Standard Fanfiction Disclaimer: Based on characters and situations created and dramatized by Terry Jones, Brian Froud, Jim Henson, David Bowie, et al. I do not own Labyrinth, nor am I making any money from it.

Chapter 1: The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

The Goblin King lounged on his throne, his left leg draped negligently over its arm, his opposite foot resting on the floor. His left hand covered his eyes, while his right beat out an irregular rhythm on his right boot with his riding crop. It had been a bad day – a horrible day, he amended – one of the worst in recent memory, and that included the day that the sewers had backed up in the Goblin City. He shuddered, not wanting to relive the memories of that day. Yes, that day had been bad, but today had been worse – so much worse.

First, he had been awakened before dawn by a rooster. Crowing. In his ear. He had immediately throttled the offending fowl before tossing it unceremoniously out the window. He had then rolled over to discover that the rooster had friends. Half a dozen of them. All sitting on his bed. And eyeing him speculatively. He had shouted for his Chamberlain, the roar of his displeasure echoing down the stone passages that led to his bedchamber.

The thin, reedy goblin had come scuttling into the room at as fast a trot as he could manage, tying his dirty, brown bathrobe around himself as he did so. He had taken one look at the assembled throng of roosters and put his fingers to his lips, summoning the closest goblin guards with an ear-splitting whistle. Jareth had cringed and wondered if it was possible for his brain to leak out his ears. The rooster's wake-up call had triggered a migraine, and his Chamberlain's enthusiasm for de-fowling his room had only exacerbated the pounding in his head. Each goblin had then laid hands on a pair of roosters, and, with much flapping, squawking, and pecking, managed somehow to remove the miscreant fowl from the king's chamber, leaving behind a veritable snowstorm of feathers.

Deciding that it would be no use to even attempt to go back to sleep at this point, Jareth had stepped out of his bed. And directly into a slimy pile of stray chicken droppings left behind by his recent "guests." Cursing, he had hobbled to the wash basin and attempted to rinse the offending muck off of his foot without losing his balance. He had not succeeded.

When he was finally able to right himself and determine that he was, once again, chicken-dropping-free, he had made his way to his wardrobe. Only to discover that the goblin laundress had, somehow, managed to shrink his favorite shirt. It was now so small that Hoggle could have worn it. Tossing it aside with a growl, Jareth had dressed himself in his second-favorite shirt (which was now his favorite shirt) and made his way down to the dining hall, his foul mood surrounding him like a cloak.

The breakfast that had been laid out before him had only served to increase the pain of his already-agonizing headache. He was presented with toast that could have passed successfully for charcoal, scrambled eggs that he was sure would have bounced, had he been curious enough to drop them on the floor, and oatmeal that was the consistency and color of bog water. Having sufficiently lost his appetite before he had even acquired it to begin with, Jareth had left the table and repaired to his throne room.

He had been met by a long line of the day's petitioners, all of whom were impatiently awaiting their turn to air their grievances and present their cases before the wisdom of the Goblin King. He had forgotten that today was goblin court. Jareth hated goblin court at the best of times, but it was far worse when he had a headache. He had sat on his throne all morning, massaging his temples between cases, as he listened to variations on the themes of who had laid claim to whose chicken and who had insulted whose mother. If he heard the word "aardvark" one more time, he was sure he would scream.

There had also been numerous complaints about the lowered quality of the latest batch of goblin ale, demands for new housing in the Goblin City, and a report from the committee organizing this year's Harvest Festival on the selected entertainments for the event. So far, the frontrunners were a pet rock show, a turnip eating contest, and a beauty pageant. Jareth shuddered. He could only imagine the entrants in the latter event, and he didn't like the image his mind's eye conjured. Fervently wishing that brain bleach was real, he had ended the session with a wave of his hand, and the throne room had rapidly devolved into its usual state of chaos.

Just as he had been about to relax on his throne, secure in the knowledge that his kingly duties were fulfilled for the day, a runner had entered with the news that, due to the unseasonable rain the Labyrinth had been experiencing for the past fortnight, the bog had overflowed. And had flooded the surrounding farmland. And taken out several nearby homesteads. And a goat shed. And, to make matters just that much worse, all of the detritus that he had bogged over the past century was, even now, floating freely across the countryside. He would have to send out teams of goblins to retrieve it all and bog the offending items all over again, once the flood waters had subsided.

But even the overflowing bog hadn't been the worst of it. Not by a long shot. The worst of it was the goblins. All of them. In his throne room. For the past two weeks. With cabin fever. Much as goblins loved chasing, riding, and tossing chickens; quaffing overflowing flagons of goblin ale; and singing raucous songs at the top of their lungs, these favorite pastimes did, eventually, lose their appeal. Which led to a very sad state of affairs – bored goblins. And bored goblins were likely to get into all sorts of mischief.

After the seven-hundred-thirty-second drunken rendition of "When Goblin Eyes Are Smiling," Jareth had had enough. He had finally resorted to banishing them all to the dungeons – just for a while – so he could finally have some peace and quiet. Perhaps they would enjoy playing with the thumbscrews.

He sighed. Yes, today just couldn't get much worse. He continued to tap his riding crop on his boot. Tap, tap, tap. What was he going to do with the goblins? Tap, tap, tap. The weather forecast promised rain for at least another three days. Tap, tap, tap. Three more days. Tap, tap, tap. With cabin feverish goblins. Tap, tap, tap. How would he survive? Tap, tap, TUG.

He froze. Someone – or something – was tugging on the leather tip of his riding crop. Without looking, he sharply pulled the crop free and began to experimentally tap it against his boot once again. Tap, tap, TUG.

He raised his hand from his eyes, and glance down. At first, he could see nothing. With effort, he pulled his crop free of whatever had a hold on it and inspected the tip. The soft, black leather had teeth marks in it. He frowned. Had one of the goblins managed to break free of the dungeons? But, then, the goblins knew better than to molest his riding crop. It was his version of a scepter, and he wielded it with unquestioned authority.

Intrigued, he once again lowered the crop and began to tap his boot, this time watching closely. Tap, tap. A small, furry, black animal sprang into view from where it had obviously been sitting at the base of his throne and sank it teeth into the leather tip of the crop. With the speed of an adder, Jareth lunged forward, seized the tiny creature by the scruff of its neck with his left hand, and raised it aloft.

"Gotcha!" he crowed in triumph.

He held the squirming animal before his face and regarded it with curiosity. It was entirely black and covered with short, soft fur. It had four long, gangly legs ending in large feet and a thick, otter-like tail that, at the moment, was swinging relentlessly back and forth. Looking closely at the creature's face, he noticed that it had a pair of floppy ears that hung pendulously on either side of a large, wet nose. A pair of luminous eyes the color of burnt sugar regarded him with adoration, and a long, pink tongue lolled out of one side of a large, gaping mouth filled with pointy, white teeth.

He was holding a puppy.

An adorable puppy.

He cocked his head at the still-wiggling thing and said, "And just where did you come from, my fine friend?"

Jareth had never had a puppy. He had always wanted one when he was a child, but his parents had refused, saying that he wasn't responsible enough. The Goblin King snorted. If he could take care of a horde of rabid goblins, surely he could take care of one, small puppy. How hard could it be?

Maybe, the Goblin King reflected, this wasn't such a bad day, after all.

A/N

I've envisioned this as a loosely-connected series of one shots, based on the theme "What would happen if Jareth got a puppy?" Rampant chaos, of course.

Sarah will make an appearance at some point, to bring some semblance of sanity to the proceedings. After that, well, who knows?

Updates will be random, whenever I feel like indulging in some fluffy, tail-wagging goodness.