Insomnia (Mythklok Interstitial)
Jan. 12th, 2012 10:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Insomnia (Mythklok Interstitial)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Late night rounds for Mordhaus's resident guardian angel.
Warnings: None.
Notes: For my more long-suffering readers, this one actually has a bit of the boys in it. OTOH, it was written at 4 am, so probably more incoherent than usual. :D
Ganesh slept in a sweet, soft world, wrapped in gently rustling wings.
Charles had just given him the fucking of his life. Which was – well, to be fair, this was sort of a weekly occurrence nowadays. But regardless, after pounding his control freak husband into a boneless puddle of contentment, Charles liked to soothe him into sweet dreams. Angels can grant pleasant dreams: one of their more peculiar powers. No one is quite certain why this is so, and angels (as is their wont) tend to be persnickety about using this magic. But now Ganesh was in a warm, hazy land, near but far away, every single small muscle slack and muzzy, walking barefoot, on the far shore.
And Charles?
He was wide THE FUCK awake.
He listened for a while to make certain Ganesh's breathing was slow and soft, and then took a bit of a slightly rude listen all the way into his dream: nothing pornographic, unfortunately, so Charles didn't listen long.
And then, taking care, he extracted himself from the bed and, tucking Ganesh into the duvet, stole away to see if there was anyone in the household up for a midnight slice of Dutch apple.
Elias, as it turned out, was sleeping contentedly as his father, his little wolf puppy laid out improbably over his face. Charles, who greatly valued his son being able to breathe, moved to slightly reposition the puppy, which caused a small snap from Murgatroyd before the dog had ascertained the culprit, and then some immediate cheery licks and a tail flap. And then the dog was back to sleep. Charles spent a moment more making sure Elias' plush toys were also lined up beside him in a pleasing configuration, and then departed the bedroom and indeed the suite to make his rounds.
He walked on silent bare angel feet until he came to Toki's room. The door was propped slightly open, which, these days, was not a surprise. Charles wasn't quite certain whether it was the dark or solitude or something else that troubled the young guitarist, but he seemed reluctant to quite close himself off. Pausing, Charles took the soft snore as an invitation, and silently padded in.
Toki, clad in his pajamas, was sprawled over his work table, brown hair splayed everywhere, his back slowly rising and falling with his snoring breaths. Probably in the middle of working on a model, Charles guessed, noticing one hand had several fingers stuck together with glue. He came behind Toki and gently grasped him under the armpits. “Come on,” he urged softly. Still groggy, and muttering something in Norwegian, Toki let himself be walked over to his bed, where he immediately curled up into a fetal position and continued snoring. Charles threw the covers over him and turned, his attention suddenly drawn to the model on the work table. He walked over and picked it up.
A golden chariot.
He carefully placed it back down and, casting a pained glance at Toki, slipped back out of the room, being careful to not quite shut the door.
Charles moved on in the direction of the living room. He heard the television and yet more snores: this time the distinctive sound of William Murderface. Charles had never quite figured out how the man managed to lisp in his sleep, but it was evidently possible. As Murderface was laid out on a couch, Charles decided against any attempt at relocation, and instead simply contented himself with pulling a quilt over the sleeping bassist. The TV remote rolled out of Murderface's hand as he muttered and turned over. Charles picked it up, and pointed it at the television.
He paused a moment. He had not been attending to the noise, and had expected to see a Ken Burns documentary. Instead, it was an old Dick Knubbler movie, something like, “Dick Knubbler and the Knubblerettes in Psych Out City.”
He clicked off the TV, and moved on.
He hadn't expected Nathan's bedroom door to be open, but one never knew what to expect with Nathan. In this case, the door was wide open due to a half naked groupie or two lying in the doorway. Charles stepped over the unconscious women and into the bedroom. Nathan's room appeared to be the site of a recent orgy. Charles had rarely seen quite so many women with so few clothes among them, even in Skwisgaar's environs. He glanced around. From the many empty bottles and drug paraphernalia spread all over the place, it appeared that the beings in the room were more in a stupor than sleeping. He quieted himself to listen carefully for a moment. Everyone appeared to have a heartbeat, but he made a note to have a docateer come around in the morning to discretely check the survivors for any permanent damage.
