Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2011-03-29 04:07 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2011-03-29 04:07 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: State of Grace: the Despair That Slumber'd remix (3/4)
Title: State of Grace: the Despair That Slumber'd remix (3/4)
Fandom: The Colbert Report/His Dark Materials
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: Same as on State of Grace.
Rushing toward the SoG climax from the Expectingverse-with-daemons. Stephen and company are finally out enough that they can begin to openly explore their system's rules for daemons. That still doesn't make it easy for their loved ones to accept, much less understand.
Illustrations: Jon and Avivah, Charlene and Renoir, and baby George and his daemon.
One | Two |Three | Four&.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"Can I help?"
Charlene nearly dropped the fabric softener. Stephen was standing in the door of the laundry room, looking with some trepidation at the heap of baby clothes piled on top of the gently thudding washing machine. The kinkajou was nowhere in sight.
"I could fold something," he said hopefully. "Or unfold something. What do you do in laundry rooms, exactly?"
"Where's Honeypie?" demanded Renoir.
Stephen's eyebrows lifted into a stern arch. "She's sleeping. She's always sleepy when I'm out. Do you really want to watch me carry her around now?"
"You two used to help us with chores sometimes," remembered Charlene. "When we couldn't get away until they were finished. She never had any trouble staying awake then."
"I don't remember."
"Of course not. That wasn't you in the first place, was it? Because you're the one who used to think all women like housework."
Stephen flinched. But he didn't deny it.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Halfway through a paragraph (They're not as clear cut. Soon they'll be a memory), Stephen unclasped his hand from Jon's, the better to reach possessively across Jon's stomach. "I don't want to stop," he whispered. Stevie's voice.
"Hey, honey," said Jon softly, draping his arm across Stephen's back. "We're going to have to go upstairs eventually."
"Didn't mean reading," mumbled Stevie. "I meant stopping. Like the kids stopped being with the lady in the book."
"They're still around," said Jon, trying to be reassuring in spite of a sudden stab of unease. The woman whose words he was reading had described two alters, both children, and was now implying that her healing would only be complete when both of their personalities had dissolved into hers. How long would that take for someone as deeply divided as Stephen? Was it even possible? "They're just combining into one person. They're going back to being whole."
"Doesn't sound like it. Sounds like they're going away."
"Yeah, it kind of does," admitted Jon.
"Because we're different," insisted Stevie. "We like different things. We think different ways. Tyrone likes carrots, an' I don't. Caesar does things with girls, an' Tyrone does them with boys. Stephen has Sweetness, and Tyrone has Honeypie, an' I—I—!"
At a loss for words, Jon settled for rubbing comforting circles against Stevie's shoulder blade.
The book hadn't bothered to mention whether the child alters had their own daemons; Jon had no idea if the author had assumed that as individuals they obviously did, or that as split-off parts of one soul they obviously didn't. Or could it be that their daemons had been missing like Stevie's, and their therapist simply hadn't understood the difference? Or maybe....
"Maybe that's why they did it," he said aloud. "These kids could have been just like how you are now. Maybe integration was what they needed to do in order to be reunited with their daemons. Maybe that's what you have to do to be with...with Shasta again."
The name didn't come easily. It felt almost profane, as if by speaking it he was touching what little of the daemon Stevie had left.
"I want to find my Shasta." Stevie gulped, clinging to Jon, a child seeking shelter from a nightmare. "But I...I don't want to lose my me."
"It's only a guess," Jon said quickly. "It doesn't say for sure. And even if that was what these children needed, that doesn't mean it's right for everyone. There must be lots of options. We'll keep reading until we find one for you."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"Anything else we should do before we go back out?" asked Tracey. "Bring out some more food, maybe?"
"You're thinking like the hostess," her daemon reminded her. "You're supposed to be a friendly guest, remember? ...And do you hear crying?"
Tracey pricked up her ears. It was faint, yes, but somebody was definitely wailing. Not outside, either. Upstairs.
"George," they said as one.
She took the stairs almost too fast for him to follow, sprinted down the hall, threw open the nursery door—
—and breathed a sigh of relief. Stephen was already there, bending over the crib, cupping something in twisted hands and murmuring to the sobbing infant under his breath.
"Hey," she said, when it became clear that Stephen hadn't even registered her presence. "Can I help with—?"
Stephen's head snapped up to look at her, and the words died in her throat.
Her gut knew something was wrong, but it was so jarring that at first her eyes refused to recognize it. The shape in Stephen's hands. A tiny curved shell, patterned in black and honey-gold. A baby turtle.
George's daemon.
