Double Double (Mythklok, Chapter 56)
Jun. 29th, 2011 11:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Double Double (Mythklok, Chapter 56)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dealing with the press. And mall witches.
Warnings: Slash, AU, OCs, swearing. Also, this one kinda pushes it: NSFW, kids.
Notes: Notes after the jump.
Just a reminder, if LJ takes a dive again, I also post these over on DW.
Oh, forgot to do the recap thingie. So, last time, someone got married. There were pirates. And Ginsu knives! And pie, pie, pie!!! Did you miss it? Good times, good times. Oh, but Pickles has been kinda cranky, due to stuff I've done to him in like the last 16 or so chapters. So, there's that.
Ganesh leaned over to regard the schematics spread over his desk, in his office high above the ground in Eastern Kingdom headquarters' magnificent skyscraper. When he and his mother were dividing up their obligations to the EKC, he had eagerly volunteered to continue overseeing the rebuilding of the Imperial City. He loved to behold the restoration of his beloved capitol, and hoped young Elias would show an interest: he seemed to have a flare for the visual. Perhaps, in addition to his duties to various pantheons, the boy would become an architect in the human world? It was good to have a trade in the mortal realm. Ganesh had found few things as rewarding in his long life as his medical practice.
He was lost in such musings when he became aware of another presence in the office. "Char- Sariel," he said, smiling as the angel now standing directly behind him chewed on his neck while pulling off his jacket. For a being with only two arms, Sariel made good use of them. Charles, that is. His angel had decided on a human name. It was no matter.
"I'm having you for lunch today, remember?" Charles was muttering as he groped underneath Ganesh's shirt.. It seemed rather churlish to argue, so Ganesh leaned over a bit farther to hit the button that locked the door. But then he found himself pulled rather roughly back as the angel made short work of his shirt, scattering buttons every which way. Another designer shirt, ruined. Twas a pity, but another excuse to go shopping. He reached back over his shoulder to touch his lover’s soft hair: Charles or not, the angel was in his winged form, Ganesh could tell without looking. He radiated power. It was thrilling. And more than a little arousing.
"I spent the entire morning thinking about your ass," Charles told him as he loosened Ganesh's belt. Ganesh, who had already kicked off his shoes (he rarely wore socks) stepped out of his pants as they came down. He had the legs of a dancer, all muscle and sinew, the thighs unexpectedly thick. Charles had his two hands all over the thighs, pushing them apart, his tongue tracing over the quite perfectly smooth ass.
Ganesh sighed. "Oh gods. You know what I like," he muttered. He leaned forward as Charles gently spread him and then, after nibbling just a tantalizing bit around the edges, the tongue found its way inside. Ganesh brought a hand that wasn't now grasping a rumpled handful of architectural drawings down to stroke his own cock. He thought of coming all over the drawings, a sticky fucking mess. It sounded nasty. His eyes rolled back in his head.
Charles now grasped both of the arms Ganesh had out and thrust them up over his head. There weren't a lot of beings as strong as Ganesh, but the angel was one of them. It was so different, so new, to feel himself overpowered like this, to let himself be.
Ganesh gasped as Charles bent him over the desk, shoving into him, hard. Ganesh let out a delighted laugh. They had been so careful at first. Probably so many years between them of fucking humans. Nothing wrong with that of course. Humans were delightful beings. But you had to be damned careful with them. They were just so delicate. They took much coaxing and petting. And sometimes, you know, a god just needed a good ass pounding. Sariel, in his gorgeous, strong winged form, literally fucked him up over the desk and down the other side, so Ganesh was halfway hanging off, Sariel's fingers now grabbing his hair, and now he could feel it, the last two or three thrusts before he had satisfied himself, so thrilling and dirty.
They lay for a while, like that, until Charles finally slid off and helped Ganesh sit up, and then he could finally be face to face with his gorgeous angel. He delightedly kissed him, luxuriating in that amazing aura. "Did you get off?" Charles whispered.
"No. No matter," Ganesh told him.
"Oh, it matters," Charles laughed, now starting to kiss his way down Ganesh's chest and on to his belly. Ganesh attempted to steady himself, feet on the floor and his ass, still aching, against the desk. "Oh, oh, gently, dear," he found himself saying. Those hands, that mouth and tongue. He was straining to keep himself from coming too soon. He wanted to hold on to this for a few moments more. He twisted the fingers of one hand into the soft, silvery hair, now down at his waist level. And then the jolt, as Charles thrust his thoughts into Ganesh's mind, the glowing feeling of being desired shot through him, and suddenly his feet were off the floor, looking for purchase, up on the desk, on Charles' body, and he was arched, so far back, and he was everywhere, and everything, for just one bare moment.
He slumped back on the desk. Charles, wiping his mouth, gently pushed him over on his side, and clambered up to lay beside him.
"Did the earth move?" Charles asked.
"Oh great gods," Ganesh murmured.
"No, I mean, did you set off an earthquake?"
"Oh, shit. I may have."
Charles laughed. "I gotta get back. In a little while," he told Ganesh.
"Yes. Yes. Of course." Ganesh willed his brain to reboot. "Get you cleaned up," he muttered.
"I can shower back at-" but Charles was being yanked towards Ganesh's executive washroom by the red tie, which somehow, had failed to come off in the melee.
Ganesh's life was such that he had made allowances for the occurrence of horny lunchtime angels in the design of his new office suite, so the shower had more than enough room for Charles in his winged form.
"You're gonna get my tie..." but then the water was on full blast, and he and the tie were completely soaked. "You got my tie wet!" Charles complained.
"You got bodily fluids all over my schematics!" Ganesh laughed, picking up the soap.
"Why weren't you just using electronic versions? You’re the one who’s in love with your little electronic thingies.”
"Thanks gods we didn't have sex on top of my computer!" Ganesh said. "I would have keyboard shaped dents in my arse! All right now. Wing!” he ordered. Charles stuck out a wing, and then sighed contentedly as Ganesh soaped up his feathers. Angels, Ganesh reflected, shaking his head. For a creature who no longer wanted to be considered an angel, Charles still seemed to like nothing more than having his wings groomed. “I need to be off to the dedication ceremony in a bit,” Ganesh mused, remembering.
“Are you taking some of my press people?”
“Charles. I’m not going to be followed around everywhere by beings wearing hoods. This isn’t the right venue.”
“Look, I’m just offering. It might come in handy.”
“Please believe me, I am most certainly not going to need a giant pyramid rolling over the assembled dignitaries.”
“It was the Sphinx! And it was only that one time!”
“I can handle my own publicity. Thank you.”
“I’ve hired in Raziel. You know that? And she doesn’t wear a hood!”
“That should prove … entertaining. The Lady certainly enjoys engaging with the press.”
"So what are we gonna do about, you know, Pickles."
"What do you wanna do about him?" Charles asked. For some reason, he didn't have a spare tie in his desk drawer, so he was trying to air out the damp one he had been wearing at Ganesh's office.
"He can't play concerts!" Nathan reminded him.
"Yeah. I thought you guys didn't wanna work."
"He should be able to play if he WANTS TO."
"Look, we've tried everything. We've tried hypnosis, desensitizing, we had Dr. Twinkletits work with him...."
"TWINKLETITS IS AN ASSHOLE."
"Maybe so, but he got you guys fucking working together again. And I don't think I ever heard a fucking thank you."
"Fucking thank you."
"You're fucking welcome."
Nathan glared. "Were you just up visiting GANESH?"
Charles waved his tie. "What? Maybe. Why?"
"You get like this."
“Like what?”
“Like this.”
"Oh. Don’t start with that. You guys have HUNDREDS of groupies...."
"So he's your GROUPIE?"
"He's not my groupie."
"Where's your kid, anyway?"
"He's with his tutor."
"A tutor? What the fuck is he teaching the kid. HE'S A BABY."
"I'm aware of that! That's what you call male nannies!"
"Wait. Why?"
"Do I look like I know something like that?"
"You don't care? About your kid?"
"OK, first my relationship, then my parenting skills?"
"Charles. Quit fucking with your tie and listen!" Nathan thundered, snatching the tie out of Charles’ hands.
"I thought you guys liked the tie?"
"Fuck the tie! What about Pickles?" Nathan grumbled, tossing the tie to the floor.
"I like Pickles! Look, we've talked about this! I can't wave my magical feathery wings and fix every little fucking thing for you guys!"
“You could act like you’re still interested.”
“Look, Nathan, understand my position! I don’t wanna look like I’m pressuring Pickles! He’s really fucking sensitive to it since the whole rehab deal.”
“He’s too fucking sensitive.”
“Maybe this is just gonna take some time! I mean, why don’t you guys start working on the fucking album?”
“WHY ARE YOU PRESSURING ME?????” Nathan boomed. “I’M AN ARTIST!”
