Sunday Morning (Mythklok Interstitial)
Sep. 26th, 2011 04:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Sunday Morning (Mythklok Interstitial)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Charles decides to sleep in. The world has other ideas.
Warnings: Pigglies
Notes: Seems like every kid I know eventually latches onto a story book or a song or something they want repeated over and over and over and over. It's part of development (literature shows kids learn with repetition), but it often forces parents to fight impinging mental breakdown.
Charles lay back on the bed, arms resting comfortably behind his head on the pillow.
He heard the soft sound of Ganesh in the shower. He wiggled his toes. He thought of absolutely nothing.
Why don't I do this more often, he wondered.
Suddenly, there was the soft thunk of the door opening, and a small body hurtling through space. “DAAAAAAAAA!”
That's why not.
“PIDDLIES!” thundered Elias. He had already achieved the bed, and was clutching a well thumbed picture book: one that nevertheless demanded at least one (and probably two or three) additional readings.
Angels, however, often move in mysterious ways, a power cleverly utilized by his father, who chose that moment to disappear beneath bedclothes. “You Daddy isn't here!” someone – obviously not Charles – called. “He's gone far, far away.”
Elias, a mere toddler, but no fool he, espied a rather suspicious lump right in the middle of the bed, climbed astride it, and, now wielding the book like a shield, cried, “Widdly Piddlies!”
“Is there an issue here?” inquired Ganesh, emerging from the bathroom. He was clad in a robe, and was carefully toweling his hair dry, the very first step of primping his hair to look like he didn't spend any time primping it.
Sheets and blankets at the foot of the bed were uncovered, and Charles' head popped out. “He wants me to read that Piggly book,” he whispered. “Again!”
“Well. That seems a simple enough matter,” laughed Ganesh.
“Noooo! It's a stupid book, to make stupid people stupid!”
“That seems an odd achievement,” commented Ganesh.
“Dada wead da Piddlies!” demanded Elias, who had cleverly located where his father was hiding.
“Why don't you read this!” Charles asked Ganesh. “You've got that fake British accent! It will make it sound classy!”
“It's. Not. Fake,” asserted Ganesh crisply.
“He's not gonna come down with a British accent is he?” asked Charles of the kid.
“Hmpf! I should say he would do a great deal better than to sound like certain members of your band.”
“Aw. As long as I keep him away from Skwisgaar and Toki. And, uh, Murderface. And, Pickles. Aw, crap.” Charles sighed and once again disappeared beneath various coverings. He popped out again up at the pillowed end of the bed, where his child awaited, breathless, book in hand.
“What I don't understand,” sighed Charles, now apparently resigned to his fate. “I just read this to him last night! Twice!”
“Ah! Repetition!' asserted Ganesh, plopping into a chair and stretching his long legs out to rest on the bed. “This has been repeatedly found in the literature to aid in vocabulary acquisition....”
“Bwah bwah bwah.”
Ganesh scowled over to his giggling son. “Excuse me?” he inquired of the tot.
“I'm pretty sure he just said, “blah blah blah,'” grinned Charles. He dove over to the bedside table and picked up something. “Here, use these,” he said, fitting Ganesh's reading glasses to Elias.
“Bwah bwah bwah!” repeated Elias definitively. The glasses definitely aided him in looking more erudite.
“DOOD!”
“Why, hello, Pickles,” Ganesh greeted the drummer, who had already invited himself to sit cross-legged on the bed. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“It is?” grumbled Charles.
“Kam dood sed you wuz readin' da Wiggly Piggly book.”
“You, uh, need to be read to, Pickles?” Charles asked.
“Hey, shure!”
Charles cast his eyes over to Ganesh, perhaps in hopes of an alliance, but the elephant god, who was perhaps still in a state over aspersions cast towards his British accent, merely smiled, a smile that was not without malice.
“All right. All right.” Charles opened the picture book. “So, there were these pigs, and they got made into delicious bacon, and I ate them. The end!” And so saying, triumphantly slapped the book closed.
“Man, dat wuz brootal,” commented Pickles.
