Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2011-03-25 02:46 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2011-03-25 02:46 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: State of Grace: the Despair That Slumber'd remix (1/4)
Title: State of Grace: the Despair That Slumber'd remix (1/4)
Fandom: The Colbert Report/His Dark Materials
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: If you've read State of Grace, you know the drill.
Inspired by this epic subthread withw_thit on what TCR, and specifically the Expectingverse, would be like if everyone had daemons.
What follows is a sampling of scenes rewritten to fit that universe: one from Expecting, a bunch from the beginning of State of Grace. Stephen's daemon appears to be a kinkajou named Honeypie. But the closer he gets to Jon, the more of the truth begins to slip out.
The title phrase, like "his dark materials", is from Paradise Lost (book 4, line 23):
Now conscience wakes despair
That slumber'd,—wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue.
One | Two | Three | Four&.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Jon crouched by the side of the bed; Stephen hardly noticed, as the bundle was placed in his arms. He carefully opened the fluffy pastel blanket and counted.
Ten fingers. Ten toes. One daemon, a tiny hairless pink thing too small to place its species, curled up by his side.
"He's perfect, Jon," whispered Stephen. "He's perfect — oh!" His finger had brushed the little hand, which was now gripping it tightly. He tugged, very gently, and the baby gripped harder. "Look at that! You've got me, George. You're perfect and you're darling and you've got me."
He hadn't held any of his other four children this soon after birth, hadn't even been in the state for at least one of them, and he had never realized that they got this small. So for a few minutes he was kept busy just touching, tracing the little ears and the tiny pouting lips and the button nose and cooing all the while; and George's dark eyes were locked on him as if he were the most fascinating thing in the world, which was a look he got all the time from audiences but somehow this was better.
Then the daemon, eyes still closed, let out the faintest of snuffles and grasped with near-translucent paws at George's chubby arm. "That's one of the reflexes," breathed Stephen, never gladder that he had done his reading. "Helps keep them together — Jon, what if it's not enough? What if I drop her somewhere while I'm carrying the baby, and don't notice until it's too late?"
"You won't drop her," said Jon's voice by his side, soothing murmur blending into his daemon's purr. "But if you did, even baby daemons know what's right. She'd turn into a moth or a dragonfly and be back at George's side before you knew it."
He was too relieved even to pretend that he'd known that already. "Good. Good. Oh good."
And then it was back to the tracing and the touching and he felt that he could never get tired of feeling that little hand wrap around his finger....
"Stephen," said Jon at last, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
What a question. How could he not be? "I'm perfect, Jon. Never better."
"C-sections don't take ten minutes. You were brought in two hours ago. And I know Honeypie's never been the most active, but she shouldn't be missing this." (Stephen didn't have to look at the woven basket beside him to know that the kinkajou daemon was curled up on its cushion, still fast asleep.) "What happened? Were there complications?"
"Oh, no, nothing like that."
"Then what?"
"Come on, Jon, think about it. What's the date?"
"The...third?"
"No, I went into labor on the third. But it was so close to midnight that I told the doctors to hold off."
The room fell silent; even Avi's purr ground to a halt. For the first time Stephen took his eyes off of George to look at Jon. His face was unreadable.
"You," he said at last, "put yourself through an extra hour of labor...."
"Well, I didn't know it," replied Stephen quickly. "I was on as much medication as is legally possible. Didn't feel a thing."
"So you put us through an hour of absolute panic, with no idea whether you or the baby were even still alive, while you lay there drugged to the gills, just so you could give birth on the Fourth of July?"
A little trickle of unfamiliar insight began to make its way through Stephen's still-fogged mind. "Um," he said hesitantly. "Yes. That is what I did."
And Jon leaned over and murmured, too low for the doctors and their daemons (except of course Moreau's falcon) to hear, "I could slap you right now."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
The baby was still fussy after being changed and wiped down, so Stephen carried him from room to room, rocking him gently and pointing out the various expensive materials used in the furniture.