Charles looked at his tie, and wondered if it would be possible to use it as a noose.
Lord Ganesh regarded the assembled group of human beings with an exasperated sigh.
He had been aware, when he had first struck up a relationship with the part angel creature known in the human world as Charles Ofdensen, that there was a certain amount of public interest directed towards the individual. It was, thankfully, some orders of magnitude lessened in frenzy compared to the attention showered upon the musicians with whom Charles was associated. And Ganesh had more than a bit of experience dealing with (not to mention, eluding) the Indian press. It wasn’t difficult, as many of his public appearances occurred in Europe and elsewhere in the world. In addition, he had found that for the most part, members of the paparazzi were seemingly unable to keep up with you if you simply failed to inform them where you would be going that day.
There had been the amusing attempt at linkage for a time with a mysterious small dark-haired woman. To this day, although Raziel categorically denied it, Ganesh suspected the Lady had encouraged this for her own mischievous purposes. Despite some rather clever attempts, no one had ever managed to obtain a clear photograph of her face, which she seemed to find terribly amusing.
Ganesh was known to some extent in his native India. His was a face one recognized but couldn’t quite place. He was comfortable with this status. Charles' profile was a bit higher, and more-so since first his sudden reappearance some years back (still the subject of much speculation), followed by his abrupt confession on Nick Ibsen’s television programme that he was in fact a supernatural being. This latter news had of course soon been eclipsed by rumors of Toki Wartooth dating an astronaut and an associated outer space themed solo album (stories Ganesh still suspected had in fact been planted by none other than Charles), yet there remained interest in elements of Charles' personal life.
But Ganesh had always been careful around Lady Raziel. The trouble was his relationship with Charles was such that, well, sometimes, his defenses were simply downed. For a time.
It had been a little thing, really, something that might occur a number of times in a week. Two men standing off to the side, well away from the eye of the hurricane of press coverage. Dethklok were doing something or other, opening a coffee bar, or maybe dedicating a rehab facility for espresso addicts. And Ganesh had shown up, just for a little while. He couldn't at this time recall the topic of their conversation. It simply happened, sometimes, these days, that they would talk, and for a bare moment, all else would retreat to a pleasant white noise of background motion, and it was just the two of them. Ganesh had looked down, smiling slightly, and causing his hair to fall over his eyes, as it inevitably did, and Charles had traced out a finger, to tame the strand back behind an ear.
And somewhere, nearby, there had been a man standing with his finger poised on the button of his camera. A thoughtless moment had been burned into a digital image, which had gone round and round and up and down the world at the speed of light, and someone - someone curious enough to study the frankly fairly banal image- had been able to identify Ganesh as the tall man to whom Charles Ofdensen felt a level of acquaintanceship sufficient to smooth his hair out of his eyes.
"Lord Ganesh! Are you the guy in the photo with Charles Ofdensen?" came a shout.
"We are here today to dedicate a children's hospital,” Ganesh patiently explained. “I will answer questions regarding that matter. And none other."
"Will you confirm or deny?"
“Neither. I will, as I said, dedicate a hospital. There are sick children in this city. Or were you unaware of this fact?”
“Why are you hiding the relationship?”
"You are members of the press?" Ganesh inquired.
“Lord Ganesh!” Shri Ganesha!”
“Are any of you news people aware, perhaps, that there is a border war flaring not terribly far from here? That a nearby province has reported problems with child labor? That not terribly far from here, last week, a young woman who was unable to pay her dowry was horribly burned by members of her fiancé’s family?”
“What can you tell us about the photograph?”
“Are you more than friends?”
“What is the relationship?”
Lord Ganesh narrowed his eyes.
“Toxic waste dump, huh? That was pretty creative.”
Ganesh was still scowling.
“What you shoulda done, you shoulda just left them all there to play in the asbestos,” Charles laughed.
Ganesh was literally shaking. “Seventeen centuries. I have kept my family’s privacy. And now, in one moment’s anger….”
“Wasn’t a moment, dear. You’re still pretty fucking steamed.”
Ganesh, out on one lovely patio at his residence, puffed unapologetically on a beedi. Charles grabbed it and took a drag. “Let me make a couple calls,” Charles told him.
“This is a fucking disaster Sariel!”
“Aw, c’mon!” said Charles, taking out his Dethphone. “You got just like this after Brahma made you eat that steak. And so what? You brought all the news guys back alive from the dump, right? I mean, some of ‘em might’ve ruined their underwear, but maybe they had a bit of sense knocked into ‘em?”
“Press people?” sighed Ganesh. “Never.”
“Hello?” Charles told his phone. “This is Charles. Yeah, Charles Ofdensen. I might have a story for you….”
"I can give you something. I warn you, it will not completely eliminate the scars, but, with the application of makeup, should significantly improve your appearance on camera."
"You are a doctor?" asked Nick Ibsen.
"I have an MD from Johns Hopkins, and a medical practice."
"What year is the medical degree again?" asked Ibsen, pulling on his shirt.
"I also have a law degree,” Ganesh told him.
"Ah, two lawyers in the family?"
"Family? Are you perchance referring to my late father? He was a businessman."
"I think the best answer for my buddy Nick is no comment." Ibsen turned to an appraising eye Charles, who had just come into the exam room. "I was having a conversation with your ... friend," Nick told him. "And who might you be?"
"BOO!" giggled Elias as Ibsen took him from Charles' arms.
"Boon. It's a nickname," Charles told him.
"Do you have children, Mr. Ibsen?" Ganesh asked.
"Yeah. And, reluctant as I am to admit it, grandkids," said Ibsen, donning a huge pair of reading glasses to study Elias. "But if you're trying to appeal to my heart, be aware it's at least 70% carbon fiber nowadays," he said, thumping his chest.
"We're just trying to reach an understanding," Charles explained. "I don't give a flying fuck - and I'm one of the few individuals who can truly say this - what people think of me. But, there are matters of my personal life that in will share, and those that... I'm more reluctant about some stuff."
"Young Boon has your eyebrows," Ibsen told Charles, who raised one of his own.
But Ibsen was now gawping at Elias, who had just stolen his eyeglasses. With his extra set of arms.
"What do you want?" asked Ibsen.
"Best to let him sit here a bit, so he's not all ruffled," said Raziel.
"That's fine, I think they need a bit of extra time on the lighting," the makeup girl told her, as Charles uncomfortably submitted to her ministrations. They were not backstage in a dressing room, but rather already seated out on the set of Nick Ibsen Live. Charles was in the guest chair, wearing a bib, as Raziel had made herself at home sitting on the famous desk.
"Soft light is probably best," Raziel told her.
"We're having trouble with the eyes," a crew member told her.
"I brought his dark glasses," she said.
"I thought we didn't wanna do that?" Charles grumbled.
"Don't think a lotta people will be obsessing over your eyes when you got six foot of wing hanging out for all to see," Raziel commented as she swapped out eyeglasses and she and the makeup girl made an assessment.
"I'm not your fucking Pretty Pretty Princess doll," Charles huffed.
"Did you wanna pink dress instead of the suit? Then they may not notice the wings so much." The makeup girl giggled as Charles fumed.
"Hello," said a familiar voice.
"Hi!" Raziel told Nick Ibsen.
"And you are?" he asked, taking Raziel's hand.
"Publicist," she said, hooking a thumb at Charles.
"Haven't I seen you before?" asked Ibsen, not taking his eyes off the small angel.
"Almost, but not quite," she grinned.
Ibsen continued to hold her hand. "A couple years back, there was a high official in the Eastern Kingdom corporation, Ganesa Gajakara Vighneshwara. Know him?" Raziel blinked coquettishly at him while Charles scowled. "Powerful but shadowy corporation. Family owned. Anyway, he started hitting the European club scene, and he was frequently seen in the company of a small, dark haired girl," Ibsen told her. "I had a friend in the Indian press who used to chase them around Italy."
"Was your friend bored?" Raziel asked, hopping off the table. "Hey, I'm gonna need that!" she said, smilingly withdrawing her hand. "You gonna need me?" she asked of the makeup girl in Common Angelic.
"Naw, we're done," she answered, removing the bib from a frowning Charles.
"Remember! Don't ruffle!" Raziel told Charles, as the two women walked off.
"You do your research," Charles told Ibsen, as he concentrated on keeping his wings furled. Raziel, in her first act as his newest publicist, had insisted he spend a good portion of the week True Formed, practicing not looking annoyed. He wasn't certain it had done any good, but the band had spent a gleeful few days attempting to egg him on on purpose.
"I have a good team," Ibsen commented.
"I'm curious: how many of them speak Common Angelic?"
Ibsen laughed.
"You're looking good," Charles told him. It was true: under only a few days of Ganesh's treatment, the scarring that marked the right side of his face had begun to fade.