“Nooooo!” howled Elias, pushing up his glasses and pulling the book back onto his lap. “Wead da wite, Dada!” he instructed, going back to the first page.
“I ate them. They're in my tummy!” Charles insisted. He leaned over to face Elias. “Yum.”
“Noooo!” repeated Elias.
“Dat shit won't fly, dood,” Pickles told him. “You ain't got a tummy.”
“That is true, it is logically inconsistent,” agreed Ganesh.
Charles looked down and regarded his traitorous abdominal area. He grabbed back the book and opened it. “OK. All right.” He reached over to the table and grabbed his own eyeglasses. “The Tale of the Wiggly Pigglies....”
“DID YOU START WITHOUT US?”
“Nate-Nate!” giggled Elias, who clambered to the end of the bed to be picked up by Nathan, whilst Skwisgaar dropped into a chair and, not bothering to remove his boots, casually propped his feet up on the bed to better strum his guitar.
“What are you guys even doing up this early?” Charles asked irritably.
“We DIDN'T GO TO BED,” Nathan explained.
“So many ladies. Ams not to disappoint!” clarified Skwisgaar.
“Look, we're just re-re-re-re-re-re-re-reading this book,” Charles explained, holding up Tales of the Wiggly Pigglies as evidence.
“Cool,” said Nathan.
“Ja. Ams da classical literkachure!”
“You guys wanna hear me read the Piggly book? The Wiggly Piggly book?” Charles asked suspiciously.
“Piddlies!” agreed Elias.
“All right. All right. All right.” Charles opened the book yet again. He drew in breath.
“YOU KNOW WHAT WE NEED?”
“Uh, no, Nathan, what do we need?” asked Charles.
“Breakfast! Is anyone else HUNGRY FOR BACON?” inquired the singer.
“OK, look, we can have Jean-Pierre make breakfast,” said Charles, closing the book again. “Can I at least put on some pants?”
Nathan goggled. “You're not wearing pants under there?”
“Nathan, this is my fucking bedroom!”
“EWWWWW!”
“I don't mind,” allowed Pickles.
“Nor me,” smiled Ganesh.
“I ams not minds neither. I cans takes off my pants too,” Skwisgaar offered.
“What? NOOOOOOO!” wailed Nathan, shielding a very puzzled Elias's eyes.
“Hey, I t'ink I saw Murderface out dere,” grinned Pickles.
“Quit that!” pleaded Nathan, who was now simultaneously trying to cover both Elias' eyes and ears.
“I'm not certain what the bother is, Nathan,” Ganesh laughed, plucking his wriggling child from the singer's arms. “Elias had a rather precocious grasp of anatomy! You should see his new work depicting frolicking naiads!”
“Dood,” said Pickles. “Nayads. Dey're like mermaids?”
“Why, yes, they are water nymphs!” said Ganesh proudly. “Come and see! It is a mural in late Renaissance style,” he commented, escorting his son from the room.
“Tits?” whispered Nathan to Pickles.
“Dood. BIG TITS,” Pickles whispered back. And the both darted after Ganesh.
Charles glanced over at Skwisgaar, still contentedly doodling on his guitar. “You not goin' with them?” he asked.
“I ams gots da real tits back in my rooms, t'anks,” yawned the guitarist.
“Uh, OK,” said Charles awkwardly, leaving off the bit about why Skwisgaar wasn't back in said room.
As if in answer, the singer asked, “You ams comes to breakfast an brings da kid?”
“Skwisgaar. You wanna hear the fucking Piggly book?”
Skwisgaar shrugged. “Maybe I ams brings some ladies. I ams not likes da kids, but dey t'inks he ams cutes. An' maybe ruffles da hairs and shits.”
Charles stared.
“And, maybes,” said Skwisgaar, now rising, “one of dems ams reads da Pigsie books.”
“Wait! What? You think so?”
“Ja, I t'inks.”
Charles blinked. “You're an evil genius, Skwisgaar.”
“Naw. Ams just likes da ladies. Ams not disappoint,” he said, strumming and departing.