He was finally starting to doze when Stephen strolled through one of the doors (mahogany-paneled, with designs in gold leaf) and found Charlene curled up by a window, Renoir perched on her wrist and both of them still as statues, looking out across the city skyline.
"Out there are the businesses," explained Stephen in a whisper. "That's where people like Jon's big brother make all the money. You've got two big brothers of your own, you know. Maybe you'll get to meet them soon." He stroked George's feathery hairline, then looked up at his cousin. "It's a great view, isn't it?"
"I must be crazy," murmured Charlene.
Stephen frowned. "Because you don't like the view?"
"I'm married," continued Charlene, only half-sounding like she was listening. "I could have just moved in. You could have let the rumors work on their own. There are six different clips on YouTube of you giving me a horrible awkward kiss. What am I doing?"
Stephen thought it had been a fine kiss, and almost said so—but before he could get the words out, Honeypie gave him a discreet scratch on the ankle.
Instead, he sat down on one of the (leather and brass) armchairs near the window and said, "Remember that time Uncle Mark undercooked the turkey at the Fourth of July cookout?"
A beat later, Charlene replied, "What, the one when everyone got food poisoning except Laura, because she had decided at college that she was going to be a vegetarian?"
"And us," corrected Stephen, adjusting George to settle more comfortably in the crook of his arm.
"And us, right." She paused. "Wait, why us?"
"You twisted your ankle, remember? Out by the stream."
At last Charlene turned to look at him. She had changed out of the wedding dress hours ago in favor of a set of lavender pajamas; her hands were folded over the slightly worn knees. "And I told you to go get my parents, but you wouldn't leave?"
"There might have been bears out there!" protested Stephen. "Renoir couldn't turn into anything tougher than a bobcat, and even then it was a pretty puny bobcat. I wasn't about to leave you two alone!"
Charlene smirked, not unfondly. "Oh, right. Like Shasta could turn into anything that much bigger."
"Honeypie."
"What?"
Stephen nudged the already-dozing kinkajou with his toes. "Her name is Honeypie."
Charlene frowned at Renoir; the hummingbird shook his tiny head. "That was her nickname, sure, but her name was—"
"Stop it!" hissed Stephen, as loudly as he dared. "I think I know my own daemon's—"
He choked on the words. Mercifully, Charlene was already backing down. "All right, all right. So you're saying we owe you and...and Honeypie for saving us from bears?"
"And food poisoning! And you never paid me back for either."
"I did so! Remember when I brought all those shells back from the beach, and taught you how to make googley-eyed clams?"
"Whooziwhatnow?"
"Googley-eyed clams," repeated Charlene, gesturing in the air. "You take a clam shell, and you glue two little googly eyes on it, and maybe draw a smile, or...what are you looking so blank for? You made dozens of them! Hung around the elementary school playground, tried to sell them to the little kids."
"I—I did not," insisted Stephen, somewhat uneasily. She sounded awfully certain, but he didn't remember it at all. And anyway, it sure didn't sound like him. Googley-eyed clams? Honestly.
"Well, I'm sure I can think of something else," declared Charlene, relaxing back against the window frame with a nostalgic smile. "Oh, I know! Remember the Christmas pageant in seventh grade...?"
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Jon always flinched in sympathy when Stephen grabbed Honeypie around the middle before tearing off somewhere. He had never known anyone who handled their daemon quite that roughly.
"I'm glad you never tried that with me," sighed Avi, flopping down on the kitchen floor and twitching her tail. "I would've taken your hand off."
"What they do between themselves is their business," said Jon, pulling apart the stack of plates to make sure none of them were broken. "Besides, you haven't been small enough for me to try it since I was thirteen."
A lynx might be the, well, the Jon Stewart of big cats when it came to size, but Avi was still on the big side for a daemon. And no matter how inconvenient that could be sometimes, Jon wouldn't have taken her any other way, especially since she was just the right size to let Tracey's otter daemon curl up between her paws and enjoy a tongue bath.
