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 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.”
“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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