"The baby's crying," said Sweetness.
Tracey could feel her own daemon shivering in sympathy against her ankle. "P-put her down."
"She's scared," replied Sweetness. "She has to be calm. She can't help him if she's scared. I have to make her calm."
"And it hasn't worked, has it?" countered Tracey. She tried to think of the figure as a human-shaped daemon, to no avail; even with Stephen's daemon running the body, eyes beady and hands contorted into claws, they were still Stephen's hands. Human hands. "Put her down. Just try it. You won't know if it works unless you try."
With exquisite care Sweetness placed the shell on the mattress beside George.
The baby was still wailing as a tiny yellow head poked out from one end. It moved from side to side before the whole daemon shifted into a grasshopper and began springing, not to George's side, but anxiously around the crib.
And before Sweetness could hiss at Tracey about the failure of her plan, her own daemon spoke up. "Have you checked his diaper? It smells like he could use a change."
Sweetness eyed him narrowly. "Touch him? You know I can't touch him."
"But Stephen can. If you could just get him back...."
"He's scared," snarled Sweetness. "He'll cry. If he comes back right now he'll remember and he will hurt and he will cry."
"Then let Tracey do it."
Stephen's lip curled at the otter-daemon. "If she hurts him I will eat you."
"If you threaten us, we'll leave," snapped Tracey. "Do you want help or not?"
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Spitting out the chopstick, Stephen shoved his dish aside. Before Jon knew what was happening, the other man was snatching the half-full carton of noodles out of his own hands to drop it, metal fork and all, in the trash.
"Ste—" spluttered Jon, as his immaculately besuited boyfriend straddled his thighs.
"If I said you were gay," began Stephen. He didn't finish the sentence, just arched his eyebrows expectantly.
"Well, uh, you would be close," stammered Jon. There didn't seem to be anywhere to put his hands; he ended up resting them on Stephen's hips. "I'm somewhere in the middle. I mean, I'm gay enough to, ah, to want you, but straight enough that I didn't see it coming. This is still you, right?"
"It's me!" cried Stephen, slamming the heels of his hands down on either side of Jon's head, polka-dotted navy-blue tie flapping wildly in the air between them. "It's my studio. It's my time. Answer me, Jon! You liked it? The gay stuff? Before I...before?"
"Before," echoed Jon. "When I thought it was going well."
"Did you?" Stephen jerked his head toward Avi, who sat perfectly still except for the twitching tip of her tail; glancing in her direction, Jon caught the glitter of eyes watching him from the basket where he had assumed Honeypie was catching her usual eighty winks. "She has bits of fur missing. Not so most people would notice, unless you know where to look. Honeypie's been biting, hasn't she? All that time, you were putting up with...." He brushed a hand against Jon's cheek. "I didn't want you getting hurt."
Jon tried to laugh it off. "Come on, it's not like Honeypie's the only one that's hurt us."
Face falling, Stephen jerked away.
"Now, hang on—I didn't mean—Stephen, you do realize this stuff is painful for everyone, right? Obviously it's harder for someone who's been...shamed and used, the way you have. But any time you get close to someone, you risk getting hurt. Sometimes you can't avoid it. That's just the price of admission."
"It's not risky for Tyrone," muttered Stephen, chewing on his bottom lip.
For the hundredth time, their conversations from that night ran through Jon's mind (every moment by now elaborated with mental footnotes for things he could have done better). "I think it is," he said softly. "I think he's as vulnerable as you are."
"I'm not—!" Stephen stopped on the fly, course-correcting in midair before he repeated Tyrone's line syllable for syllable. "I hate being vulnerable!"
"I know, babe. I know."
Stephen flinched. "And it's supposed to be like that? And you knew? And you did it anyway?"
"Well, yeah," said Jon. "Sometimes it's worth it."
Stephen reflexively smoothed back his tie, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it fell away from his chest the instant he let it go. "Avi? If Sweetness came out right now, could...could she...make it up to you?"
Avi and Jon exchanged a look of astonishment. While Jon was still trying to think of a graceful way to beg off, the lynx-daemon got to her feet and padded toward the couch. "Go ahead."
Stephen scrambled down from Jon's lap, pulled off his glasses, and lowered himself to the floor. Even when he was looking for it, Jon couldn't say exactly when the shift happened; it was the same stiff crouch, the same laserlike focus of gaze, but suddenly he knew that there was someone other than Stephen inhabiting it, and he couldn't have said for how long.
He tried to plead silently with Avi, to no avail. Her golden eyes said, clear as words: Quit it. At least wait until it happens before you panic.