And Stephen's daemon had just spent the whole of dinner fitting just as perfectly into the same spot....
Speak of the devil: a low murmur began coming over the baby monitor. "Is there anyone else on this level?" asked Jon.
Avi raised her head, ears swiveling. "All clear."
Jon promptly cranked up the volume.
"You did that on purpose, didn't you," grumbled Stephen, sounding—not angry, exactly, but more annoyed than Jon had ever heard him with George. (Or maybe he was talking to Honeypie? But she hadn't done anything in the first place.) "You didn't need to, you know. I was handling it."
Oblivious, the baby kept right on fussing. Stephen sighed, and then, abruptly, began to sing:
"Hush, little baby, don't say a word
Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird
And if that mockingbird don't sing
Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring
And if that ring he can't afford
Papa's gonna buy an On Notice board
And if that board should get filled out
Papa's gonna buy you a daemon hat
And if your daemon's head's too small
Papa's gonna buy you some croquet balls
And if you just don't like croquet
Papa's gonna buy you Axe Body Spray
'Cause Papa's sponsors say it's neat
(Though Papa thinks it smells like feet)
And if that spray won't get you girls
That's okay, because you're too young to start dating anyway. Give it time. They'll be falling all over you before you know it."
Jon had considered himself a nice guy to start with, but he could have sworn he felt his heart grow three sizes that night. On a low tone, careful not to drown out a single note of the song, Avi started purring.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Jon had always thought he had a fairly robust libido, but it was his partner who half dragged, half carried him up the stairs, and all but threw him onto the bed before tumbling down after him. And though Avi was rolling about on the floor like an overgrown kitten, Honeypie was suddenly friskier still, darting and dodging and climbing all over her.
"Where do you get all this energy?" gasped Jon, as his T-shirt was dragged up over his head.
"One of the perks of being young and virile," declared the other man, before pressing quizzical fingers into the soft roll of Jon's gut. "Unlike you, I see."
"Hey!" giggled Jon, squirming ticklishly. "I'm not the one who just had a—"
He broke off with a groan as Stephen's body arched against his. So much for rational argument. Or coherent thought, for that matter.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
They ended up sitting on the steps of the back porch in awkward silence, taking turns throwing Avi's favorite leather cat toy. They couldn't hurl it too far or Jon would have to get up and walk closer before the daemon could retrieve it, but when tossed high in the air it was still an interesting target. Maggie sat in the dirt at their feet, happily ripping up clods of grass, while own her daemon in mole-shape dug a hole beside her.
"I'm sorry," said Jon presently.
"For...?" prompted Tracey.
"Okay, you got me. I'm not entirely sure. But you're frustrated, so I figured apologizing was a safe bet."
That earned him a smile. A good sign.
Her daemon wasn't about to let him off that easy. "You realize, of course," he said, draping himself over Tracey's legs, "that your boyfriend is completely insane."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Slowly, his much-joked-about decrepitude starting to catch up with him, Jon eased himself up on his elbows. "Stephen...."
The word startled Stephen into action. He scrambled backwards, half sliding and half tumbling to the ground, grabbing for his discarded boxers, eagle-shaped slippers, the tassel of his robe.
"Don't follow me, Jon," he begged, clinging to these as he got to his feet. "Please don't follow me."
And then he was out the door. He hadn't grabbed for Honeypie, but he didn't need to; she darted arrowlike after him.
Avivah, who moments ago had been rolling on her back like a kitten, leaped onto the bed and rocked her full adult weight against him. He clung gratefully to the support, burying his face in her soft fur and muffling a scream against her side.
"What did I say?" he choked. "What did I do wrong?"
"I don't know. I don't know!" Avi desperately wanted to yowl; Jon could hear her claws ripping through the sheets. "Honeypie, she was fine, she was playful, I've never seen her so...so awake!"
Clutching at her shoulders, Jon caught his breath as his fingertips dragged across a tuft of loose fur, touched on something sticky. "Avi, sweetheart, what's this? Did she bite you?"