"You're looking ... different," Ibsen cracked, taking his seat. "You ready for this?"
Charles silently nodded.
"You got the POPCORN?" Nathan asked.
"We ams gots da Swedish meatballs," Toki told him cheerily.
"Dude, you go to IKEA again?"
"Ams needs more Moopsflops!" Toki insisted.
"Yeah, that's what I was just thinking. Ganesh dude, you brought some fucking cocktails?"
"Shaken, not stirred, Boon," the god told his son, as he sat him down on the coffee table. Elias grinned and began to eagerly rattle the cocktail shaker with all four little arms.
"TINI!" giggled Elias.
"Ha, make the kid useful," Nathan agreed. "Don't worry," he told Ganesh, who was looking a bit miserable despite the proximity of cocktails, "We've been REHEARSING CHARLES all week for this."
"We are the bescht asschholes in the buschiness," Murderface assured him proudly. "We exschell at dickisch behavior."
"I told Charles I bought the CUDDLE BEAR FRANCHISE," Nathan related, popping the top from his beer bottle with his teeth, "and he gets to make personal appearances at the mall stores to GIVE OUT ANGEL HUGS." There was much malicious laughter.
"I schaid that that Dick and I were doing a Schaint Paddy'sch Day Schpecial, amd he'sch appearing. As a magical leprechaun."
"I ams tells Hims I ams quitsing da business to mans da zombie dating hotlines!"Toki told them.
Ganesh, who up to that point had been making a mighty attempt at keeping a straight face, nearly spilled the martini he was pouring out. "What, with Chango and Orula?" he laughed
"Whoa, Toki, he didn't actually believe THAT SHIT did he?" Nathan chuckled.
"But, it ams trues!" said Toki.
"What? Wait! It's on! Where the fuck is Pickles?" Nathan muttered as he scrambled to hit the correct foot pedal.
"…NICKI IBSEN LIVE! With Dethklok manager, lawyer, CFO Charles Ofdensen," boomed Ibsen's voice over the speakers. There was hooting and throwing of popcorn at the screen. Elias rolled a Swedish meatball around on his plate,puzzled and intrigued by how to eat the round object.
"Charles, as I was just saying, you're looking different than when we last talked."
"Thanks. I've been working out," Charles told him.
"Joking aside, I mean your accessories."
As casually as possible, Charles slightly extended a wing tip. "Yeah. Well. You guys got ahold of those pictures from the Latin American press...." The screen flashed an image of Charles sitting in the audience of the Latin American Daytime Emmy awards.
“You were reluctant to do that last time,” said Ibsen.
"I do what I can, but when I'm seated next to the Dethklok boys, I could be lit on fire and I doubt anyone would pay attention."
"It could happen," allowed Ibsen.
"Actually, it has happened," Charles smiled. "But, you know what can happen around my band."
Ibsen unconsciously put a hand to his face. "All too well," he muttered. "But you've been getting attention recently..." This time the screen flashed That Picture, of Charles and Ganesh.
"I should point out, once again, that was not me. That attention has been focused on another individual. Who among other things, is taller, better looking, and dresses better."
Back in Mordhaus, someone elbowed Ganesh, who may have actually blushed.
"An individual who can transport newsmen halfway across a country?" asked Ibsen.
"I sincerely hope they found the experience educational. In addition, there were no deaths or injuries reported from the incident. It was safer than a one of our concerts. Some might say, more entertaining. And we didn't even charge a fee."
"When you were on the show last time...."
"Yes?"
"You indicated you were in a committed relationship."
"You do your homework."
"Still, we can't help but speculate...." Nick pressed.
"I won't deny that what I said before is correct. And speaking of the individual in question" - the screen flashed what could be admitted was a rather hot photo of Ganesh - "I must say that I am flattered that he is the center of anybody's speculation regarding me."
"But you're an angel."
"As I've said, nothing gets past you, Nick," laughed Charles, giving his wings the tiniest flick. Both Mordhaus and the studio erupted in laughter.
"First caller. Bakersfield California, HELLO!"
"You're wearing a ring!" squealed an excited female voice.
"That always seems to be the very first thing women notice," Charles laughed
"Can you show us?" asked Nick.
"This was custom made by a good friend of mine," said Charles, holding his hand up to the camera.
"Very unusual," Nick agreed.
"Dat ams da pretty rings," sighed Toki as the rest tossed cinnamon buns at his head.
"But what about you and the hot guy?" the female voice persisted.
Ganesh found himself pelted with Swedish meatballs, including from his giggling son. “Et tu, Boon?” he asked.
"There's been speculation," Nick agreed. "Care to put some rumors to rest?"
"I'd have to say, what she appears to be saying....” Charles began. “What she's implying.... Well, as you know, Nick, that's illegal, in 46 of the 50 states, including this one."
"You haven't spoken out before on the issue of marriage rights for angelic beings."
"And I'm not likely to in the future. I feel, for one thing, no one really wants to hear what I think.... I'm not a politician. I'm not an activist. I just manage a band."
"But what would you say? I'm asking you, now."
"Well, that's problematic. What they told us in law school, in order to really argue a case, you must be able to FIRST articulate the opposing argument."
"And?"
Charles shrugged. "Well. There is no opposing argument. There just isn't one. I mean, one at makes any logical sense."
"Next caller! Provo, Utah, HELLO!"
"The Lord's wrath is upon you!"
"Look, I swear, we are gonna release that new Dethklok album this year!" said Charles, to gales of laughter.
"Our fans are screwed up," Nathan sighed.
"Amarillo, Texas, HELLO!"
"Is Pickles like really leaving Dethklok? Because he's like my total favorite!"
The television screen at Mordhaus was suddenly buried under a shower of pastries and Scandanavian meat products.
"Absolutely, categorically, and without ambiguity, no," said Charles.
"Can you comment on some speculation in the press that he now suffers from stage fright," said Ibsen.
"He is working through some issues. He has everyone's full support during this time."
"He's a douschebag!" "LOSER!" “Pickles ams suck!”
Pickles checked the crumpled piece of paper in his hands. It looked like the right address, but this place seemed pretty shabby for the Dreamtime. But there was the coin laundry place Orula had mentioned.
There was a sandy-haired young man up on a rickety looking ladder outside the laundry, painting over some graffiti. He gracefully hopped down the ladder as a handsome young East Asian-looking man stuck his head out of the store. The East Asian man grinned at the painter, and they embraced and made their way back into the store, holding hands, and quickly disappeared onto the back.
Pickles did a double take. They looked like.... But that couldn't be.
"Ams dis da right addresses, Pickle?" inquired Skwisgaar.
"I dunno, Skwis, dis place seems like.... Somethin' Gannish dood would call 'dodgy' like."
"Pfft, we ams fines," the guitarist scoffed. But Pickles noticed he was playing a nervous run on his guitar. “Oh, here we ams!” Skwisgaar pointed to an especially dodgy looking storefront, a broken sign, “Double Double,” up above the door. He grabbed open the door, and pushed Pickles through.
It wouldn’t have been correct to say the waiting room had seen better days: it was not clear that it had ever been anything but what it was now, a dark shabby place, such as you might expect to find at a DMV in a lower circle of hell. There were chairs and couches of indeterminate colors, stained by lord knows what, and magazines that had been out of print since the 1970s.
A woman with a blond beehive hairdo was sitting behind the reception desk, slingbacked feet up on the desk, cigarette turning to ash, her nose in a relatively current issue of Hello! Magazine. It was unclear with her, as well, as to whether she had seen better days. It was clear that whoever she went to for cosmetic surgery must be rapidly running out of facial skin to lift.
Pickles cautiously approached her. “Uh, we were wonderin’….”
“DAAAAARHLING!” she said, without looking up. Pickles involuntarily jerked back. Her skin was pulled tight as a rubber band, and every work out of her mouth made him feel like it was all going to snap. “CAHN’T you see I’m READING?”
“Uh. Yeh. Sahry, dood,” Pickles muttered. The blond woman rolled her eyes and took a quick sip from a hip flask. Pickles and Skwisgaar found themselves seats with the lowest concentration of stains.
“UUUUUURRRRRD!” came a voice as a fortyish-looking woman suddenly burst into the room. “My chakras have come all unstuck!”
“Dahrling, you know where the Superglue is,” said Urd.
“Oh, I always just glue my fingers together! Cahn’t you assist me? This is a crisis!”
“Verdandi,” muttered Urd through permanently gritted teeth. “DAAAAAHRLING. Cahn’t you see I’m reading about Kate?”
“Moss or Middleton?” demanded Verdandi.
“Does it mahtter?” She sighed. “Katie Holmes is commenting on Kate Middleton.”
“Oh, it’s a veritable Carnival du Kate!” The redheaded Verdandi looked up, tipped down her oversized sunglasses and pushed back the brim of her floppy hat to view the two men in the waiting area. “Ooo, you didn’t tell me we had gentlemen callers, dahrling!”