His eyes were now drawn to Nathan, oddly all alone in his tremendous bed in a room more or less carpeted with women. He quietly approached.
Nathan was holding something: a framed picture, clutched over his heart.
Charles touched the frame lightly, intending to take a look, but he realized he already knew. He pulled the black bedsheet back over Nathan where the singer had kicked it off, and, carefully picking his way out of the room, continued his rounds.
He walked by another door.
He put a hand to it.
No use listening. No one inside.
Charles withdrew his hand and walked sadly down the corridor.
Alone on his balcony, Skwisgaar Skwigelf beheld the angel.
“Charles! Heys!”
Skwisgaar's balcony overlooked that of Charles and Ganesh's suite. Usually, the various parties politely ignored this fact. Sometimes Charles and Ganesh would play soft music and dance, and sometimes Skwisgaar would half watch them. And lately, a child would race around after a puppy, or vice versa. Skwisgaar didn't greatly esteem dancing or children, but somehow did not object to either activity, and found the distant commotion actually oddly soothing.
But tonight....
Charles appeared to sincerely believe he had only two Forms, angel and human. But to Skwisgaar, who was rapidly growing more wise to the ways of magic, it was more complicated. Charles could not only manage to look superficially like a human, he could dial back the magic until he very nearly became one.
And as for his angel Forms: there were differences there as well. At one end, there was the guy who very much resembled Charles Ofdensen, only with a pair of wings comically drooping off his back. That one hung out in the dining room, bickering with Nathan.
At the other end, there was this creature: the one Skwisgaar saw tonight. Flushed with magic, there wasn't a lot of Charles left in there. Skwisgaar waved to it, down on the balcony below and, being an angel, it spread magnificent wings and flew to him, alighting, oddly, on the railing, where it squatted, balancing effortlessly, and peered at him through inhuman eyes.
“Charles,” said Skwisgaar.
The head tilted. “You got something you wanna talk about, Skwisgaar?”
Skwisgaar honestly hadn't known until that exact moment, but, yes, he had something to talk about. He slumped into the chair where he had been sitting just now, not even in the mood to pluck at his guitar, sitting silently and neglected at his feet.
“Hims ams gone, Charles.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Skwisgaar stared ahead for a long moment. Was that a tear? Was he actually crying? It was weird.
“Why ams Pickles not talked to me first?” he asked softly.
“He didn't talk to me either,” said the Charles angel, fluttering easily down to stand nearby.
“But I ams goes back to my parents before! You knows dat! I ams lefts da bands!”
Charles blinked and pushed his glasses up, looking a little bit more like Charles now. “Yeah. That's right. You wanted to find out about your dad, didn't you?”
“Ja. Ams da sis-plasters.”
“It wasn't a disaster. And you found Wotan, right?”
Skwisgaar looked up, his glance mournful. “Hims ams my friends, Charles. I coulds have told him, you can'ts go back. I knows dat now.”
“Sometimes,” said the angel, “you just gotta go make your own mistakes. You know?”
Skwisgaar nodded, not knowing at all. Not at all.
They were silent a moment more, and then the angel said softly, “Here.” Skwisgaar felt himself being gently pulled up to stand with Charles, and then: it was so brilliant and soft, a sweet silver cocoon, and all of his trouble were still there, but so far away, and Skwisgaar waved at them on the far shore, and then set off himself, face smooshed into a soft pillow, breathing slowly.
“Are you there? Did you get up?”
“Couldn't sleep. Just doing my rounds.”
“Come back to bed.” Ganesh, pulling him with many arms. “You need to be here. There you are.” Charles' head was now on top of Ganesh's chest, so near his heart, the strong beat. “There you are, there you are,” Ganesh repeated softly, stroking angel hair. “Come with me. Come along. Come along now.” And whether Ganesh said it in the waking world or in a dream, Charles would never know, because all at once, he was walking on the far shore, on the other side.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Late night rounds for Mordhaus's resident guardian angel.