"That—well—yes, but—that was before," stammered Avi, trembling in his arms. "Every time—she bites me when you come. I thought it had to be a kink thing...what if it isn't? What if she was trying to tell me off, and I didn't listen? What if it's my fault?"
"Don't say that," hissed Jon. His daemon, the heart of his heart, taking the blame? No. He wouldn't hear it. If anyone had done wrong here, it was him.
He just didn't have the slightest idea how to make it better.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
—and the next thing he knew, he was in the car.
The familiar setting, the show logo printed on the seat in front of him, even the waiting bottled water in his favorite brand served as instant anchors. The shame and the terror and the helplessness were still there, just hazy, muffled, like Honeypie was being a proper daemon for once and soothing them down.
He could see for himself that the kinkajou was hunched and shaking on the seat beside him, but the feeling persisted. Someone else was curled up just out of sight, wings draped protectively over his shoulders.
He hurts you.
"It isn't him," whispered Stephen, staring at the logo in front of him, eyes tracing the sharp contours of his own name. "It isn't Jon's fault."
He hurts you, he hurts you, he makes you afraid when he's around and you need to keep him away. Stop falling apart. Listen to me. Let me protect you.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Stephen was cowering on the couch when Jon and Avi finally appeared.
He looked up as his visitors came in, but it was with shoulders hunched, legs pulled together, fists clenched on his knees; he could feel the streaks of dried tears on his face. Jon shut the door, taking the extra moment to make sure it was locked.
Then he said, "Tyrone?"
Hearing the name, something in Stephen snapped. He ducked his head as the room blurred around him, gasping for air, afraid he might blank out at any second—
"Stephen!" Jon sprinted to the couch and dropped to his knees. "Stephen—oh, God, Stephen. Come back to me, Stephen."
Stephen grabbed his hands, wringing them frantically: warm and solid, broad and long-fingered, soft and brushed with fur. Real.
"Hi," he whispered.
"Hi," breathed Jon. "Stephen, shhh, it's gonna be okay. Just breathe. Where's Honeypie?"
"Dunno," gulped Stephen. "She didn't want me to send it, but I did, so she hid, and—"
"Find her," snapped Jon to Avi. The lynx, already sniffing intently, leaped up and began searching the room almost before the words were out of his mouth.
(Not that she was necessarily in the room, but of course Stephen couldn't tell them that....)
"I watched it," he continued, the whole of his focus back on Stephen. "Well, the first five minutes. Couldn't finish."
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, Stephen, there's no reason for you to be sorry."
He shook his head; he could think of plenty. "I'm sorry," he repeated, for dragging you into this, "I'm sorry," that I still haven't told you the truth about my daemon, "I'm sorry," for confusing you, "I'm sorry," for hurting you, "I'm sorry," for not being strong enough to protect you, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...."
He closed his eyes, bent over, tried to fold in on himself; he felt Jon climb onto the couch beside him, felt arms wrap around him, apologized for needing it; he started to cry again, and apologized for that too.
Fandom: The Colbert Report/His Dark Materials
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: If you've read State of Grace, you know the drill.
Inspired by this epic subthread with
w_thit on what TCR, and specifically the Expectingverse, would be like if everyone had daemons.What follows is a sampling of scenes rewritten to fit that universe: one from Expecting, a bunch from the beginning of State of Grace. Stephen's daemon appears to be a kinkajou named Honeypie. But the closer he gets to Jon, the more of the truth begins to slip out.
The title phrase, like "his dark materials", is from Paradise Lost (book 4, line 23):
Now conscience wakes despair
That slumber'd,—wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
(Expecting: Boy, "George")
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Jon crouched by the side of the bed; Stephen hardly noticed, as the bundle was placed in his arms. He carefully opened the fluffy pastel blanket and counted.
Ten fingers. Ten toes. One daemon, a tiny hairless pink thing too small to place its species, curled up by his side.