Sweetness crept forward on all fours, while Avi took a few more steps to meet her.
Their noses touched.
Jon could have cried with relief. He felt it, all right: a frisson of discomfort, someone walking over his grave. But nothing more. Nothing even close to the violation it looked like it should be.
(And the scene when she had switched in and snarled at Tracey, when Steve and Nancy had pulled her back? How much worse had that been than it appeared? How many times had Stephen and Sweetness been put through that, because nobody knew better?)
He checked with a sudden flush of sympathy on Honeypie (still awake, hunched in her basket and riveted to the scene), then turned back to his own daemon. With Stephen's nose and lips Sweetness stroked the top of Avi's head, then moved down the slope of her neck, smoothing the fur as she went, until she reached one of the fading scars. Parting the fur with Stephen's hands, she gave the skin a tender lick.
A purr rose up from Avi's chest, and Jon's eyes fell closed.
Even when he couldn't see the tableau, the specter of wrongness lurked at its edges. But now in his mind's eye he saw clearly how it was meant to be: a raven-dark birdlike form at Avi's side, grooming her fur with its beak and soothing old wounds as best it could.
For a moment, impossible though it was, he thought he felt at the same time the brush of Stephen's lips against his own.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
A muscle in Tyrone's cheek twitched. "Don't look so worried. I'm legal now. You're in the clear."
"But still awfully young," guessed Jon, thankful for Avi rubbing against his legs, though it didn't do much against this kind of chill. A stray lock of hair had fallen in Tyrone's face; without thinking, he stretched out a hand to smooth it away. "There haven't been a lot of adults you can rely on, have there?"
Tyrone flinched; Honeypie flattened herself still closer against his chest. "Stop that!"
Jon pulled hastily back. "Stop what? Touching you?"
"No!" cried Tyrone in frustration. "Stop being so fucking gentle! If you would drag me out behind a dumpster and cover my mouth and have your way with me, I could deal with that! What am I supposed to do with this?"
"All the dangerous sex you've had, and you're scared of someone being nice?" countered Jon.
"That's not what I'm scared of!"
"Then what is?"
"I—!" Tyrone broke off—Honeypie had taken a swipe at his collarbone—then gave her a reproving squeeze and plunged on. "What do you think's going to happen when you've had enough, huh? When it finally hits what a trainwreck we are, and you realize you can't deal with it anymore? Stephen's already on the verge of cracking up trying to feel things he's not supposed to feel about you! Haven't you done enough damage already?"
While Jon was struggling not to reach for him again, and, moreover, not to freeze up entirely at the thought of the worst-case scenario, Tyrone clouded over and Stevie burst through. He took a couple of gasping breaths, then squeaked and froze when he realized the kinkajou-daemon was hanging limp in his arms.
"I'll take her," said Avivah quickly, rearing up on her hind legs and bracing her paws against the porch railing.
Shaking his head, Stevie broke out of his trance. With fumbling, uncertain movements he adjusted his grip to cradle Honeypie like a baby; she even blinked sleepily at the motion. "I-it's okay. I can hold her."
Jon sighed with relief. "Good. That's good."
"Can we go inside now?" added Stevie. "I'm cold. Please?"
With gentle grace Jon smoothed back his hair. "Of course."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"Did you bring toothpaste? I think the bathroom's out."
"What? Oh, sure." Without turning on the lights, Stephen dug quietly through two of his suitcases (why he had packed four for a trip of as many days, Charlene was afraid to ask) before joining her in the doorway and proffering his cupped hands. "Here. And this is for you too."
Taking the tube with one hand, Charlene turned over the powder-blue origami hummingbird with the other. Renoir fluttered over to perch beside it; they were about the same size and proportions, and when he lifted his wings to match its pose, they were like peas in a pod.
"It's perfect," she breathed. "When did you learn to make these?"
"I thought...it's Tyrone who's been making them...." Stephen glanced at the bottom drawer; this one, too was open, with Honeypie fast asleep amidst a pile of towels. No help there. "Didn't he learn them with you?"
"Not that I remember."
"Oh." Stephen frowned. "Well, he must have been thinking about you when it happened, at least. So you should keep it anyway."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Stephen groaned. Sweetness' presence huddled in next to him, but although he was grateful for the comfort he was in no mood to retreat. You got something to say to me, just come out with it, already, he thought into the back of his mind. I'm too tired for cryptic memories.
A few beats later, a familiar presence settled in on his other side: like Tyrone without the coiling disdain, or the penchant for mustaches. "Formidable Opponent," he said, by way of greeting.