Warnings: None.
Notes: For my more long-suffering readers, this one actually has a bit of the boys in it. OTOH, it was written at 4 am, so probably more incoherent than usual. :D
Ganesh slept in a sweet, soft world, wrapped in gently rustling wings.
Charles had just given him the fucking of his life. Which was – well, to be fair, this was sort of a weekly occurrence nowadays. But regardless, after pounding his control freak husband into a boneless puddle of contentment, Charles liked to soothe him into sweet dreams. Angels can grant pleasant dreams: one of their more peculiar powers. No one is quite certain why this is so, and angels (as is their wont) tend to be persnickety about using this magic. But now Ganesh was in a warm, hazy land, near but far away, every single small muscle slack and muzzy, walking barefoot, on the far shore.
And Charles?
He was wide THE FUCK awake.
He listened for a while to make certain Ganesh's breathing was slow and soft, and then took a bit of a slightly rude listen all the way into his dream: nothing pornographic, unfortunately, so Charles didn't listen long.
And then, taking care, he extracted himself from the bed and, tucking Ganesh into the duvet, stole away to see if there was anyone in the household up for a midnight slice of Dutch apple.
Elias, as it turned out, was sleeping contentedly as his father, his little wolf puppy laid out improbably over his face. Charles, who greatly valued his son being able to breathe, moved to slightly reposition the puppy, which caused a small snap from Murgatroyd before the dog had ascertained the culprit, and then some immediate cheery licks and a tail flap. And then the dog was back to sleep. Charles spent a moment more making sure Elias' plush toys were also lined up beside him in a pleasing configuration, and then departed the bedroom and indeed the suite to make his rounds.
He walked on silent bare angel feet until he came to Toki's room. The door was propped slightly open, which, these days, was not a surprise. Charles wasn't quite certain whether it was the dark or solitude or something else that troubled the young guitarist, but he seemed reluctant to quite close himself off. Pausing, Charles took the soft snore as an invitation, and silently padded in.
Toki, clad in his pajamas, was sprawled over his work table, brown hair splayed everywhere, his back slowly rising and falling with his snoring breaths. Probably in the middle of working on a model, Charles guessed, noticing one hand had several fingers stuck together with glue. He came behind Toki and gently grasped him under the armpits. “Come on,” he urged softly. Still groggy, and muttering something in Norwegian, Toki let himself be walked over to his bed, where he immediately curled up into a fetal position and continued snoring. Charles threw the covers over him and turned, his attention suddenly drawn to the model on the work table. He walked over and picked it up.
A golden chariot.
He carefully placed it back down and, casting a pained glance at Toki, slipped back out of the room, being careful to not quite shut the door.
Charles moved on in the direction of the living room. He heard the television and yet more snores: this time the distinctive sound of William Murderface. Charles had never quite figured out how the man managed to lisp in his sleep, but it was evidently possible. As Murderface was laid out on a couch, Charles decided against any attempt at relocation, and instead simply contented himself with pulling a quilt over the sleeping bassist. The TV remote rolled out of Murderface's hand as he muttered and turned over. Charles picked it up, and pointed it at the television.
He paused a moment. He had not been attending to the noise, and had expected to see a Ken Burns documentary. Instead, it was an old Dick Knubbler movie, something like, “Dick Knubbler and the Knubblerettes in Psych Out City.”
He clicked off the TV, and moved on.
He hadn't expected Nathan's bedroom door to be open, but one never knew what to expect with Nathan. In this case, the door was wide open due to a half naked groupie or two lying in the doorway. Charles stepped over the unconscious women and into the bedroom. Nathan's room appeared to be the site of a recent orgy. Charles had rarely seen quite so many women with so few clothes among them, even in Skwisgaar's environs. He glanced around. From the many empty bottles and drug paraphernalia spread all over the place, it appeared that the beings in the room were more in a stupor than sleeping. He quieted himself to listen carefully for a moment. Everyone appeared to have a heartbeat, but he made a note to have a docateer come around in the morning to discretely check the survivors for any permanent damage.