"He's perfect, Jon," whispered Stephen. "He's perfect — oh!" His finger had brushed the little hand, which was now gripping it tightly. He tugged, very gently, and the baby gripped harder. "Look at that! You've got me, George. You're perfect and you're darling and you've got me."
He hadn't held any of his other four children this soon after birth, hadn't even been in the state for at least one of them, and he had never realized that they got this small. So for a few minutes he was kept busy just touching, tracing the little ears and the tiny pouting lips and the button nose and cooing all the while; and George's dark eyes were locked on him as if he were the most fascinating thing in the world, which was a look he got all the time from audiences but somehow this was better.
Then the daemon, eyes still closed, let out the faintest of snuffles and grasped with near-translucent paws at George's chubby arm. "That's one of the reflexes," breathed Stephen, never gladder that he had done his reading. "Helps keep them together — Jon, what if it's not enough? What if I drop her somewhere while I'm carrying the baby, and don't notice until it's too late?"
"You won't drop her," said Jon's voice by his side, soothing murmur blending into his daemon's purr. "But if you did, even baby daemons know what's right. She'd turn into a moth or a dragonfly and be back at George's side before you knew it."
He was too relieved even to pretend that he'd known that already. "Good. Good. Oh good."
And then it was back to the tracing and the touching and he felt that he could never get tired of feeling that little hand wrap around his finger....
"Stephen," said Jon at last, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
What a question. How could he not be? "I'm perfect, Jon. Never better."
"C-sections don't take ten minutes. You were brought in two hours ago. And I know Honeypie's never been the most active, but she shouldn't be missing this." (Stephen didn't have to look at the woven basket beside him to know that the kinkajou daemon was curled up on its cushion, still fast asleep.) "What happened? Were there complications?"
"Oh, no, nothing like that."
"Then what?"
"Come on, Jon, think about it. What's the date?"
"The...third?"
"No, I went into labor on the third. But it was so close to midnight that I told the doctors to hold off."
The room fell silent; even Avi's purr ground to a halt. For the first time Stephen took his eyes off of George to look at Jon. His face was unreadable.
"You," he said at last, "put yourself through an extra hour of labor...."
"Well, I didn't know it," replied Stephen quickly. "I was on as much medication as is legally possible. Didn't feel a thing."
"So you put us through an hour of absolute panic, with no idea whether you or the baby were even still alive, while you lay there drugged to the gills, just so you could give birth on the Fourth of July?"
A little trickle of unfamiliar insight began to make its way through Stephen's still-fogged mind. "Um," he said hesitantly. "Yes. That is what I did."
And Jon leaned over and murmured, too low for the doctors and their daemons (except of course Moreau's falcon) to hear, "I could slap you right now."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
(1: You'll Never Be Alone Again)
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
The baby was still fussy after being changed and wiped down, so Stephen carried him from room to room, rocking him gently and pointing out the various expensive materials used in the furniture.
He was finally starting to doze when Stephen strolled through one of the doors (mahogany-paneled, with designs in gold leaf) and found Charlene curled up by a window, Renoir perched on her wrist and both of them still as statues, looking out across the city skyline.
"Out there are the businesses," explained Stephen in a whisper. "That's where people like Jon's big brother make all the money. You've got two big brothers of your own, you know. Maybe you'll get to meet them soon." He stroked George's feathery hairline, then looked up at his cousin. "It's a great view, isn't it?"
"I must be crazy," murmured Charlene.
Stephen frowned. "Because you don't like the view?"
"I'm married," continued Charlene, only half-sounding like she was listening. "I could have just moved in. You could have let the rumors work on their own. There are six different clips on YouTube of you giving me a horrible awkward kiss. What am I doing?"
Stephen thought it had been a fine kiss, and almost said so—but before he could get the words out, Honeypie gave him a discreet scratch on the ankle.
Instead, he sat down on one of the (leather and brass) armchairs near the window and said, "Remember that time Uncle Mark undercooked the turkey at the Fourth of July cookout?"
A beat later, Charlene replied, "What, the one when everyone got food poisoning except Laura, because she had decided at college that she was going to be a vegetarian?"