Urd snorted derisively, but Verdandi –who may or may not have been pregnant - it was difficult to tell with the odd, fringed outfit she was wearing – did her best at fluttering over to Pickles and Skwisgaar where, as his lap was the one currently unoccupied by a Gibson guitar, she swiftly planted herself on top of a very surprised Pickles.
“DAHRLINGS! We were just going out someplace less booooooring!”
“Oof,” said Pickles.
“SISTER URD!” All turned to see a rather plain twentyish woman standing, hands on hips. “We have customers! DO behave yourself!”
“Oh, Skuld, don’t be so TIRESOME!” Verdandi told her, ruffling Pickles’ braids.
“Ja,” tried Skwisgaar. “We ams wanted da t’ree wishes.”
“Very well,” said Skuld. “Sirter Urd, do you have a contract?’ Urd snorted again and took another swig from the flask. Skuld bustled irritably over to the desk and laboriously tried to open a drawer as Urd refused to budge an inch.
“What sort of intervention are you seeking?” Skuld asked them.
“Oooo, you don’t even need to ask them, dahrling!” Verdandi told her, pulling on Pickles’ nose. “Men so fabulous! It’s obviously a LOOOOOVE spell, isn’t it?”
“Actuallyies,” Skwisgaar told them, “We has all da lady friends was ams wants.”
Urd suddenly glanced up from Hello! “Dahrling,” she said, lowering her sunglasses. “Have we met?’
“Uh. Maybies,” Skwisgaar muttered into his guitar.
“He’s lookin’ t’ git a curse removed,” sighed Pickles, as Verdandi had just slid off his lap in order to make a a closer inspection of Skwisgaar, so the drummer was able to breathe again.
Both Verdandi and Urd were now standing over Skwisgaar. “A reversal? Dahrling,” said Urd. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Just the barest blip.”
“An’ I got performance anxiety,” Pickles supplied.
“Dahrling, so has every man. Haven’t you tried Viagra?” sighed Urd.
“Naw! Dood! Stage fright!”
“Oh, you fellows are performers?” asked Verdandi. “Do you know Mick? He was just a good, good friend. Despite the persistent rumors.”
“We ams in da bands,” Skwisgaar told them.
“Dat’s Skwisgaar. An’ I’m Pickles da drummer. Of Det’klok.”
Suddenly, Urd and Verdandi looked at each other.
“Skuld, DAHRLING, you need to let us handle this,” said Urd,
“Yaaaahs. Scrurry into the back, won’t you, and fetch us some tea or cocaine or something, won’t you?” muttered Verdandi.
“Yaaaahs, scurry on,” repeated Urd, emphasizing the words with a swift kick of her high heeled shoe to Skuld’s posterior. The younger woman glowered but departed into the back.
Verdandi was suddenly holding a contract. “Now, dahrling, about those fabulous wishes,” she said.
Ganesh had noticed a difference in his life of late: he had begun to think of it as lap occupancy rate.
This evening, he had no sooner sung their son to sleep - feeling the warm little body relax into a sweet contentment, carrying him to the nursery, bedding him down between his best friends - and returned to the couch and unfolded his newspaper than he quite suddenly found himself weighed down again, this time by a much more ungainly angel.
It was not necessarily a bad thing, all in all. They had spent a bit of time aimlessly making out, and a bit of time halfway watching the television.
"Is he already down?" Charles asked at length. Ganesh nodded. "He's been teething."
"He likes being sung to."
"Aw, shit. I missed it?" said Charles.
"Sariel, why would you ever want to hear?" Ganesh asked. He combed his fingers through the soft angel hair.
"I like it when you sing."
"My Uncle Vishnu notwithstanding, my family are dancers, not singers. We lack the most melodious voices."
"You don't have to have a perfect voice to be a good singer."
"Perhaps."
Charles squirmed a bit, but finally asked the question he wanted, "Did you see the interview?"
"Of course! We all watched. You were absolutely brilliant."
"Aw. I wouldn't go that far,” Charles said with quite obvious false modesty.
“I am so sorry.”
“For what?”
“I lost my temper! I’ve been pursued by press for decades! One would think I should be able to handle a few questions!”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Ganesh continued to stroke angel hair. It had almost grown back to the length Charles preferred, but still tended to go anywhere and everywhere if not carefully slicked down. “I don’t know what happened,” Ganesh admitted.
“Look, I warned you, but you really gotta experience it. People say juggernaut, but it’s like that. We’re like nothing else, our fans are like nothing else, our press is like nothing else.”
“I felt as if…. It’s very like when Uncle Brahma sent me back to this realm left-handed.”
“Well, see how that turned out? And now you can paint.”
“Not even as well as my toddler, unfortunately.”
“Ganesh. Dear. Trust me, you’re gonna spend a couple months finding brand new ways to fuck up, and then we’ll fix it. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about improvising.”
“You actually enjoy this sort of thing, don’t you?”
“Oh fuck yeah. If I was a doctor, I’d be one of those guys you go to in the emergency room when you have a hatchet stuck in your head.”
“Which, I presume, you’ve probably had to deal with?”
“We’ll be fine. Trust me. You saw the interview, right? No offense, but the later callers were far more interested in Skwisgaar’s guitar strings than they were in you.”
“Oh. I had meant to ask you about that. I was in the group at Mordhaus? Lady Raziel came down for part of it. But I saw neither Pickles nor Skwisgaar.”
“Pickles and Skwisgaar? Not Toki?”
“I can tell the two apart with a reasonable accuracy.”
“It’s just, that’s news to me. Those guys always seem to be a step ahead of me these days. Nathan just chewed my ass for neglecting them.”
“Well. I am still working things out with my mother, but I have reduced my responsibilities at work so I can spend devote more time to Boon. If you feel-“
“Oh, fuck that! I’m not gonna miss my kid growing up because a fucking spoiled-ass rock star is pouting!”
"And Lady Raziel wished to speak to you."
"What about? I didn't get any phone messages."
Ganesh considered. It all seemed muddy for some reason. "I'm not really certain. I think it was important though."
"Yup. Must be next season's hemlines," Charles grumbled.
It was late, and Charles needed something to nosh on. Though he was Court Formed, out of habit, he only pulled on a pair of pajama pants and wandered yawning, stomach growling, towards the kitchen in Ganesh’s residence.
Oddly, the kitchen door was closed. Ganesh and his servants always kept it propped open, as no matter what the hour, people were always bustling in and out.
He yawned again and pushed it open.
And felt himself knocked through. He landed on something soft.
"Ganesh? What the fuck?"
He pushed himself up. Hay? On Ganesh’s floor?
He sneezed. Fucking hay fever, he thought.
“There it is! GET IT!”
Only many years of experiencing combat situations saved Charles from having his head knocked clean off by some sort of weapon. He ducked, and then he was up on his feet.
It was a guy holding a shovel? In Ganesh’s kitchen?
Only it wasn’t a kitchen. It was some farm crap. Like a barn?
And there were more guys. With shovels and pitchforks and the like.
OK. Magic. Something is fucked up. He ducked a jab with a pitchfork, and decided to go True Form and fly the fuck away.
And … nothing. No wings.
“FUCK!” Charles screamed. He just dodged a swing by another idiot with a farm tool. He jumped up to grab the top of the door frame and brought both feet into the chest of the motherfucker who was after him. One of the motherfuckers. He grabbed the fallen weapon – some kind of thing with a fork on the end – and whacked another motherfucker. But there were a lot of them, and someone ended up getting in a glancing blow to his head that he didn’t quite manage to duck. There were sounds, and lights, and eyeglasses flying off.
I am not going to be killed by a bunch of cocksucking farmers, he thought, face in the mud. He forced himself to roll away from another blow and, catching the guy’s feet with his own, managed to knock him over.
He barreled out the door. And then he ran like hell.
He thought he heard a stream, so he made for it. It was dark: good. Though his vision was blurry without his eyeglasses, they wouldn’t be able to see. He still seemed to have his night vision, thank the gods. He took a zigzag path through a stand of trees, the ground tearing up his Court Formed bare feet. And then his feet were plunged into the icy waters of the stream. He tried to move quickly but silently along the water, his feet sliding on the slippery bottom stones. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he dragged himself up on the opposite bank and rested for a moment. He sat stock still for a moment, listening.
He leaned back over the stream and splashed on freezing water in an attempt to wipe off the worst of the blood now clotting down a temple. Though it was dark, the moon was over his shoulder, so he could see his reflection.
Silver hair. Silver eyes.
Great, he thought. Can’t transform, but I look like a fucking freak.
He strained his ears. The sound of the pursuit seemed to be gone. Deeply regretting he had no wings to pull around him for warmth, he found a tree with a bit of a space between two roots, and curling up miserably on the bare ground, tried to get some sleep.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dealing with the press. And mall witches.