Hi, thought Stephen muzzily. Honeypie climbed down from her perch on the headboard and curled up on the pillow; or so it seemed, although somehow she looked different. Something about the angle, maybe. Caesar Honeybee?
"Hi," said Tyrone's twin.
Is that how it looks to other people? thought Stephen. Yes, the daemon's nose definitely looked longer, as did her tail. And there seemed to be a greyish hue to her fur, with the shadows on her tail falling in dark bands. Unless that was a trick of the light? When one of you is out in my body, I mean.
"Dunno. We always look like ourselves to us." Scratching the cacomistle-daemon's head, Caesar added, "Her name's Honeybunch."
Confusing, sulked Stephen.
"Not if we stay inside."
But I would get used to it, added Stephen quickly. If you two wanted to come out more often, I wouldn't complain. We'd probably get in a lot less trouble if it was you.
"Right," muttered Honeybunch. "Like straight people are so much better and safer and less generally fucked up."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Even with Jon's lead he barely made it to one of the stiff chairs, tight fabric stretched over hard cushions in a crude parody of comfort. Anger he could ride. Adoration he could lie back and devour. Grief just cut him loose, like a small boat on a wide and choppy sea.
Honeypie lay limp where he had dropped her; Avi, marvelous Avi, bounded to the rescue.
"He's a good dog," he repeated, clinging to Jon's shirt over the crammed-together arms of their chairs. "He's sick. That's all."
Jon's hand on his arm, stroking. "That's right."
"Just a sick dog." Stephen scrubbed his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. "It happens. Dogs die all the time. It's not like—it's not—Shasta was different—"
He was close enough to feel Jon's sharp intake of breath. "Oh, Stephen. Of course it's different. You're not losing a daemon today, any of you."
"But that's why I chose him," gasped Stephen. "When I first saw Gipper at the pet store, when I knew I had to have him. Because I didn't remember then, but Shasta, her favorite form was—"
—Shasta in puppy-form sobbed, butted with her head against the solid wood of the shelf, shifted into a the smallest mouse she could, and squeezed her way through the fallen books to rub against Stevie's hand.
Crybaby. Brat. Weakling. Shake it off, Col-bert.
Stevie pleaded for help whenever he had the breath for it. He didn't care who overheard, so long as they helped him, it didn't matter if he was punished for it later—
Pull yourselves up by your own bootstraps. No free rides—
His daemon scampered out again, dragging at one of the books with capuchin paws, gasping when it only made the shelf let out a threatening creak. As a puppy again she ran for the door of the room, only to wheel around and bolt back when the distance became too great.
"Useless," said the voice of authority, of power and strength and adulthood. "If you weren't such a baby, you wouldn't be in this mess. And if you weren't a pathetic excuse for a daemon, you'd be able to do something about it."
Okay, it wasn't quite adulthood. But eight-year-old-hood still sounded impressively grown-up to Stevie, especially while he was in despair of ever reaching either.
"MY daemon would be able to fix it. MY daemon wouldn't be whiny and stupid and helpless. MY darling daemon is the strongest, and the bravest, and the scariest, and the most powerfulest daemon there ever was!"
It was all a muddle for some time after that. Everything seemed far away, the shelf and the books and the pain and the fear, all of it. Even his daemon was gone, but it didn't hurt, not like it should have, because he wasn't there to feel it....
And when it was all over he didn't know who he was for a long time, even though she was back in his arms: still his daemon, his darling, his sweetness, his beauty and beloved and honeybunch and honeypie, the heart of his heart and the light of his life, but no longer Shasta, never again Shasta—
"Stephen? Stephen, it's over. It's 2007,and you're at the vet's office, with—"
"—Jon," choked Stephen, a violent shudder jostling his bones. He had been there, had urged them to be stronger and it had failed, and if Stevie had been an innocent child that left all the blame to him, decades of guilt deferred rushing back to batter him all at once. "Jon, I—I can't take this."
"You can," insisted Jon. "Whatever you're seeing, it was a long time ago. It's gone now. It can't hurt you anymore."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
She loves horses.
The girl had a horse. Hadn't lost her daemon, but she lost a horse when they fled to Little League, and it took everything they had to keep from having a breakdown right then, while Stephen sat on the bench and kept proud watch over the bats he was never allowed to swing—
I can't survive this, I don't know how anybody could survive this—
—she grabbed him. Sank in her claws and dragged him back, away from the body, into his embrace. You have me! You have to survive, because I'm protecting you, and I'm the strongest, bravest, scariest, most powerful daemon there ever was. It doesn't matter what happens, I can protect you!