"And us," corrected Stephen, adjusting George to settle more comfortably in the crook of his arm.
"And us, right." She paused. "Wait, why us?"
"You twisted your ankle, remember? Out by the stream."
At last Charlene turned to look at him. She had changed out of the wedding dress hours ago in favor of a set of lavender pajamas; her hands were folded over the slightly worn knees. "And I told you to go get my parents, but you wouldn't leave?"
"There might have been bears out there!" protested Stephen. "Renoir couldn't turn into anything tougher than a bobcat, and even then it was a pretty puny bobcat. I wasn't about to leave you two alone!"
Charlene smirked, not unfondly. "Oh, right. Like Shasta could turn into anything that much bigger."
"Honeypie."
"What?"
Stephen nudged the already-dozing kinkajou with his toes. "Her name is Honeypie."
Charlene frowned at Renoir; the hummingbird shook his tiny head. "That was her nickname, sure, but her name was—"
"Stop it!" hissed Stephen, as loudly as he dared. "I think I know my own daemon's—"
He choked on the words. Mercifully, Charlene was already backing down. "All right, all right. So you're saying we owe you and...and Honeypie for saving us from bears?"
"And food poisoning! And you never paid me back for either."
"I did so! Remember when I brought all those shells back from the beach, and taught you how to make googley-eyed clams?"
"Whooziwhatnow?"
"Googley-eyed clams," repeated Charlene, gesturing in the air. "You take a clam shell, and you glue two little googly eyes on it, and maybe draw a smile, or...what are you looking so blank for? You made dozens of them! Hung around the elementary school playground, tried to sell them to the little kids."
"I—I did not," insisted Stephen, somewhat uneasily. She sounded awfully certain, but he didn't remember it at all. And anyway, it sure didn't sound like him. Googley-eyed clams? Honestly.
"Well, I'm sure I can think of something else," declared Charlene, relaxing back against the window frame with a nostalgic smile. "Oh, I know! Remember the Christmas pageant in seventh grade...?"
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
(2: Look Who's Coming To Dinner)
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Jon always flinched in sympathy when Stephen grabbed Honeypie around the middle before tearing off somewhere. He had never known anyone who handled their daemon quite that roughly.
"I'm glad you never tried that with me," sighed Avi, flopping down on the kitchen floor and twitching her tail. "I would've taken your hand off."
"What they do between themselves is their business," said Jon, pulling apart the stack of plates to make sure none of them were broken. "Besides, you haven't been small enough for me to try it since I was thirteen."
A lynx might be the, well, the Jon Stewart of big cats when it came to size, but Avi was still on the big side for a daemon. And no matter how inconvenient that could be sometimes, Jon wouldn't have taken her any other way, especially since she was just the right size to let Tracey's otter daemon curl up between her paws and enjoy a tongue bath.
And Stephen's daemon had just spent the whole of dinner fitting just as perfectly into the same spot....
Speak of the devil: a low murmur began coming over the baby monitor. "Is there anyone else on this level?" asked Jon.
Avi raised her head, ears swiveling. "All clear."
Jon promptly cranked up the volume.
"You did that on purpose, didn't you," grumbled Stephen, sounding—not angry, exactly, but more annoyed than Jon had ever heard him with George. (Or maybe he was talking to Honeypie? But she hadn't done anything in the first place.) "You didn't need to, you know. I was handling it."
Oblivious, the baby kept right on fussing. Stephen sighed, and then, abruptly, began to sing:
"Hush, little baby, don't say a word
Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird
And if that mockingbird don't sing
Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring
And if that ring he can't afford
Papa's gonna buy an On Notice board
And if that board should get filled out
Papa's gonna buy you a daemon hat
And if your daemon's head's too small
Papa's gonna buy you some croquet balls
And if you just don't like croquet
Papa's gonna buy you Axe Body Spray
'Cause Papa's sponsors say it's neat
(Though Papa thinks it smells like feet)
And if that spray won't get you girls
That's okay, because you're too young to start dating anyway. Give it time. They'll be falling all over you before you know it."
