Sometimes, people tell me random things and then stories happen. Like that time a friend told me to write a Doctor Who stapler monster. Stuff like that
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Evidently Deviltown, Part 5bendingsignpostJuly 17 2011, 22:46:02 UTC
Three days, three books, and a pair of socks later, he greets her with a quizzical, “I’m confused.”
Privately, she thinks it’s about time. She knows she’s bewildered by him. Internet searches for Flesh behaviour don’t come close to touching on him. She blames it on the prototype aspect of him. He’s unsuccessful for industrial usage, has to be. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been sold privately. And there’s definitely something off about him, everything off about him, which explains the steep discount Jackie caught.
“What about?” she asks, sitting down across from him. He likes being able to see her, she’s found. Anything else makes him a bit jumpy.
“Everyone in these books eats solid food, but they’re surprised when Lupin is a werewolf,” he says.
“It’s an old book,” she says.
“I can see that,” he agrees, “but it doesn’t make sense.”
“No, I mean, it’s really old. It’s from before the Turning,” she explains. “Back when we used all our teeth and stuff. When we, um, what’s it you do?”
“Chew?”
“Right, when we did that.”
His confused frown doesn’t fade. “But weres still chew.”
“Yeah, but weres weren’t common either, back when this was written. You wouldn’t believe it, but right now? This is them having a voice.”
“I thought they were an underrepresented minority,” he says. “Minorities, plural, technically.” He does this sometimes, comes up with things he probably shouldn’t know.
“How d’you know that?” she asks yet again, fully expecting his usual non-answer.
“It was on the telly yesternight,” he says.
She stares at him a bit.
“I can hear it through the vent,” he says. “Not all the time, but sometimes.”
“We do turn it off,” she says.
“Oh.”
They fall silent for a bit, his topic covered and hers yet to be addressed. She’s in here early this evening, has yet to change into her clothes for work.
She makes sure to sit still and calm.
He starts to shift around a bit. He was like this yesternight, too. Fidgety.
The longer she sits, the more nervous a look he gets. She kind of hopes he’ll come to the conclusion on his own, because she doesn’t much trust herself not to make a mess of it all. She knows what she’s meant to do, vaguely, by theory on her computer is very different from practice on Freckles. There’s colour in his cheeks now, enough, and if he has the energy to restlessly move around, he has energy to spare.
“So,” he says at last. His eyes are a brown accusation.
She tries to think of what to say. There are threats and gestures of imposing confidence and all sorts of things she’d feel ridiculous trying. There’s reassurance, which would be a bit less strange, but not very effective with him.
“Please,” she says. Just that. Just that one word.
For a long minute, there’s nothing but his eyes.
He closes them, after, and unbuttons the collar of the jimjams. He tilts his head to his left, tension standing up the tendons in his neck. Her mother’s prints are long faded in his skin, the scabs fallen.
She sets her hand on the top of his head, so terribly soft, and tilts him gently the other way. She’s a rightie, needs the left side.
Sitting cross-legged, refusing to hunch or lean, he makes her come to him. Her hands settle on his shoulders as she kneels, leaning forward. His tension will hurt him, she knows, just as his rising pulse will aid her.
She sets her lips against his skin. Her weight is on her knees and on her hands, pressing into the floor and into him. He remains still, so ready and able. He’s healthy enough for this, has to be. She breathes through her nose, waiting for him to stop shaking.
“Lupin was one of my favourites,” she says, voice soft as her breath. “Yeah, I know, really inaccurate portrayal, but a great guy.”
He forces each exhalation to slow, stretches each inhalation. His neck is long and pale and meant for this.
Evidently Deviltown, Part 5.1bendingsignpostJuly 17 2011, 22:46:37 UTC
“Who’s your favourite so far?” she asks.
“Hagrid,” he whispers.
“How come?”