Fandom: The Colbert Report/His Dark Materials
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: Same as on State of Grace.
Rushing toward the SoG climax from the Expectingverse-with-daemons. Stephen and company are finally out enough that they can begin to openly explore their system's rules for daemons. That still doesn't make it easy for their loved ones to accept, much less understand.
Illustrations: Jon and Avivah, Charlene and Renoir, and baby George and his daemon.
One | Two |
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
(27: Separation Anxiety)
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"Can I help?"
Charlene nearly dropped the fabric softener. Stephen was standing in the door of the laundry room, looking with some trepidation at the heap of baby clothes piled on top of the gently thudding washing machine. The kinkajou was nowhere in sight.
"I could fold something," he said hopefully. "Or unfold something. What do you do in laundry rooms, exactly?"
"Where's Honeypie?" demanded Renoir.
Stephen's eyebrows lifted into a stern arch. "She's sleeping. She's always sleepy when I'm out. Do you really want to watch me carry her around now?"
"You two used to help us with chores sometimes," remembered Charlene. "When we couldn't get away until they were finished. She never had any trouble staying awake then."
"I don't remember."
"Of course not. That wasn't you in the first place, was it? Because you're the one who used to think all women like housework."
Stephen flinched. But he didn't deny it.
Halfway through a paragraph (They're not as clear cut. Soon they'll be a memory), Stephen unclasped his hand from Jon's, the better to reach possessively across Jon's stomach. "I don't want to stop," he whispered. Stevie's voice.
"Hey, honey," said Jon softly, draping his arm across Stephen's back. "We're going to have to go upstairs eventually."
"Didn't mean reading," mumbled Stevie. "I meant stopping. Like the kids stopped being with the lady in the book."
"They're still around," said Jon, trying to be reassuring in spite of a sudden stab of unease. The woman whose words he was reading had described two alters, both children, and was now implying that her healing would only be complete when both of their personalities had dissolved into hers. How long would that take for someone as deeply divided as Stephen? Was it even possible? "They're just combining into one person. They're going back to being whole."
"Doesn't sound like it. Sounds like they're going away."
"Yeah, it kind of does," admitted Jon.
"Because we're different," insisted Stevie. "We like different things. We think different ways. Tyrone likes carrots, an' I don't. Caesar does things with girls, an' Tyrone does them with boys. Stephen has Sweetness, and Tyrone has Honeypie, an' I—I—!"
At a loss for words, Jon settled for rubbing comforting circles against Stevie's shoulder blade.
The book hadn't bothered to mention whether the child alters had their own daemons; Jon had no idea if the author had assumed that as individuals they obviously did, or that as split-off parts of one soul they obviously didn't. Or could it be that their daemons had been missing like Stevie's, and their therapist simply hadn't understood the difference? Or maybe....
"Maybe that's why they did it," he said aloud. "These kids could have been just like how you are now. Maybe integration was what they needed to do in order to be reunited with their daemons. Maybe that's what you have to do to be with...with Shasta again."
The name didn't come easily. It felt almost profane, as if by speaking it he was touching what little of the daemon Stevie had left.
"I want to find my Shasta." Stevie gulped, clinging to Jon, a child seeking shelter from a nightmare. "But I...I don't want to lose my me."
"It's only a guess," Jon said quickly. "It doesn't say for sure. And even if that was what these children needed, that doesn't mean it's right for everyone. There must be lots of options. We'll keep reading until we find one for you."
"Anything else we should do before we go back out?" asked Tracey. "Bring out some more food, maybe?"
"You're thinking like the hostess," her daemon reminded her. "You're supposed to be a friendly guest, remember? ...And do you hear crying?"
Tracey pricked up her ears. It was faint, yes, but somebody was definitely wailing. Not outside, either. Upstairs.
"George," they said as one.
She took the stairs almost too fast for him to follow, sprinted down the hall, threw open the nursery door—
—and breathed a sigh of relief. Stephen was already there, bending over the crib, cupping something in twisted hands and murmuring to the sobbing infant under his breath.
"Hey," she said, when it became clear that Stephen hadn't even registered her presence. "Can I help with—?"
Stephen's head snapped up to look at her, and the words died in her throat.
Her gut knew something was wrong, but it was so jarring that at first her eyes refused to recognize it. The shape in Stephen's hands. A tiny curved shell, patterned in black and honey-gold. A baby turtle.
George's daemon.
"The baby's crying," said Sweetness.
Tracey could feel her own daemon shivering in sympathy against her ankle. "P-put her down."
"She's scared," replied Sweetness. "She has to be calm. She can't help him if she's scared. I have to make her calm."