Jon had considered himself a nice guy to start with, but he could have sworn he felt his heart grow three sizes that night. On a low tone, careful not to drown out a single note of the song, Avi started purring.
Jon had always thought he had a fairly robust libido, but it was his partner who half dragged, half carried him up the stairs, and all but threw him onto the bed before tumbling down after him. And though Avi was rolling about on the floor like an overgrown kitten, Honeypie was suddenly friskier still, darting and dodging and climbing all over her.
"Where do you get all this energy?" gasped Jon, as his T-shirt was dragged up over his head.
"One of the perks of being young and virile," declared the other man, before pressing quizzical fingers into the soft roll of Jon's gut. "Unlike you, I see."
"Hey!" giggled Jon, squirming ticklishly. "I'm not the one who just had a—"
He broke off with a groan as Stephen's body arched against his. So much for rational argument. Or coherent thought, for that matter.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
(4: Summer Sun, Something's Begun)
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
They ended up sitting on the steps of the back porch in awkward silence, taking turns throwing Avi's favorite leather cat toy. They couldn't hurl it too far or Jon would have to get up and walk closer before the daemon could retrieve it, but when tossed high in the air it was still an interesting target. Maggie sat in the dirt at their feet, happily ripping up clods of grass, while own her daemon in mole-shape dug a hole beside her.
"I'm sorry," said Jon presently.
"For...?" prompted Tracey.
"Okay, you got me. I'm not entirely sure. But you're frustrated, so I figured apologizing was a safe bet."
That earned him a smile. A good sign.
Her daemon wasn't about to let him off that easy. "You realize, of course," he said, draping himself over Tracey's legs, "that your boyfriend is completely insane."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
(5: Bananas Are Not The Only Fruit)
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Slowly, his much-joked-about decrepitude starting to catch up with him, Jon eased himself up on his elbows. "Stephen...."
The word startled Stephen into action. He scrambled backwards, half sliding and half tumbling to the ground, grabbing for his discarded boxers, eagle-shaped slippers, the tassel of his robe.
"Don't follow me, Jon," he begged, clinging to these as he got to his feet. "Please don't follow me."
And then he was out the door. He hadn't grabbed for Honeypie, but he didn't need to; she darted arrowlike after him.
Avivah, who moments ago had been rolling on her back like a kitten, leaped onto the bed and rocked her full adult weight against him. He clung gratefully to the support, burying his face in her soft fur and muffling a scream against her side.
"What did I say?" he choked. "What did I do wrong?"
"I don't know. I don't know!" Avi desperately wanted to yowl; Jon could hear her claws ripping through the sheets. "Honeypie, she was fine, she was playful, I've never seen her so...so awake!"
Clutching at her shoulders, Jon caught his breath as his fingertips dragged across a tuft of loose fur, touched on something sticky. "Avi, sweetheart, what's this? Did she bite you?"
"That—well—yes, but—that was before," stammered Avi, trembling in his arms. "Every time—she bites me when you come. I thought it had to be a kink thing...what if it isn't? What if she was trying to tell me off, and I didn't listen? What if it's my fault?"
"Don't say that," hissed Jon. His daemon, the heart of his heart, taking the blame? No. He wouldn't hear it. If anyone had done wrong here, it was him.
He just didn't have the slightest idea how to make it better.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
(9: Things Fall Apart)
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
—and the next thing he knew, he was in the car.
The familiar setting, the show logo printed on the seat in front of him, even the waiting bottled water in his favorite brand served as instant anchors. The shame and the terror and the helplessness were still there, just hazy, muffled, like Honeypie was being a proper daemon for once and soothing them down.
He could see for himself that the kinkajou was hunched and shaking on the seat beside him, but the feeling persisted. Someone else was curled up just out of sight, wings draped protectively over his shoulders.
He hurts you.