Warnings: Slash, AU, OCs, swearing. Also, this one kinda pushes it: NSFW, kids.
Notes: Notes after the jump.
Just a reminder, if LJ takes a dive again, I also post these over on DW.
Oh, forgot to do the recap thingie. So, last time, someone got married. There were pirates. And Ginsu knives! And pie, pie, pie!!! Did you miss it? Good times, good times. Oh, but Pickles has been kinda cranky, due to stuff I've done to him in like the last 16 or so chapters. So, there's that.
Ganesh leaned over to regard the schematics spread over his desk, in his office high above the ground in Eastern Kingdom headquarters' magnificent skyscraper. When he and his mother were dividing up their obligations to the EKC, he had eagerly volunteered to continue overseeing the rebuilding of the Imperial City. He loved to behold the restoration of his beloved capitol, and hoped young Elias would show an interest: he seemed to have a flare for the visual. Perhaps, in addition to his duties to various pantheons, the boy would become an architect in the human world? It was good to have a trade in the mortal realm. Ganesh had found few things as rewarding in his long life as his medical practice.
He was lost in such musings when he became aware of another presence in the office. "Char- Sariel," he said, smiling as the angel now standing directly behind him chewed on his neck while pulling off his jacket. For a being with only two arms, Sariel made good use of them. Charles, that is. His angel had decided on a human name. It was no matter.
"I'm having you for lunch today, remember?" Charles was muttering as he groped underneath Ganesh's shirt.. It seemed rather churlish to argue, so Ganesh leaned over a bit farther to hit the button that locked the door. But then he found himself pulled rather roughly back as the angel made short work of his shirt, scattering buttons every which way. Another designer shirt, ruined. Twas a pity, but another excuse to go shopping. He reached back over his shoulder to touch his lover’s soft hair: Charles or not, the angel was in his winged form, Ganesh could tell without looking. He radiated power. It was thrilling. And more than a little arousing.
"I spent the entire morning thinking about your ass," Charles told him as he loosened Ganesh's belt. Ganesh, who had already kicked off his shoes (he rarely wore socks) stepped out of his pants as they came down. He had the legs of a dancer, all muscle and sinew, the thighs unexpectedly thick. Charles had his two hands all over the thighs, pushing them apart, his tongue tracing over the quite perfectly smooth ass.
Ganesh sighed. "Oh gods. You know what I like," he muttered. He leaned forward as Charles gently spread him and then, after nibbling just a tantalizing bit around the edges, the tongue found its way inside. Ganesh brought a hand that wasn't now grasping a rumpled handful of architectural drawings down to stroke his own cock. He thought of coming all over the drawings, a sticky fucking mess. It sounded nasty. His eyes rolled back in his head.
Charles now grasped both of the arms Ganesh had out and thrust them up over his head. There weren't a lot of beings as strong as Ganesh, but the angel was one of them. It was so different, so new, to feel himself overpowered like this, to let himself be.
Ganesh gasped as Charles bent him over the desk, shoving into him, hard. Ganesh let out a delighted laugh. They had been so careful at first. Probably so many years between them of fucking humans. Nothing wrong with that of course. Humans were delightful beings. But you had to be damned careful with them. They were just so delicate. They took much coaxing and petting. And sometimes, you know, a god just needed a good ass pounding. Sariel, in his gorgeous, strong winged form, literally fucked him up over the desk and down the other side, so Ganesh was halfway hanging off, Sariel's fingers now grabbing his hair, and now he could feel it, the last two or three thrusts before he had satisfied himself, so thrilling and dirty.
They lay for a while, like that, until Charles finally slid off and helped Ganesh sit up, and then he could finally be face to face with his gorgeous angel. He delightedly kissed him, luxuriating in that amazing aura. "Did you get off?" Charles whispered.
"No. No matter," Ganesh told him.
"Oh, it matters," Charles laughed, now starting to kiss his way down Ganesh's chest and on to his belly. Ganesh attempted to steady himself, feet on the floor and his ass, still aching, against the desk. "Oh, oh, gently, dear," he found himself saying. Those hands, that mouth and tongue. He was straining to keep himself from coming too soon. He wanted to hold on to this for a few moments more. He twisted the fingers of one hand into the soft, silvery hair, now down at his waist level. And then the jolt, as Charles thrust his thoughts into Ganesh's mind, the glowing feeling of being desired shot through him, and suddenly his feet were off the floor, looking for purchase, up on the desk, on Charles' body, and he was arched, so far back, and he was everywhere, and everything, for just one bare moment.
He slumped back on the desk. Charles, wiping his mouth, gently pushed him over on his side, and clambered up to lay beside him.
"Did the earth move?" Charles asked.
"Oh great gods," Ganesh murmured.
"No, I mean, did you set off an earthquake?"
"Oh, shit. I may have."
Charles laughed. "I gotta get back. In a little while," he told Ganesh.
"Yes. Yes. Of course." Ganesh willed his brain to reboot. "Get you cleaned up," he muttered.
"I can shower back at-" but Charles was being yanked towards Ganesh's executive washroom by the red tie, which somehow, had failed to come off in the melee.
Ganesh's life was such that he had made allowances for the occurrence of horny lunchtime angels in the design of his new office suite, so the shower had more than enough room for Charles in his winged form.
"You're gonna get my tie..." but then the water was on full blast, and he and the tie were completely soaked. "You got my tie wet!" Charles complained.
"You got bodily fluids all over my schematics!" Ganesh laughed, picking up the soap.
"Why weren't you just using electronic versions? You’re the one who’s in love with your little electronic thingies.”
"Thanks gods we didn't have sex on top of my computer!" Ganesh said. "I would have keyboard shaped dents in my arse! All right now. Wing!” he ordered. Charles stuck out a wing, and then sighed contentedly as Ganesh soaped up his feathers. Angels, Ganesh reflected, shaking his head. For a creature who no longer wanted to be considered an angel, Charles still seemed to like nothing more than having his wings groomed. “I need to be off to the dedication ceremony in a bit,” Ganesh mused, remembering.
“Are you taking some of my press people?”
“Charles. I’m not going to be followed around everywhere by beings wearing hoods. This isn’t the right venue.”
“Look, I’m just offering. It might come in handy.”
“Please believe me, I am most certainly not going to need a giant pyramid rolling over the assembled dignitaries.”
“It was the Sphinx! And it was only that one time!”
“I can handle my own publicity. Thank you.”
“I’ve hired in Raziel. You know that? And she doesn’t wear a hood!”
“That should prove … entertaining. The Lady certainly enjoys engaging with the press.”
"So what are we gonna do about, you know, Pickles."
"What do you wanna do about him?" Charles asked. For some reason, he didn't have a spare tie in his desk drawer, so he was trying to air out the damp one he had been wearing at Ganesh's office.
"He can't play concerts!" Nathan reminded him.
"Yeah. I thought you guys didn't wanna work."
"He should be able to play if he WANTS TO."
"Look, we've tried everything. We've tried hypnosis, desensitizing, we had Dr. Twinkletits work with him...."
"TWINKLETITS IS AN ASSHOLE."
"Maybe so, but he got you guys fucking working together again. And I don't think I ever heard a fucking thank you."
"Fucking thank you."
"You're fucking welcome."
Nathan glared. "Were you just up visiting GANESH?"
Charles waved his tie. "What? Maybe. Why?"
"You get like this."
“Like what?”
“Like this.”
"Oh. Don’t start with that. You guys have HUNDREDS of groupies...."
"So he's your GROUPIE?"
"He's not my groupie."
"Where's your kid, anyway?"
"He's with his tutor."
"A tutor? What the fuck is he teaching the kid. HE'S A BABY."
"I'm aware of that! That's what you call male nannies!"
"Wait. Why?"
"Do I look like I know something like that?"
"You don't care? About your kid?"
"OK, first my relationship, then my parenting skills?"
"Charles. Quit fucking with your tie and listen!" Nathan thundered, snatching the tie out of Charles’ hands.
"I thought you guys liked the tie?"
"Fuck the tie! What about Pickles?" Nathan grumbled, tossing the tie to the floor.
"I like Pickles! Look, we've talked about this! I can't wave my magical feathery wings and fix every little fucking thing for you guys!"
“You could act like you’re still interested.”
“Look, Nathan, understand my position! I don’t wanna look like I’m pressuring Pickles! He’s really fucking sensitive to it since the whole rehab deal.”
“He’s too fucking sensitive.”
“Maybe this is just gonna take some time! I mean, why don’t you guys start working on the fucking album?”
“WHY ARE YOU PRESSURING ME?????” Nathan boomed. “I’M AN ARTIST!”
Charles looked at his tie, and wondered if it would be possible to use it as a noose.