Charles smiled and lay back on the pillows, arms behind his head. Why didn't he do this more often, he thought.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Charles decides to sleep in. The world has other ideas.
Warnings: Pigglies
Notes: Seems like every kid I know eventually latches onto a story book or a song or something they want repeated over and over and over and over. It's part of development (literature shows kids learn with repetition), but it often forces parents to fight impinging mental breakdown.
Charles lay back on the bed, arms resting comfortably behind his head on the pillow.
He heard the soft sound of Ganesh in the shower. He wiggled his toes. He thought of absolutely nothing.
Why don't I do this more often, he wondered.
Suddenly, there was the soft thunk of the door opening, and a small body hurtling through space. “DAAAAAAAAA!”
That's why not.
“PIDDLIES!” thundered Elias. He had already achieved the bed, and was clutching a well thumbed picture book: one that nevertheless demanded at least one (and probably two or three) additional readings.
Angels, however, often move in mysterious ways, a power cleverly utilized by his father, who chose that moment to disappear beneath bedclothes. “You Daddy isn't here!” someone – obviously not Charles – called. “He's gone far, far away.”
Elias, a mere toddler, but no fool he, espied a rather suspicious lump right in the middle of the bed, climbed astride it, and, now wielding the book like a shield, cried, “Widdly Piddlies!”
“Is there an issue here?” inquired Ganesh, emerging from the bathroom. He was clad in a robe, and was carefully toweling his hair dry, the very first step of primping his hair to look like he didn't spend any time primping it.
Sheets and blankets at the foot of the bed were uncovered, and Charles' head popped out. “He wants me to read that Piggly book,” he whispered. “Again!”
“Well. That seems a simple enough matter,” laughed Ganesh.
“Noooo! It's a stupid book, to make stupid people stupid!”
“That seems an odd achievement,” commented Ganesh.
“Dada wead da Piddlies!” demanded Elias, who had cleverly located where his father was hiding.
“Why don't you read this!” Charles asked Ganesh. “You've got that fake British accent! It will make it sound classy!”
“It's. Not. Fake,” asserted Ganesh crisply.
“He's not gonna come down with a British accent is he?” asked Charles of the kid.
“Hmpf! I should say he would do a great deal better than to sound like certain members of your band.”
“Aw. As long as I keep him away from Skwisgaar and Toki. And, uh, Murderface. And, Pickles. Aw, crap.” Charles sighed and once again disappeared beneath various coverings. He popped out again up at the pillowed end of the bed, where his child awaited, breathless, book in hand.
“What I don't understand,” sighed Charles, now apparently resigned to his fate. “I just read this to him last night! Twice!”
“Ah! Repetition!' asserted Ganesh, plopping into a chair and stretching his long legs out to rest on the bed. “This has been repeatedly found in the literature to aid in vocabulary acquisition....”
“Bwah bwah bwah.”
Ganesh scowled over to his giggling son. “Excuse me?” he inquired of the tot.
“I'm pretty sure he just said, “blah blah blah,'” grinned Charles. He dove over to the bedside table and picked up something. “Here, use these,” he said, fitting Ganesh's reading glasses to Elias.
“Bwah bwah bwah!” repeated Elias definitively. The glasses definitely aided him in looking more erudite.
“DOOD!”
“Why, hello, Pickles,” Ganesh greeted the drummer, who had already invited himself to sit cross-legged on the bed. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“It is?” grumbled Charles.
“Kam dood sed you wuz readin' da Wiggly Piggly book.”
“You, uh, need to be read to, Pickles?” Charles asked.
“Hey, shure!”
Charles cast his eyes over to Ganesh, perhaps in hopes of an alliance, but the elephant god, who was perhaps still in a state over aspersions cast towards his British accent, merely smiled, a smile that was not without malice.
“All right. All right.” Charles opened the picture book. “So, there were these pigs, and they got made into delicious bacon, and I ate them. The end!” And so saying, triumphantly slapped the book closed.
“Man, dat wuz brootal,” commented Pickles.
“Nooooo!” howled Elias, pushing up his glasses and pulling the book back onto his lap. “Wead da wite, Dada!” he instructed, going back to the first page.