"And it hasn't worked, has it?" countered Tracey. She tried to think of the figure as a human-shaped daemon, to no avail; even with Stephen's daemon running the body, eyes beady and hands contorted into claws, they were still Stephen's hands. Human hands. "Put her down. Just try it. You won't know if it works unless you try."
With exquisite care Sweetness placed the shell on the mattress beside George.
The baby was still wailing as a tiny yellow head poked out from one end. It moved from side to side before the whole daemon shifted into a grasshopper and began springing, not to George's side, but anxiously around the crib.
And before Sweetness could hiss at Tracey about the failure of her plan, her own daemon spoke up. "Have you checked his diaper? It smells like he could use a change."
Sweetness eyed him narrowly. "Touch him? You know I can't touch him."
"But Stephen can. If you could just get him back...."
"He's scared," snarled Sweetness. "He'll cry. If he comes back right now he'll remember and he will hurt and he will cry."
"Then let Tracey do it."
Stephen's lip curled at the otter-daemon. "If she hurts him I will eat you."
"If you threaten us, we'll leave," snapped Tracey. "Do you want help or not?"
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
(28: Couples, Counseled)
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Spitting out the chopstick, Stephen shoved his dish aside. Before Jon knew what was happening, the other man was snatching the half-full carton of noodles out of his own hands to drop it, metal fork and all, in the trash.
"Ste—" spluttered Jon, as his immaculately besuited boyfriend straddled his thighs.
"If I said you were gay," began Stephen. He didn't finish the sentence, just arched his eyebrows expectantly.
"Well, uh, you would be close," stammered Jon. There didn't seem to be anywhere to put his hands; he ended up resting them on Stephen's hips. "I'm somewhere in the middle. I mean, I'm gay enough to, ah, to want you, but straight enough that I didn't see it coming. This is still you, right?"
"It's me!" cried Stephen, slamming the heels of his hands down on either side of Jon's head, polka-dotted navy-blue tie flapping wildly in the air between them. "It's my studio. It's my time. Answer me, Jon! You liked it? The gay stuff? Before I...before?"
"Before," echoed Jon. "When I thought it was going well."
"Did you?" Stephen jerked his head toward Avi, who sat perfectly still except for the twitching tip of her tail; glancing in her direction, Jon caught the glitter of eyes watching him from the basket where he had assumed Honeypie was catching her usual eighty winks. "She has bits of fur missing. Not so most people would notice, unless you know where to look. Honeypie's been biting, hasn't she? All that time, you were putting up with...." He brushed a hand against Jon's cheek. "I didn't want you getting hurt."
Jon tried to laugh it off. "Come on, it's not like Honeypie's the only one that's hurt us."
Face falling, Stephen jerked away.
"Now, hang on—I didn't mean—Stephen, you do realize this stuff is painful for everyone, right? Obviously it's harder for someone who's been...shamed and used, the way you have. But any time you get close to someone, you risk getting hurt. Sometimes you can't avoid it. That's just the price of admission."
"It's not risky for Tyrone," muttered Stephen, chewing on his bottom lip.
For the hundredth time, their conversations from that night ran through Jon's mind (every moment by now elaborated with mental footnotes for things he could have done better). "I think it is," he said softly. "I think he's as vulnerable as you are."
"I'm not—!" Stephen stopped on the fly, course-correcting in midair before he repeated Tyrone's line syllable for syllable. "I hate being vulnerable!"
"I know, babe. I know."
Stephen flinched. "And it's supposed to be like that? And you knew? And you did it anyway?"
"Well, yeah," said Jon. "Sometimes it's worth it."
Stephen reflexively smoothed back his tie, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it fell away from his chest the instant he let it go. "Avi? If Sweetness came out right now, could...could she...make it up to you?"
Avi and Jon exchanged a look of astonishment. While Jon was still trying to think of a graceful way to beg off, the lynx-daemon got to her feet and padded toward the couch. "Go ahead."
Stephen scrambled down from Jon's lap, pulled off his glasses, and lowered himself to the floor. Even when he was looking for it, Jon couldn't say exactly when the shift happened; it was the same stiff crouch, the same laserlike focus of gaze, but suddenly he knew that there was someone other than Stephen inhabiting it, and he couldn't have said for how long.
He tried to plead silently with Avi, to no avail. Her golden eyes said, clear as words: Quit it. At least wait until it happens before you panic.
Sweetness crept forward on all fours, while Avi took a few more steps to meet her.
Their noses touched.
Jon could have cried with relief. He felt it, all right: a frisson of discomfort, someone walking over his grave. But nothing more. Nothing even close to the violation it looked like it should be.