Lord Ganesh regarded the assembled group of human beings with an exasperated sigh.
He had been aware, when he had first struck up a relationship with the part angel creature known in the human world as Charles Ofdensen, that there was a certain amount of public interest directed towards the individual. It was, thankfully, some orders of magnitude lessened in frenzy compared to the attention showered upon the musicians with whom Charles was associated. And Ganesh had more than a bit of experience dealing with (not to mention, eluding) the Indian press. It wasn’t difficult, as many of his public appearances occurred in Europe and elsewhere in the world. In addition, he had found that for the most part, members of the paparazzi were seemingly unable to keep up with you if you simply failed to inform them where you would be going that day.
There had been the amusing attempt at linkage for a time with a mysterious small dark-haired woman. To this day, although Raziel categorically denied it, Ganesh suspected the Lady had encouraged this for her own mischievous purposes. Despite some rather clever attempts, no one had ever managed to obtain a clear photograph of her face, which she seemed to find terribly amusing.
Ganesh was known to some extent in his native India. His was a face one recognized but couldn’t quite place. He was comfortable with this status. Charles' profile was a bit higher, and more-so since first his sudden reappearance some years back (still the subject of much speculation), followed by his abrupt confession on Nick Ibsen’s television programme that he was in fact a supernatural being. This latter news had of course soon been eclipsed by rumors of Toki Wartooth dating an astronaut and an associated outer space themed solo album (stories Ganesh still suspected had in fact been planted by none other than Charles), yet there remained interest in elements of Charles' personal life.
But Ganesh had always been careful around Lady Raziel. The trouble was his relationship with Charles was such that, well, sometimes, his defenses were simply downed. For a time.
It had been a little thing, really, something that might occur a number of times in a week. Two men standing off to the side, well away from the eye of the hurricane of press coverage. Dethklok were doing something or other, opening a coffee bar, or maybe dedicating a rehab facility for espresso addicts. And Ganesh had shown up, just for a little while. He couldn't at this time recall the topic of their conversation. It simply happened, sometimes, these days, that they would talk, and for a bare moment, all else would retreat to a pleasant white noise of background motion, and it was just the two of them. Ganesh had looked down, smiling slightly, and causing his hair to fall over his eyes, as it inevitably did, and Charles had traced out a finger, to tame the strand back behind an ear.
And somewhere, nearby, there had been a man standing with his finger poised on the button of his camera. A thoughtless moment had been burned into a digital image, which had gone round and round and up and down the world at the speed of light, and someone - someone curious enough to study the frankly fairly banal image- had been able to identify Ganesh as the tall man to whom Charles Ofdensen felt a level of acquaintanceship sufficient to smooth his hair out of his eyes.
"Lord Ganesh! Are you the guy in the photo with Charles Ofdensen?" came a shout.
"We are here today to dedicate a children's hospital,” Ganesh patiently explained. “I will answer questions regarding that matter. And none other."
"Will you confirm or deny?"
“Neither. I will, as I said, dedicate a hospital. There are sick children in this city. Or were you unaware of this fact?”
“Why are you hiding the relationship?”
"You are members of the press?" Ganesh inquired.
“Lord Ganesh!” Shri Ganesha!”
“Are any of you news people aware, perhaps, that there is a border war flaring not terribly far from here? That a nearby province has reported problems with child labor? That not terribly far from here, last week, a young woman who was unable to pay her dowry was horribly burned by members of her fiancé’s family?”
“What can you tell us about the photograph?”
“Are you more than friends?”
“What is the relationship?”
Lord Ganesh narrowed his eyes.
“Toxic waste dump, huh? That was pretty creative.”
Ganesh was still scowling.
“What you shoulda done, you shoulda just left them all there to play in the asbestos,” Charles laughed.
Ganesh was literally shaking. “Seventeen centuries. I have kept my family’s privacy. And now, in one moment’s anger….”
“Wasn’t a moment, dear. You’re still pretty fucking steamed.”
Ganesh, out on one lovely patio at his residence, puffed unapologetically on a beedi. Charles grabbed it and took a drag. “Let me make a couple calls,” Charles told him.
“This is a fucking disaster Sariel!”
“Aw, c’mon!” said Charles, taking out his Dethphone. “You got just like this after Brahma made you eat that steak. And so what? You brought all the news guys back alive from the dump, right? I mean, some of ‘em might’ve ruined their underwear, but maybe they had a bit of sense knocked into ‘em?”
“Press people?” sighed Ganesh. “Never.”
“Hello?” Charles told his phone. “This is Charles. Yeah, Charles Ofdensen. I might have a story for you….”
"I can give you something. I warn you, it will not completely eliminate the scars, but, with the application of makeup, should significantly improve your appearance on camera."
"You are a doctor?" asked Nick Ibsen.
"I have an MD from Johns Hopkins, and a medical practice."
"What year is the medical degree again?" asked Ibsen, pulling on his shirt.
"I also have a law degree,” Ganesh told him.
"Ah, two lawyers in the family?"
"Family? Are you perchance referring to my late father? He was a businessman."
"I think the best answer for my buddy Nick is no comment." Ibsen turned to an appraising eye Charles, who had just come into the exam room. "I was having a conversation with your ... friend," Nick told him. "And who might you be?"
"BOO!" giggled Elias as Ibsen took him from Charles' arms.
"Boon. It's a nickname," Charles told him.
"Do you have children, Mr. Ibsen?" Ganesh asked.
"Yeah. And, reluctant as I am to admit it, grandkids," said Ibsen, donning a huge pair of reading glasses to study Elias. "But if you're trying to appeal to my heart, be aware it's at least 70% carbon fiber nowadays," he said, thumping his chest.
"We're just trying to reach an understanding," Charles explained. "I don't give a flying fuck - and I'm one of the few individuals who can truly say this - what people think of me. But, there are matters of my personal life that in will share, and those that... I'm more reluctant about some stuff."
"Young Boon has your eyebrows," Ibsen told Charles, who raised one of his own.
But Ibsen was now gawping at Elias, who had just stolen his eyeglasses. With his extra set of arms.
"What do you want?" asked Ibsen.
"Best to let him sit here a bit, so he's not all ruffled," said Raziel.
"That's fine, I think they need a bit of extra time on the lighting," the makeup girl told her, as Charles uncomfortably submitted to her ministrations. They were not backstage in a dressing room, but rather already seated out on the set of Nick Ibsen Live. Charles was in the guest chair, wearing a bib, as Raziel had made herself at home sitting on the famous desk.
"Soft light is probably best," Raziel told her.
"We're having trouble with the eyes," a crew member told her.
"I brought his dark glasses," she said.
"I thought we didn't wanna do that?" Charles grumbled.
"Don't think a lotta people will be obsessing over your eyes when you got six foot of wing hanging out for all to see," Raziel commented as she swapped out eyeglasses and she and the makeup girl made an assessment.
"I'm not your fucking Pretty Pretty Princess doll," Charles huffed.
"Did you wanna pink dress instead of the suit? Then they may not notice the wings so much." The makeup girl giggled as Charles fumed.
"Hello," said a familiar voice.
"Hi!" Raziel told Nick Ibsen.
"And you are?" he asked, taking Raziel's hand.
"Publicist," she said, hooking a thumb at Charles.
"Haven't I seen you before?" asked Ibsen, not taking his eyes off the small angel.
"Almost, but not quite," she grinned.
Ibsen continued to hold her hand. "A couple years back, there was a high official in the Eastern Kingdom corporation, Ganesa Gajakara Vighneshwara. Know him?" Raziel blinked coquettishly at him while Charles scowled. "Powerful but shadowy corporation. Family owned. Anyway, he started hitting the European club scene, and he was frequently seen in the company of a small, dark haired girl," Ibsen told her. "I had a friend in the Indian press who used to chase them around Italy."
"Was your friend bored?" Raziel asked, hopping off the table. "Hey, I'm gonna need that!" she said, smilingly withdrawing her hand. "You gonna need me?" she asked of the makeup girl in Common Angelic.
"Naw, we're done," she answered, removing the bib from a frowning Charles.
"Remember! Don't ruffle!" Raziel told Charles, as the two women walked off.
"You do your research," Charles told Ibsen, as he concentrated on keeping his wings furled. Raziel, in her first act as his newest publicist, had insisted he spend a good portion of the week True Formed, practicing not looking annoyed. He wasn't certain it had done any good, but the band had spent a gleeful few days attempting to egg him on on purpose.
"I have a good team," Ibsen commented.
"I'm curious: how many of them speak Common Angelic?"
Ibsen laughed.
"You're looking good," Charles told him. It was true: under only a few days of Ganesh's treatment, the scarring that marked the right side of his face had begun to fade.
"You're looking ... different," Ibsen cracked, taking his seat. "You ready for this?"
Charles silently nodded.