His eyes were now drawn to Nathan, oddly all alone in his tremendous bed in a room more or less carpeted with women. He quietly approached.
Nathan was holding something: a framed picture, clutched over his heart.
Charles touched the frame lightly, intending to take a look, but he realized he already knew. He pulled the black bedsheet back over Nathan where the singer had kicked it off, and, carefully picking his way out of the room, continued his rounds.
He walked by another door.
He put a hand to it.
No use listening. No one inside.
Charles withdrew his hand and walked sadly down the corridor.
Alone on his balcony, Skwisgaar Skwigelf beheld the angel.
“Charles! Heys!”
Skwisgaar's balcony overlooked that of Charles and Ganesh's suite. Usually, the various parties politely ignored this fact. Sometimes Charles and Ganesh would play soft music and dance, and sometimes Skwisgaar would half watch them. And lately, a child would race around after a puppy, or vice versa. Skwisgaar didn't greatly esteem dancing or children, but somehow did not object to either activity, and found the distant commotion actually oddly soothing.
But tonight....
Charles appeared to sincerely believe he had only two Forms, angel and human. But to Skwisgaar, who was rapidly growing more wise to the ways of magic, it was more complicated. Charles could not only manage to look superficially like a human, he could dial back the magic until he very nearly became one.
And as for his angel Forms: there were differences there as well. At one end, there was the guy who very much resembled Charles Ofdensen, only with a pair of wings comically drooping off his back. That one hung out in the dining room, bickering with Nathan.
At the other end, there was this creature: the one Skwisgaar saw tonight. Flushed with magic, there wasn't a lot of Charles left in there. Skwisgaar waved to it, down on the balcony below and, being an angel, it spread magnificent wings and flew to him, alighting, oddly, on the railing, where it squatted, balancing effortlessly, and peered at him through inhuman eyes.
“Charles,” said Skwisgaar.
The head tilted. “You got something you wanna talk about, Skwisgaar?”
Skwisgaar honestly hadn't known until that exact moment, but, yes, he had something to talk about. He slumped into the chair where he had been sitting just now, not even in the mood to pluck at his guitar, sitting silently and neglected at his feet.
“Hims ams gone, Charles.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Skwisgaar stared ahead for a long moment. Was that a tear? Was he actually crying? It was weird.
“Why ams Pickles not talked to me first?” he asked softly.
“He didn't talk to me either,” said the Charles angel, fluttering easily down to stand nearby.
“But I ams goes back to my parents before! You knows dat! I ams lefts da bands!”
Charles blinked and pushed his glasses up, looking a little bit more like Charles now. “Yeah. That's right. You wanted to find out about your dad, didn't you?”
“Ja. Ams da sis-plasters.”
“It wasn't a disaster. And you found Wotan, right?”
Skwisgaar looked up, his glance mournful. “Hims ams my friends, Charles. I coulds have told him, you can'ts go back. I knows dat now.”
“Sometimes,” said the angel, “you just gotta go make your own mistakes. You know?”
Skwisgaar nodded, not knowing at all. Not at all.
They were silent a moment more, and then the angel said softly, “Here.” Skwisgaar felt himself being gently pulled up to stand with Charles, and then: it was so brilliant and soft, a sweet silver cocoon, and all of his trouble were still there, but so far away, and Skwisgaar waved at them on the far shore, and then set off himself, face smooshed into a soft pillow, breathing slowly.
“Are you there? Did you get up?”
“Couldn't sleep. Just doing my rounds.”
“Come back to bed.” Ganesh, pulling him with many arms. “You need to be here. There you are.” Charles' head was now on top of Ganesh's chest, so near his heart, the strong beat. “There you are, there you are,” Ganesh repeated softly, stroking angel hair. “Come with me. Come along. Come along now.” And whether Ganesh said it in the waking world or in a dream, Charles would never know, because all at once, he was walking on the far shore, on the other side.