(And the scene when she had switched in and snarled at Tracey, when Steve and Nancy had pulled her back? How much worse had that been than it appeared? How many times had Stephen and Sweetness been put through that, because nobody knew better?)
He checked with a sudden flush of sympathy on Honeypie (still awake, hunched in her basket and riveted to the scene), then turned back to his own daemon. With Stephen's nose and lips Sweetness stroked the top of Avi's head, then moved down the slope of her neck, smoothing the fur as she went, until she reached one of the fading scars. Parting the fur with Stephen's hands, she gave the skin a tender lick.
A purr rose up from Avi's chest, and Jon's eyes fell closed.
Even when he couldn't see the tableau, the specter of wrongness lurked at its edges. But now in his mind's eye he saw clearly how it was meant to be: a raven-dark birdlike form at Avi's side, grooming her fur with its beak and soothing old wounds as best it could.
For a moment, impossible though it was, he thought he felt at the same time the brush of Stephen's lips against his own.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
(29: Well, Stephen's Just This Guy, You Know?)
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
A muscle in Tyrone's cheek twitched. "Don't look so worried. I'm legal now. You're in the clear."
"But still awfully young," guessed Jon, thankful for Avi rubbing against his legs, though it didn't do much against this kind of chill. A stray lock of hair had fallen in Tyrone's face; without thinking, he stretched out a hand to smooth it away. "There haven't been a lot of adults you can rely on, have there?"
Tyrone flinched; Honeypie flattened herself still closer against his chest. "Stop that!"
Jon pulled hastily back. "Stop what? Touching you?"
"No!" cried Tyrone in frustration. "Stop being so fucking gentle! If you would drag me out behind a dumpster and cover my mouth and have your way with me, I could deal with that! What am I supposed to do with this?"
"All the dangerous sex you've had, and you're scared of someone being nice?" countered Jon.
"That's not what I'm scared of!"
"Then what is?"
"I—!" Tyrone broke off—Honeypie had taken a swipe at his collarbone—then gave her a reproving squeeze and plunged on. "What do you think's going to happen when you've had enough, huh? When it finally hits what a trainwreck we are, and you realize you can't deal with it anymore? Stephen's already on the verge of cracking up trying to feel things he's not supposed to feel about you! Haven't you done enough damage already?"
While Jon was struggling not to reach for him again, and, moreover, not to freeze up entirely at the thought of the worst-case scenario, Tyrone clouded over and Stevie burst through. He took a couple of gasping breaths, then squeaked and froze when he realized the kinkajou-daemon was hanging limp in his arms.
"I'll take her," said Avivah quickly, rearing up on her hind legs and bracing her paws against the porch railing.
Shaking his head, Stevie broke out of his trance. With fumbling, uncertain movements he adjusted his grip to cradle Honeypie like a baby; she even blinked sleepily at the motion. "I-it's okay. I can hold her."
Jon sighed with relief. "Good. That's good."
"Can we go inside now?" added Stevie. "I'm cold. Please?"
With gentle grace Jon smoothed back his hair. "Of course."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
(30: If You Liked It, Then You Shoulda...)
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"Did you bring toothpaste? I think the bathroom's out."
"What? Oh, sure." Without turning on the lights, Stephen dug quietly through two of his suitcases (why he had packed four for a trip of as many days, Charlene was afraid to ask) before joining her in the doorway and proffering his cupped hands. "Here. And this is for you too."
Taking the tube with one hand, Charlene turned over the powder-blue origami hummingbird with the other. Renoir fluttered over to perch beside it; they were about the same size and proportions, and when he lifted his wings to match its pose, they were like peas in a pod.
"It's perfect," she breathed. "When did you learn to make these?"
"I thought...it's Tyrone who's been making them...." Stephen glanced at the bottom drawer; this one, too was open, with Honeypie fast asleep amidst a pile of towels. No help there. "Didn't he learn them with you?"
"Not that I remember."
"Oh." Stephen frowned. "Well, he must have been thinking about you when it happened, at least. So you should keep it anyway."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
(31: Hummingbird Heartbeat)
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Stephen groaned. Sweetness' presence huddled in next to him, but although he was grateful for the comfort he was in no mood to retreat. You got something to say to me, just come out with it, already, he thought into the back of his mind. I'm too tired for cryptic memories.
A few beats later, a familiar presence settled in on his other side: like Tyrone without the coiling disdain, or the penchant for mustaches. "Formidable Opponent," he said, by way of greeting.