“I ate them. They're in my tummy!” Charles insisted. He leaned over to face Elias. “Yum.”
“Noooo!” repeated Elias.
“Dat shit won't fly, dood,” Pickles told him. “You ain't got a tummy.”
“That is true, it is logically inconsistent,” agreed Ganesh.
Charles looked down and regarded his traitorous abdominal area. He grabbed back the book and opened it. “OK. All right.” He reached over to the table and grabbed his own eyeglasses. “The Tale of the Wiggly Pigglies....”
“DID YOU START WITHOUT US?”
“Nate-Nate!” giggled Elias, who clambered to the end of the bed to be picked up by Nathan, whilst Skwisgaar dropped into a chair and, not bothering to remove his boots, casually propped his feet up on the bed to better strum his guitar.
“What are you guys even doing up this early?” Charles asked irritably.
“We DIDN'T GO TO BED,” Nathan explained.
“So many ladies. Ams not to disappoint!” clarified Skwisgaar.
“Look, we're just re-re-re-re-re-re-re-reading this book,” Charles explained, holding up Tales of the Wiggly Pigglies as evidence.
“Cool,” said Nathan.
“Ja. Ams da classical literkachure!”
“You guys wanna hear me read the Piggly book? The Wiggly Piggly book?” Charles asked suspiciously.
“Piddlies!” agreed Elias.
“All right. All right. All right.” Charles opened the book yet again. He drew in breath.
“YOU KNOW WHAT WE NEED?”
“Uh, no, Nathan, what do we need?” asked Charles.
“Breakfast! Is anyone else HUNGRY FOR BACON?” inquired the singer.
“OK, look, we can have Jean-Pierre make breakfast,” said Charles, closing the book again. “Can I at least put on some pants?”
Nathan goggled. “You're not wearing pants under there?”
“Nathan, this is my fucking bedroom!”
“EWWWWW!”
“I don't mind,” allowed Pickles.
“Nor me,” smiled Ganesh.
“I ams not minds neither. I cans takes off my pants too,” Skwisgaar offered.
“What? NOOOOOOO!” wailed Nathan, shielding a very puzzled Elias's eyes.
“Hey, I t'ink I saw Murderface out dere,” grinned Pickles.
“Quit that!” pleaded Nathan, who was now simultaneously trying to cover both Elias' eyes and ears.
“I'm not certain what the bother is, Nathan,” Ganesh laughed, plucking his wriggling child from the singer's arms. “Elias had a rather precocious grasp of anatomy! You should see his new work depicting frolicking naiads!”
“Dood,” said Pickles. “Nayads. Dey're like mermaids?”
“Why, yes, they are water nymphs!” said Ganesh proudly. “Come and see! It is a mural in late Renaissance style,” he commented, escorting his son from the room.
“Tits?” whispered Nathan to Pickles.
“Dood. BIG TITS,” Pickles whispered back. And the both darted after Ganesh.
Charles glanced over at Skwisgaar, still contentedly doodling on his guitar. “You not goin' with them?” he asked.
“I ams gots da real tits back in my rooms, t'anks,” yawned the guitarist.
“Uh, OK,” said Charles awkwardly, leaving off the bit about why Skwisgaar wasn't back in said room.
As if in answer, the singer asked, “You ams comes to breakfast an brings da kid?”
“Skwisgaar. You wanna hear the fucking Piggly book?”
Skwisgaar shrugged. “Maybe I ams brings some ladies. I ams not likes da kids, but dey t'inks he ams cutes. An' maybe ruffles da hairs and shits.”
Charles stared.
“And, maybes,” said Skwisgaar, now rising, “one of dems ams reads da Pigsie books.”
“Wait! What? You think so?”
“Ja, I t'inks.”
Charles blinked. “You're an evil genius, Skwisgaar.”
“Naw. Ams just likes da ladies. Ams not disappoint,” he said, strumming and departing.
Charles smiled and lay back on the pillows, arms behind his head. Why didn't he do this more often, he thought.