"You got the POPCORN?" Nathan asked.
"We ams gots da Swedish meatballs," Toki told him cheerily.
"Dude, you go to IKEA again?"
"Ams needs more Moopsflops!" Toki insisted.
"Yeah, that's what I was just thinking. Ganesh dude, you brought some fucking cocktails?"
"Shaken, not stirred, Boon," the god told his son, as he sat him down on the coffee table. Elias grinned and began to eagerly rattle the cocktail shaker with all four little arms.
"TINI!" giggled Elias.
"Ha, make the kid useful," Nathan agreed. "Don't worry," he told Ganesh, who was looking a bit miserable despite the proximity of cocktails, "We've been REHEARSING CHARLES all week for this."
"We are the bescht asschholes in the buschiness," Murderface assured him proudly. "We exschell at dickisch behavior."
"I told Charles I bought the CUDDLE BEAR FRANCHISE," Nathan related, popping the top from his beer bottle with his teeth, "and he gets to make personal appearances at the mall stores to GIVE OUT ANGEL HUGS." There was much malicious laughter.
"I schaid that that Dick and I were doing a Schaint Paddy'sch Day Schpecial, amd he'sch appearing. As a magical leprechaun."
"I ams tells Hims I ams quitsing da business to mans da zombie dating hotlines!"Toki told them.
Ganesh, who up to that point had been making a mighty attempt at keeping a straight face, nearly spilled the martini he was pouring out. "What, with Chango and Orula?" he laughed
"Whoa, Toki, he didn't actually believe THAT SHIT did he?" Nathan chuckled.
"But, it ams trues!" said Toki.
"What? Wait! It's on! Where the fuck is Pickles?" Nathan muttered as he scrambled to hit the correct foot pedal.
"…NICKI IBSEN LIVE! With Dethklok manager, lawyer, CFO Charles Ofdensen," boomed Ibsen's voice over the speakers. There was hooting and throwing of popcorn at the screen. Elias rolled a Swedish meatball around on his plate,puzzled and intrigued by how to eat the round object.
"Charles, as I was just saying, you're looking different than when we last talked."
"Thanks. I've been working out," Charles told him.
"Joking aside, I mean your accessories."
As casually as possible, Charles slightly extended a wing tip. "Yeah. Well. You guys got ahold of those pictures from the Latin American press...." The screen flashed an image of Charles sitting in the audience of the Latin American Daytime Emmy awards.
“You were reluctant to do that last time,” said Ibsen.
"I do what I can, but when I'm seated next to the Dethklok boys, I could be lit on fire and I doubt anyone would pay attention."
"It could happen," allowed Ibsen.
"Actually, it has happened," Charles smiled. "But, you know what can happen around my band."
Ibsen unconsciously put a hand to his face. "All too well," he muttered. "But you've been getting attention recently..." This time the screen flashed That Picture, of Charles and Ganesh.
"I should point out, once again, that was not me. That attention has been focused on another individual. Who among other things, is taller, better looking, and dresses better."
Back in Mordhaus, someone elbowed Ganesh, who may have actually blushed.
"An individual who can transport newsmen halfway across a country?" asked Ibsen.
"I sincerely hope they found the experience educational. In addition, there were no deaths or injuries reported from the incident. It was safer than a one of our concerts. Some might say, more entertaining. And we didn't even charge a fee."
"When you were on the show last time...."
"Yes?"
"You indicated you were in a committed relationship."
"You do your homework."
"Still, we can't help but speculate...." Nick pressed.
"I won't deny that what I said before is correct. And speaking of the individual in question" - the screen flashed what could be admitted was a rather hot photo of Ganesh - "I must say that I am flattered that he is the center of anybody's speculation regarding me."
"But you're an angel."
"As I've said, nothing gets past you, Nick," laughed Charles, giving his wings the tiniest flick. Both Mordhaus and the studio erupted in laughter.
"First caller. Bakersfield California, HELLO!"
"You're wearing a ring!" squealed an excited female voice.
"That always seems to be the very first thing women notice," Charles laughed
"Can you show us?" asked Nick.
"This was custom made by a good friend of mine," said Charles, holding his hand up to the camera.
"Very unusual," Nick agreed.
"Dat ams da pretty rings," sighed Toki as the rest tossed cinnamon buns at his head.
"But what about you and the hot guy?" the female voice persisted.
Ganesh found himself pelted with Swedish meatballs, including from his giggling son. “Et tu, Boon?” he asked.
"There's been speculation," Nick agreed. "Care to put some rumors to rest?"
"I'd have to say, what she appears to be saying....” Charles began. “What she's implying.... Well, as you know, Nick, that's illegal, in 46 of the 50 states, including this one."
"You haven't spoken out before on the issue of marriage rights for angelic beings."
"And I'm not likely to in the future. I feel, for one thing, no one really wants to hear what I think.... I'm not a politician. I'm not an activist. I just manage a band."
"But what would you say? I'm asking you, now."
"Well, that's problematic. What they told us in law school, in order to really argue a case, you must be able to FIRST articulate the opposing argument."
"And?"
Charles shrugged. "Well. There is no opposing argument. There just isn't one. I mean, one at makes any logical sense."
"Next caller! Provo, Utah, HELLO!"
"The Lord's wrath is upon you!"
"Look, I swear, we are gonna release that new Dethklok album this year!" said Charles, to gales of laughter.
"Our fans are screwed up," Nathan sighed.
"Amarillo, Texas, HELLO!"
"Is Pickles like really leaving Dethklok? Because he's like my total favorite!"
The television screen at Mordhaus was suddenly buried under a shower of pastries and Scandanavian meat products.
"Absolutely, categorically, and without ambiguity, no," said Charles.
"Can you comment on some speculation in the press that he now suffers from stage fright," said Ibsen.
"He is working through some issues. He has everyone's full support during this time."
"He's a douschebag!" "LOSER!" “Pickles ams suck!”
Pickles checked the crumpled piece of paper in his hands. It looked like the right address, but this place seemed pretty shabby for the Dreamtime. But there was the coin laundry place Orula had mentioned.
There was a sandy-haired young man up on a rickety looking ladder outside the laundry, painting over some graffiti. He gracefully hopped down the ladder as a handsome young East Asian-looking man stuck his head out of the store. The East Asian man grinned at the painter, and they embraced and made their way back into the store, holding hands, and quickly disappeared onto the back.
Pickles did a double take. They looked like.... But that couldn't be.
"Ams dis da right addresses, Pickle?" inquired Skwisgaar.
"I dunno, Skwis, dis place seems like.... Somethin' Gannish dood would call 'dodgy' like."
"Pfft, we ams fines," the guitarist scoffed. But Pickles noticed he was playing a nervous run on his guitar. “Oh, here we ams!” Skwisgaar pointed to an especially dodgy looking storefront, a broken sign, “Double Double,” up above the door. He grabbed open the door, and pushed Pickles through.
It wouldn’t have been correct to say the waiting room had seen better days: it was not clear that it had ever been anything but what it was now, a dark shabby place, such as you might expect to find at a DMV in a lower circle of hell. There were chairs and couches of indeterminate colors, stained by lord knows what, and magazines that had been out of print since the 1970s.
A woman with a blond beehive hairdo was sitting behind the reception desk, slingbacked feet up on the desk, cigarette turning to ash, her nose in a relatively current issue of Hello! Magazine. It was unclear with her, as well, as to whether she had seen better days. It was clear that whoever she went to for cosmetic surgery must be rapidly running out of facial skin to lift.
Pickles cautiously approached her. “Uh, we were wonderin’….”
“DAAAAARHLING!” she said, without looking up. Pickles involuntarily jerked back. Her skin was pulled tight as a rubber band, and every work out of her mouth made him feel like it was all going to snap. “CAHN’T you see I’m READING?”
“Uh. Yeh. Sahry, dood,” Pickles muttered. The blond woman rolled her eyes and took a quick sip from a hip flask. Pickles and Skwisgaar found themselves seats with the lowest concentration of stains.
“UUUUUURRRRRD!” came a voice as a fortyish-looking woman suddenly burst into the room. “My chakras have come all unstuck!”
“Dahrling, you know where the Superglue is,” said Urd.
“Oh, I always just glue my fingers together! Cahn’t you assist me? This is a crisis!”
“Verdandi,” muttered Urd through permanently gritted teeth. “DAAAAAHRLING. Cahn’t you see I’m reading about Kate?”
“Moss or Middleton?” demanded Verdandi.
“Does it mahtter?” She sighed. “Katie Holmes is commenting on Kate Middleton.”
“Oh, it’s a veritable Carnival du Kate!” The redheaded Verdandi looked up, tipped down her oversized sunglasses and pushed back the brim of her floppy hat to view the two men in the waiting area. “Ooo, you didn’t tell me we had gentlemen callers, dahrling!”
