

...the boy was fed, watered, and comfortable, and yet his condition worsened. The Alsatian couldn't understand. He'd done everything right. The boy slipped into a fever that left him mumbling, twitching, and curling into painful positions in his sleep. Jerome, who had lived a life of pain, could barely watch.

Later on, he'd tell himself at first that it was out of exasperation. He didn't know what else to do. He'd never been a father, he'd long forgotten the warmth of his mother, and mates...well...that had been achieved "efficiently" as well. Nothing about what was to come was efficient...

So the large shepherd curled around the trembling and feverish form, even nuzzling under the white chin to lift his head up so that he could place his large forepaw under it as a sort of cushion. The tora-ge pelt bristled in shock and then lay flat as Jerome's own calm heat warmed the thick akita pelt. Slowly, the trembling died down almost completely, and Weed's sleep seemed less fitful.

Jerome was pleased...even proud at first. Not bad for a male! He looked warily out into the thicket beyond. Huge ears ever trained for sounds that should not be there. The sound that eventually came to them was so soft, he nearly didn't hear it at all...

"Jerome-San," the youngster began, "thank you...thank you for not giving up on me."

A smile and he looked down. "Of course not, Leader! Why would I have left you?"

"Not any good like this..." A cough, but no blood this time. Jerome was grateful. "...just wasting time..."

It was a shock to him then, and it became an even greater shock that he would have nodded in agreement weeks before. Weeks before when kindness was frivolous, loyalty was something defined by battle, and...and...

...a soft nuzzle under his chin and a questioning lick along his jaw were all things he'd never thought of.

"Leader?..." Slowly, he tilted his head down and looked into a weakly smiling face. He felt the thumpa thumpa of Weed's curled tail against his hip, and he nearly told him to save even that tiny bit of energy. "I don't...understand."

"Neither do I, Jerome, but...it feels nice, doesn't it?" Slowly, the smaller dog's head laid its sleepy weight upon his tan foreleg once more. For several stiff seconds and unsteady heartbeats, Jerome considered how endearing the whole situation really was. Softly and tentatively, he began to lick at Weed's wounds, slow laps that turned into patterns of warm and pleasant embraces that would cause the younger male to smile and whimper in his sleep.

The next morning, GB would find them and would find Weed's fever to be all but gone. For once, Jerome would be glad to see the cowardly setter, but that feeling would fade quickly. As he left the den, he turned around to see the imprint of not two bodies, but one circular impression left by them over the night.

It had been peace, hadn't it? Something he'd never known before. Just taking care of someone. Not fighting. Just...

...and the next thoughts that came to him caused him to straggle behind the others. He didn't want them to see the red heat of his cheeks as he thought about how it had felt rather nice...Weed's smaller form against him, his thick fur mingling with his, his throat breathing against his paw...and his tongue flicking out to taste and trace the line of his jaw.

Jerome had taken on the role of Master...of teacher and advisor to Weed...but it seemed he still had much to learn, and he wondered if this would turn into an ongoing lesson...

Because the only thing that makes Weed badass is the idea of him being Jerome's. C'mon, admit it. You agree with me. More digital experimenting for me. More shameless gaying up of a beloved cartoon about dogs for you guys.

Sketched on parchment paper. Colored completely in Photoshop CS3.

Description
"...Please, swallow your pride
If I have things you need to borrow
For no one can fill those of your needs
That you won't let show

You just call on me, brother, when you need a hand
We all need somebody to lean on
I just might have a problem that you'll understand
We all need somebody to lean on

Lean on me when you're not strong
And I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on
For it won't be long
'Til I'm gonna need somebody to lean on..."
-from Lean On Me by Bill Withers

It struck him then, in that odd way, that he knew everything of killing, most of dying, but he knew nothing of living. Taking care of the members of his team had seldom been his job. That was something for the humans to do, and they did it with almost cruel efficiency...sharp, cold instruments, needles, plastic string, and drugs...always drugs. P4 might have had it the worst, but Jerome and his squad didn't exactly have it easy.