“He.... He makes everything better,” he says, tentative but no longer trembling beneath her hands, against her cheek. “And I like his pockets.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“What about Dumbledore?” she asks.
“Well-”
She bites, quick and sharp. He spills over her tongue, over her lips, and she has to suck and swallow, has to be quick about it if she doesn’t want to dribble everywhere. She’s always been sure not to waste anything, money as tight as it is, but the thought of wasting him is even worse. Her thumbs rub circles into his shoulders and he doesn’t try to force her off before she’s ready. He slumps, slowly.
When she licks across the puncture marks, he’s still talking about Dumbledore. He looks away when she pulls back, drops his eyes and leaves them on the floor until she wipes her mouth clean and folds in her teeth. All the same, he’s leaning more on her now than she is on him.
“I love him and Dobby,” she says, pulling out the antiseptic wipe from her Flesh kit. He flinches at the first touch, then grits his teeth. The plaster goes on after. She holds her hand against it for a minute. “He comes back, later. Dobby, I mean.”
“That’s nice,” he says, low on articulation. He’s tilting a bit, too.
“Now you lie down and we put your feet up, okay?”
“Okay.”
He lets her guide him down. She bundles up the blanket and sticks it under his feet. It’s not much, but it’s that or the books and those are old and fragile.
Before she leaves for work, she gets him water and brings out the orange bottle of juice with the obvious label. She breaks the seal on it for him, not sure he’ll be able to do it himself. She brings along some food as well. She thinks it’s a fruit, but she can’t keep track of all the names of these things.
Lying there, still and ashen, he makes her stomach clench. She burps up a little into her mouth and swallows it resolutely back down.
In the pattern of her recent days, she leaves, locks the door, goes to her room, and returns. Eyes closed, breathing steadily, he doesn’t so much as try to look at her or track her movements. She comes right up to him without him recoiling and doesn’t know if it’s because he’s so drained or if he simply knows she’s done with him for today.
She sets the small radio down beside his hand and tunes it until there’s no static. She moves his hand, presses his thumb against the tuning gear. “You change the station with this. Don’t turn it up too loud or Mum will hear and take it, probably. And don’t forget your juice, I’ve read that’s important.”
Privately, she thinks it’s about time. She knows she’s bewildered by him. Internet searches for Flesh behaviour don’t come close to touching on him. She blames it on the prototype aspect of him. He’s unsuccessful for industrial usage, has to be. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been sold privately. And there’s definitely something off about him, everything off about him, which explains the steep discount Jackie caught.
“What about?” she asks, sitting down across from him. He likes being able to see her, she’s found. Anything else makes him a bit jumpy.
“Everyone in these books eats solid food, but they’re surprised when Lupin is a werewolf,” he says.
“It’s an old book,” she says.
“I can see that,” he agrees, “but it doesn’t make sense.”
“No, I mean, it’s really old. It’s from before the Turning,” she explains. “Back when we used all our teeth and stuff. When we, um, what’s it you do?”
“Chew?”
“Right, when we did that.”
His confused frown doesn’t fade. “But weres still chew.”
“Yeah, but weres weren’t common either, back when this was written. You wouldn’t believe it, but right now? This is them having a voice.”
“I thought they were an underrepresented minority,” he says. “Minorities, plural, technically.” He does this sometimes, comes up with things he probably shouldn’t know.
“How d’you know that?” she asks yet again, fully expecting his usual non-answer.
“It was on the telly yesternight,” he says.
She stares at him a bit.
“I can hear it through the vent,” he says. “Not all the time, but sometimes.”
“We do turn it off,” she says.
“Oh.”
They fall silent for a bit, his topic covered and hers yet to be addressed. She’s in here early this evening, has yet to change into her clothes for work.
She makes sure to sit still and calm.
He starts to shift around a bit. He was like this yesternight, too. Fidgety.