Urd snorted derisively, but Verdandi –who may or may not have been pregnant - it was difficult to tell with the odd, fringed outfit she was wearing – did her best at fluttering over to Pickles and Skwisgaar where, as his lap was the one currently unoccupied by a Gibson guitar, she swiftly planted herself on top of a very surprised Pickles.
“DAHRLINGS! We were just going out someplace less booooooring!”
“Oof,” said Pickles.
“SISTER URD!” All turned to see a rather plain twentyish woman standing, hands on hips. “We have customers! DO behave yourself!”
“Oh, Skuld, don’t be so TIRESOME!” Verdandi told her, ruffling Pickles’ braids.
“Ja,” tried Skwisgaar. “We ams wanted da t’ree wishes.”
“Very well,” said Skuld. “Sirter Urd, do you have a contract?’ Urd snorted again and took another swig from the flask. Skuld bustled irritably over to the desk and laboriously tried to open a drawer as Urd refused to budge an inch.
“What sort of intervention are you seeking?” Skuld asked them.
“Oooo, you don’t even need to ask them, dahrling!” Verdandi told her, pulling on Pickles’ nose. “Men so fabulous! It’s obviously a LOOOOOVE spell, isn’t it?”
“Actuallyies,” Skwisgaar told them, “We has all da lady friends was ams wants.”
Urd suddenly glanced up from Hello! “Dahrling,” she said, lowering her sunglasses. “Have we met?’
“Uh. Maybies,” Skwisgaar muttered into his guitar.
“He’s lookin’ t’ git a curse removed,” sighed Pickles, as Verdandi had just slid off his lap in order to make a a closer inspection of Skwisgaar, so the drummer was able to breathe again.
Both Verdandi and Urd were now standing over Skwisgaar. “A reversal? Dahrling,” said Urd. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Just the barest blip.”
“An’ I got performance anxiety,” Pickles supplied.
“Dahrling, so has every man. Haven’t you tried Viagra?” sighed Urd.
“Naw! Dood! Stage fright!”
“Oh, you fellows are performers?” asked Verdandi. “Do you know Mick? He was just a good, good friend. Despite the persistent rumors.”
“We ams in da bands,” Skwisgaar told them.
“Dat’s Skwisgaar. An’ I’m Pickles da drummer. Of Det’klok.”
Suddenly, Urd and Verdandi looked at each other.
“Skuld, DAHRLING, you need to let us handle this,” said Urd,
“Yaaaahs. Scrurry into the back, won’t you, and fetch us some tea or cocaine or something, won’t you?” muttered Verdandi.
“Yaaaahs, scurry on,” repeated Urd, emphasizing the words with a swift kick of her high heeled shoe to Skuld’s posterior. The younger woman glowered but departed into the back.
Verdandi was suddenly holding a contract. “Now, dahrling, about those fabulous wishes,” she said.
Ganesh had noticed a difference in his life of late: he had begun to think of it as lap occupancy rate.
This evening, he had no sooner sung their son to sleep - feeling the warm little body relax into a sweet contentment, carrying him to the nursery, bedding him down between his best friends - and returned to the couch and unfolded his newspaper than he quite suddenly found himself weighed down again, this time by a much more ungainly angel.
It was not necessarily a bad thing, all in all. They had spent a bit of time aimlessly making out, and a bit of time halfway watching the television.
"Is he already down?" Charles asked at length. Ganesh nodded. "He's been teething."
"He likes being sung to."
"Aw, shit. I missed it?" said Charles.
"Sariel, why would you ever want to hear?" Ganesh asked. He combed his fingers through the soft angel hair.
"I like it when you sing."
"My Uncle Vishnu notwithstanding, my family are dancers, not singers. We lack the most melodious voices."
"You don't have to have a perfect voice to be a good singer."
"Perhaps."
Charles squirmed a bit, but finally asked the question he wanted, "Did you see the interview?"
"Of course! We all watched. You were absolutely brilliant."
"Aw. I wouldn't go that far,” Charles said with quite obvious false modesty.
“I am so sorry.”
“For what?”
“I lost my temper! I’ve been pursued by press for decades! One would think I should be able to handle a few questions!”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Ganesh continued to stroke angel hair. It had almost grown back to the length Charles preferred, but still tended to go anywhere and everywhere if not carefully slicked down. “I don’t know what happened,” Ganesh admitted.
“Look, I warned you, but you really gotta experience it. People say juggernaut, but it’s like that. We’re like nothing else, our fans are like nothing else, our press is like nothing else.”
“I felt as if…. It’s very like when Uncle Brahma sent me back to this realm left-handed.”
“Well, see how that turned out? And now you can paint.”
“Not even as well as my toddler, unfortunately.”
“Ganesh. Dear. Trust me, you’re gonna spend a couple months finding brand new ways to fuck up, and then we’ll fix it. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about improvising.”
“You actually enjoy this sort of thing, don’t you?”
“Oh fuck yeah. If I was a doctor, I’d be one of those guys you go to in the emergency room when you have a hatchet stuck in your head.”
“Which, I presume, you’ve probably had to deal with?”
“We’ll be fine. Trust me. You saw the interview, right? No offense, but the later callers were far more interested in Skwisgaar’s guitar strings than they were in you.”
“Oh. I had meant to ask you about that. I was in the group at Mordhaus? Lady Raziel came down for part of it. But I saw neither Pickles nor Skwisgaar.”
“Pickles and Skwisgaar? Not Toki?”
“I can tell the two apart with a reasonable accuracy.”
“It’s just, that’s news to me. Those guys always seem to be a step ahead of me these days. Nathan just chewed my ass for neglecting them.”
“Well. I am still working things out with my mother, but I have reduced my responsibilities at work so I can spend devote more time to Boon. If you feel-“
“Oh, fuck that! I’m not gonna miss my kid growing up because a fucking spoiled-ass rock star is pouting!”
"And Lady Raziel wished to speak to you."
"What about? I didn't get any phone messages."
Ganesh considered. It all seemed muddy for some reason. "I'm not really certain. I think it was important though."
"Yup. Must be next season's hemlines," Charles grumbled.
It was late, and Charles needed something to nosh on. Though he was Court Formed, out of habit, he only pulled on a pair of pajama pants and wandered yawning, stomach growling, towards the kitchen in Ganesh’s residence.
Oddly, the kitchen door was closed. Ganesh and his servants always kept it propped open, as no matter what the hour, people were always bustling in and out.
He yawned again and pushed it open.
And felt himself knocked through. He landed on something soft.
"Ganesh? What the fuck?"
He pushed himself up. Hay? On Ganesh’s floor?
He sneezed. Fucking hay fever, he thought.
“There it is! GET IT!”
Only many years of experiencing combat situations saved Charles from having his head knocked clean off by some sort of weapon. He ducked, and then he was up on his feet.
It was a guy holding a shovel? In Ganesh’s kitchen?
Only it wasn’t a kitchen. It was some farm crap. Like a barn?
And there were more guys. With shovels and pitchforks and the like.
OK. Magic. Something is fucked up. He ducked a jab with a pitchfork, and decided to go True Form and fly the fuck away.
And … nothing. No wings.
“FUCK!” Charles screamed. He just dodged a swing by another idiot with a farm tool. He jumped up to grab the top of the door frame and brought both feet into the chest of the motherfucker who was after him. One of the motherfuckers. He grabbed the fallen weapon – some kind of thing with a fork on the end – and whacked another motherfucker. But there were a lot of them, and someone ended up getting in a glancing blow to his head that he didn’t quite manage to duck. There were sounds, and lights, and eyeglasses flying off.
I am not going to be killed by a bunch of cocksucking farmers, he thought, face in the mud. He forced himself to roll away from another blow and, catching the guy’s feet with his own, managed to knock him over.
He barreled out the door. And then he ran like hell.
He thought he heard a stream, so he made for it. It was dark: good. Though his vision was blurry without his eyeglasses, they wouldn’t be able to see. He still seemed to have his night vision, thank the gods. He took a zigzag path through a stand of trees, the ground tearing up his Court Formed bare feet. And then his feet were plunged into the icy waters of the stream. He tried to move quickly but silently along the water, his feet sliding on the slippery bottom stones. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he dragged himself up on the opposite bank and rested for a moment. He sat stock still for a moment, listening.
He leaned back over the stream and splashed on freezing water in an attempt to wipe off the worst of the blood now clotting down a temple. Though it was dark, the moon was over his shoulder, so he could see his reflection.
Silver hair. Silver eyes.
Great, he thought. Can’t transform, but I look like a fucking freak.
He strained his ears. The sound of the pursuit seemed to be gone. Deeply regretting he had no wings to pull around him for warmth, he found a tree with a bit of a space between two roots, and curling up miserably on the bare ground, tried to get some sleep.