So when he and his new leader had gotten separated from the rest of the pack, and the smaller akita mix had gotten grievously injured while fighting against a monstrous boar, Jerome had done what was necessary. He dealt with the immediate threat, standing over Weed, body low to the ground, waiting for the great hog's charge with uncommon patience. Each hoofbeat measured the creature's last breaths, and it was too stupid...too base...to even realize it. A tilt of his head, long muzzle open wide, the steeling of his position over his beloved leader, and the snapping and tearing of his fangs, and that was done. The dumb beast trembled, shook, and fell. They would have relished their victory, but Weed was badly injured. The pig's herd would come soon, all angry tusk and hoof. Roving packs of dogs and wolves would smell the aching scent of an injured dog and would do their best to take advantage of them both. Live to run another day. Jerome didn't like it, but it was his best choice.

He'd found the den after carrying Weed on his back for mile after mile, repositioning the nearly dead weight so many times. After poking his sharp featured head in carefully, smelling no strong odor of badger, wolf, dog, and especially not bear...only the clean scent of dirt and harmless mushrooms, he decided it was adequate. And so, he'd found a place to set about doing the thing he hated most...waiting for rescue.

At first, taking care of the teenage dog had been systematic. He brought him cupped leaves full of fresh rain, scraps from kills he raided, and even managed to kick the dry straw and grass into a sort of bed for Weed to recuperate on. All of this was easy. Tending to the physical...

...the boy was fed, watered, and comfortable, and yet his condition worsened. The Alsatian couldn't understand. He'd done everything right. The boy slipped into a fever that left him mumbling, twitching, and curling into painful positions in his sleep. Jerome, who had lived a life of pain, could barely watch.

Later on, he'd tell himself at first that it was out of exasperation. He didn't know what else to do. He'd never been a father, he'd long forgotten the warmth of his mother, and mates...well...that had been achieved "efficiently" as well. Nothing about what was to come was efficient...

So the large shepherd curled around the trembling and feverish form, even nuzzling under the white chin to lift his head up so that he could place his large forepaw under it as a sort of cushion. The tora-ge pelt bristled in shock and then lay flat as Jerome's own calm heat warmed the thick akita pelt. Slowly, the trembling died down almost completely, and Weed's sleep seemed less fitful.

Jerome was pleased...even proud at first. Not bad for a male! He looked warily out into the thicket beyond. Huge ears ever trained for sounds that should not be there. The sound that eventually came to them was so soft, he nearly didn't hear it at all...

"Jerome-San," the youngster began, "thank you...thank you for not giving up on me."

A smile and he looked down. "Of course not, Leader! Why would I have left you?"

"Not any good like this..." A cough, but no blood this time. Jerome was grateful. "...just wasting time..."

It was a shock to him then, and it became an even greater shock that he would have nodded in agreement weeks before. Weeks before when kindness was frivolous, loyalty was something defined by battle, and...and...

...a soft nuzzle under his chin and a questioning lick along his jaw were all things he'd never thought of.

"Leader?..." Slowly, he tilted his head down and looked into a weakly smiling face. He felt the thumpa thumpa of Weed's curled tail against his hip, and he nearly told him to save even that tiny bit of energy. "I don't...understand."

"Neither do I, Jerome, but...it feels nice, doesn't it?" Slowly, the smaller dog's head laid its sleepy weight upon his tan foreleg once more. For several stiff seconds and unsteady heartbeats, Jerome considered how endearing the whole situation really was. Softly and tentatively, he began to lick at Weed's wounds, slow laps that turned into patterns of warm and pleasant embraces that would cause the younger male to smile and whimper in his sleep.

The next morning, GB would find them and would find Weed's fever to be all but gone. For once, Jerome would be glad to see the cowardly setter, but that feeling would fade quickly. As he left the den, he turned around to see the imprint of not two bodies, but one circular impression left by them over the night.

It had been peace, hadn't it? Something he'd never known before. Just taking care of someone. Not fighting. Just...

...and the next thoughts that came to him caused him to straggle behind the others. He didn't want them to see the red heat of his cheeks as he thought about how it had felt rather nice...Weed's smaller form against him, his thick fur mingling with his, his throat breathing against his paw...and his tongue flicking out to taste and trace the line of his jaw.

Jerome had taken on the role of Master...of teacher and advisor to Weed...but it seemed he still had much to learn, and he wondered if this would turn into an ongoing lesson...

Because the only thing that makes Weed badass is the idea of him being Jerome's. C'mon, admit it. You agree with me. More digital experimenting for me. More shameless gaying up of a beloved cartoon about dogs for you guys.

Sketched on parchment paper. Colored completely in Photoshop CS3.