Hi, thought Stephen muzzily. Honeypie climbed down from her perch on the headboard and curled up on the pillow; or so it seemed, although somehow she looked different. Something about the angle, maybe. Caesar Honeybee?
"Hi," said Tyrone's twin.
Is that how it looks to other people? thought Stephen. Yes, the daemon's nose definitely looked longer, as did her tail. And there seemed to be a greyish hue to her fur, with the shadows on her tail falling in dark bands. Unless that was a trick of the light? When one of you is out in my body, I mean.
"Dunno. We always look like ourselves to us." Scratching the cacomistle-daemon's head, Caesar added, "Her name's Honeybunch."
Confusing, sulked Stephen.
"Not if we stay inside."
But I would get used to it, added Stephen quickly. If you two wanted to come out more often, I wouldn't complain. We'd probably get in a lot less trouble if it was you.
"Right," muttered Honeybunch. "Like straight people are so much better and safer and less generally fucked up."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
(33: Angers and Daemons)
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Even with Jon's lead he barely made it to one of the stiff chairs, tight fabric stretched over hard cushions in a crude parody of comfort. Anger he could ride. Adoration he could lie back and devour. Grief just cut him loose, like a small boat on a wide and choppy sea.
Honeypie lay limp where he had dropped her; Avi, marvelous Avi, bounded to the rescue.
"He's a good dog," he repeated, clinging to Jon's shirt over the crammed-together arms of their chairs. "He's sick. That's all."
Jon's hand on his arm, stroking. "That's right."
"Just a sick dog." Stephen scrubbed his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. "It happens. Dogs die all the time. It's not like—it's not—Shasta was different—"
He was close enough to feel Jon's sharp intake of breath. "Oh, Stephen. Of course it's different. You're not losing a daemon today, any of you."
"But that's why I chose him," gasped Stephen. "When I first saw Gipper at the pet store, when I knew I had to have him. Because I didn't remember then, but Shasta, her favorite form was—"
—Shasta in puppy-form sobbed, butted with her head against the solid wood of the shelf, shifted into a the smallest mouse she could, and squeezed her way through the fallen books to rub against Stevie's hand.
Crybaby. Brat. Weakling. Shake it off, Col-bert.
Stevie pleaded for help whenever he had the breath for it. He didn't care who overheard, so long as they helped him, it didn't matter if he was punished for it later—
Pull yourselves up by your own bootstraps. No free rides—
His daemon scampered out again, dragging at one of the books with capuchin paws, gasping when it only made the shelf let out a threatening creak. As a puppy again she ran for the door of the room, only to wheel around and bolt back when the distance became too great.
"Useless," said the voice of authority, of power and strength and adulthood. "If you weren't such a baby, you wouldn't be in this mess. And if you weren't a pathetic excuse for a daemon, you'd be able to do something about it."
Okay, it wasn't quite adulthood. But eight-year-old-hood still sounded impressively grown-up to Stevie, especially while he was in despair of ever reaching either.
"MY daemon would be able to fix it. MY daemon wouldn't be whiny and stupid and helpless. MY darling daemon is the strongest, and the bravest, and the scariest, and the most powerfulest daemon there ever was!"
It was all a muddle for some time after that. Everything seemed far away, the shelf and the books and the pain and the fear, all of it. Even his daemon was gone, but it didn't hurt, not like it should have, because he wasn't there to feel it....
And when it was all over he didn't know who he was for a long time, even though she was back in his arms: still his daemon, his darling, his sweetness, his beauty and beloved and honeybunch and honeypie, the heart of his heart and the light of his life, but no longer Shasta, never again Shasta—
"Stephen? Stephen, it's over. It's 2007,and you're at the vet's office, with—"
"—Jon," choked Stephen, a violent shudder jostling his bones. He had been there, had urged them to be stronger and it had failed, and if Stevie had been an innocent child that left all the blame to him, decades of guilt deferred rushing back to batter him all at once. "Jon, I—I can't take this."
"You can," insisted Jon. "Whatever you're seeing, it was a long time ago. It's gone now. It can't hurt you anymore."
She loves horses.
The girl had a horse. Hadn't lost her daemon, but she lost a horse when they fled to Little League, and it took everything they had to keep from having a breakdown right then, while Stephen sat on the bench and kept proud watch over the bats he was never allowed to swing—
I can't survive this, I don't know how anybody could survive this—
—she grabbed him. Sank in her claws and dragged him back, away from the body, into his embrace. You have me! You have to survive, because I'm protecting you, and I'm the strongest, bravest, scariest, most powerful daemon there ever was. It doesn't matter what happens, I can protect you!