"It isn't him," whispered Stephen, staring at the logo in front of him, eyes tracing the sharp contours of his own name. "It isn't Jon's fault."
He hurts you, he hurts you, he makes you afraid when he's around and you need to keep him away. Stop falling apart. Listen to me. Let me protect you.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
(10: Some Revelation)
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Stephen was cowering on the couch when Jon and Avi finally appeared.
He looked up as his visitors came in, but it was with shoulders hunched, legs pulled together, fists clenched on his knees; he could feel the streaks of dried tears on his face. Jon shut the door, taking the extra moment to make sure it was locked.
Then he said, "Tyrone?"
Hearing the name, something in Stephen snapped. He ducked his head as the room blurred around him, gasping for air, afraid he might blank out at any second—
"Stephen!" Jon sprinted to the couch and dropped to his knees. "Stephen—oh, God, Stephen. Come back to me, Stephen."
Stephen grabbed his hands, wringing them frantically: warm and solid, broad and long-fingered, soft and brushed with fur. Real.
"Hi," he whispered.
"Hi," breathed Jon. "Stephen, shhh, it's gonna be okay. Just breathe. Where's Honeypie?"
"Dunno," gulped Stephen. "She didn't want me to send it, but I did, so she hid, and—"
"Find her," snapped Jon to Avi. The lynx, already sniffing intently, leaped up and began searching the room almost before the words were out of his mouth.
(Not that she was necessarily in the room, but of course Stephen couldn't tell them that....)
"I watched it," he continued, the whole of his focus back on Stephen. "Well, the first five minutes. Couldn't finish."
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, Stephen, there's no reason for you to be sorry."
He shook his head; he could think of plenty. "I'm sorry," he repeated, for dragging you into this, "I'm sorry," that I still haven't told you the truth about my daemon, "I'm sorry," for confusing you, "I'm sorry," for hurting you, "I'm sorry," for not being strong enough to protect you, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...."
He closed his eyes, bent over, tried to fold in on himself; he felt Jon climb onto the couch beside him, felt arms wrap around him, apologized for needing it; he started to cry again, and apologized for that too.
\o/
Some thoughts:
-->I like how 'Honeypie' is technically his daemon's nickname.
-->I love how Sweetness really is acting as a surrogate daemon, albeit a slightly sociopathic one.
-->I do wonder why Jon couldn't feel his daemon being bitten, but maybe it got lost in all the orgasmic endorphins?
-->The fact that Honeypie doesn't appear to speak and is so separate from Stephen is making me a little ;_;
Also, we somehow ended up giving Jon different daemons and different full names, but the same nickname and the same quality of being bigger than average.
Re: \o/
Some counter-thoughts:
~...ohohohohohoho.
~Let's put it this way: there's a reason he choked on the phrase "my daemon" earlier.
~Not necessarily lost, just...blended in. Like what happens when real-world sex partners bite each other, and it's a good kind of hurt, adding to the rest of the sensation.
~Honeypie can speak, as we'll see. She just spent most of this chapter either asleep or preoccupied =3
Lol, I think I just stole the inspiration for yours. Although the idea of Jon having an extra-large daemon is only fair, all things considered.
no subject
I love all the slight differences you have here; still enough that it's recognizable as the same story, just a little tweaked. It's wonderful.
no subject
The differences are small in the beginning, then eventually they snowball. I figured I would use the second part of this to cover the end of the story, but by that point there was so much going on that it spilled over into the current total of four XD
His Dark Materials!!! Wooooo!!
I like that it adds intrigue to the story, and now I'm super curious about Honeypie.
Re: His Dark Materials!!! Wooooo!!
Honeypie has a lot of secrets, as will become clear soon enough...
no subject
no subject
Kinkajous were also new to me when
no subject
no subject
The crossover fandom is fantastic, and you should definitely check it out, if only to satisfy those cravings! It's really vivid and explicit in creating the rules for daemons -- there's a reason so many writers have grabbed the idea and adapted it to other fandoms. It hits the id just right, feels like a natural addition to anything.