The longer she sits, the more nervous a look he gets. She kind of hopes he’ll come to the conclusion on his own, because she doesn’t much trust herself not to make a mess of it all. She knows what she’s meant to do, vaguely, by theory on her computer is very different from practice on Freckles. There’s colour in his cheeks now, enough, and if he has the energy to restlessly move around, he has energy to spare.
“So,” he says at last. His eyes are a brown accusation.
She tries to think of what to say. There are threats and gestures of imposing confidence and all sorts of things she’d feel ridiculous trying. There’s reassurance, which would be a bit less strange, but not very effective with him.
“Please,” she says. Just that. Just that one word.
For a long minute, there’s nothing but his eyes.
He closes them, after, and unbuttons the collar of the jimjams. He tilts his head to his left, tension standing up the tendons in his neck. Her mother’s prints are long faded in his skin, the scabs fallen.
She sets her hand on the top of his head, so terribly soft, and tilts him gently the other way. She’s a rightie, needs the left side.
Sitting cross-legged, refusing to hunch or lean, he makes her come to him. Her hands settle on his shoulders as she kneels, leaning forward. His tension will hurt him, she knows, just as his rising pulse will aid her.
She sets her lips against his skin. Her weight is on her knees and on her hands, pressing into the floor and into him. He remains still, so ready and able. He’s healthy enough for this, has to be. She breathes through her nose, waiting for him to stop shaking.
“Lupin was one of my favourites,” she says, voice soft as her breath. “Yeah, I know, really inaccurate portrayal, but a great guy.”
He forces each exhalation to slow, stretches each inhalation. His neck is long and pale and meant for this.
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“Hagrid,” he whispers.
“How come?”
“He.... He makes everything better,” he says, tentative but no longer trembling beneath her hands, against her cheek. “And I like his pockets.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“What about Dumbledore?” she asks.
“Well-”
She bites, quick and sharp. He spills over her tongue, over her lips, and she has to suck and swallow, has to be quick about it if she doesn’t want to dribble everywhere. She’s always been sure not to waste anything, money as tight as it is, but the thought of wasting him is even worse. Her thumbs rub circles into his shoulders and he doesn’t try to force her off before she’s ready. He slumps, slowly.
When she licks across the puncture marks, he’s still talking about Dumbledore. He looks away when she pulls back, drops his eyes and leaves them on the floor until she wipes her mouth clean and folds in her teeth. All the same, he’s leaning more on her now than she is on him.
“I love him and Dobby,” she says, pulling out the antiseptic wipe from her Flesh kit. He flinches at the first touch, then grits his teeth. The plaster goes on after. She holds her hand against it for a minute. “He comes back, later. Dobby, I mean.”
“That’s nice,” he says, low on articulation. He’s tilting a bit, too.
“Now you lie down and we put your feet up, okay?”
“Okay.”
He lets her guide him down. She bundles up the blanket and sticks it under his feet. It’s not much, but it’s that or the books and those are old and fragile.
Before she leaves for work, she gets him water and brings out the orange bottle of juice with the obvious label. She breaks the seal on it for him, not sure he’ll be able to do it himself. She brings along some food as well. She thinks it’s a fruit, but she can’t keep track of all the names of these things.
Lying there, still and ashen, he makes her stomach clench. She burps up a little into her mouth and swallows it resolutely back down.
In the pattern of her recent days, she leaves, locks the door, goes to her room, and returns. Eyes closed, breathing steadily, he doesn’t so much as try to look at her or track her movements. She comes right up to him without him recoiling and doesn’t know if it’s because he’s so drained or if he simply knows she’s done with him for today.
She sets the small radio down beside his hand and tunes it until there’s no static. She moves his hand, presses his thumb against the tuning gear. “You change the station with this. Don’t turn it up too loud or Mum will hear and take it, probably. And don’t forget your juice, I’ve read that’s important.”
Faintly, he hums agreement, or maybe he whimpers.
She goes to work and tries not to think about it.
It’s hard, though, when the daydreams won’t stop.
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