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Second Shift
Finished the story I was working on the other day, this is the final version. Beta provided by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
crankgrrl, who kindly refrained from solving my annoying pronoun problems with an axe to my skull (she just gripped the handle in a pointed manner until I came to my senses). That's a friend 8 )
The boy sucks air in with a shudder and then sighs. His lips are pushed out, self-satisfied, traces of thin milk gathered at the corners of his mouth.
John tucks and straightens, pulling Aeryn's shirt down and her blanket up, as she lets out a sigh of her own, settling back into a deeper sleep. Once he'd pulled himself out of his sickbed she'd fallen right into it herself, like a sled dog dropping dead out of the traces. Only the baby's crying had been able to drag her to consciousness, just long enough to seat him at one breast and then a while later at the other.
He'd watched her graceful fingers slip the nipple into his mouth, saw her eyes open a sliver and regard the infant, watched those tiny hands flutter and tuck against the swollen breast. She'd worked out a system with the child already, as sure and smooth as laying cover fire along a corridor with his father.
John stands, shifting the baby to his shoulder. Today is the first time he's held his son since he caught him in the pool four days ago. He watches Aeryn sleep as he pats the tiny back, listening to her breathing and his grunts. It occurs to him that this is probably the first sleep she's gotten since giving birth. He murmurs against the warm fuzzy head, which jiggles as he lightly pats, "It's going to be us guys for a while, 'cause it's your mom's turn to be comatose."
"You were out for three days, it's no wonder."
John barely controls the startle, shifting his body between the baby and the door before he parses the jagged voice as Chiana's.
"You don't have your pistol on." She nods to his right hand, caught in the air down by his thigh.
Before John can reply, the boy erupts with a moist belch.
"Guess you're armed after all." Chiana smiles crookedly as she plucks a faded old t-shirt from the floor. He feels the wetness soak through as Chiana turns him around to scrub the milk plume from his back. "So far that narl takes after Rygel the most."
"He just ate, babies do that af--"
"I know." She turns the shirt to wipe clean his little face and hands, then tucks it over John's shoulder to catch any more eruptions. "He and I have an understanding. He can vomit wherever he wants to, but he only pisses on his mother."
"You make any deals about me?" John looks askance between the Nebari and the baby, who's taken on a Churchillian look of concentration.
Chiana returns the gaze, tilting her head as the baby reddens and grunts. "You're on your own."
John nods soberly, patting him as he begins to wriggle and fuss. "I've dealt with worse."
"Come on, I'll show you where she put the supplies." Chiana leads him to a niche near the waste funnel, a wide bench draped with a bed sheet and stacked with cloths and a pile of rags. He kneels and she crouches, watching him unswaddle and clean the child, showing him the right way to fold and fasten the fresh cloth. "I thought you'd handled narls before."
"Different kind of supplies." John sits back on his heels and holds a little wedge of a foot in one hand, setting his thumb against the sole and watching the toes curl and flex. The umbilical stump has shriveled like a pumpkin stem, this tiny boy like a fruit clipped from a vine and stolen from a field. The dirty diaper at his knee seems out of place for a moment, an unconvincing detail in the midst of hallucination. His son kicks and John bends to kiss the sole of the foot, soft against his chapped lips. The baby grunts at him, watching him intently as if he's asked John a question. "Different because he's my own narl."
Chiana leans her elbows on the bench and grazes her fingertips down his plump cheek. He lazily roots toward her, then catches sight of her face and stares, open mouthed.
He's been busy while his dad's been out, charming the crew with those expressive eyes. "He likes you."
"He's got good taste." Chiana's gaze flicks toward him, her pupils widening. "Aeryn talk to you about a name for this narl?"
"Didn't have time to pick one out before." John glances over his shoulder toward the bed. "She'll probably sleep well into tomorrow. We'll figure out a name eventually. With my luck she'll want to name him after some ancient battle hero."
Chiana lowers her head for a moment, and when John leans over to look at her she shakes her head. "I was thinking that D'Argo should be here. To see you be a dad."
He pulls her around the corner of the bench and tucks her against him. "Make fun of me, more likely."
"He'd have enjoyed that." Her voice is choked but she doesn't cry. "You're an easy target."
His tears fall into her hair while she pats his back and the narl watches, solemn. She reaches out to the baby and catches one of his little feet in her hand.
When he begins to squeak she rises up on her knees and folds him in the blanket. "He likes to be carried."
John drags his forearm across his cheek and scoops up his son. Chiana cups her hand over his tiny head as he lets out a colossal yawn, sinking deeper into the crook of John's arm. He looks down and feels himself settle, anchored by the baby's contentment.
Chiana stands and lays her hand on John's head. "When Aeryn wakes up, tell her that I agree after all. It's a good name."
John catches her hand as she turns to leave, but she gently pulls it free.
crankgrrl, who kindly refrained from solving my annoying pronoun problems with an axe to my skull (she just gripped the handle in a pointed manner until I came to my senses). That's a friend 8 )The boy sucks air in with a shudder and then sighs. His lips are pushed out, self-satisfied, traces of thin milk gathered at the corners of his mouth.
John tucks and straightens, pulling Aeryn's shirt down and her blanket up, as she lets out a sigh of her own, settling back into a deeper sleep. Once he'd pulled himself out of his sickbed she'd fallen right into it herself, like a sled dog dropping dead out of the traces. Only the baby's crying had been able to drag her to consciousness, just long enough to seat him at one breast and then a while later at the other.
He'd watched her graceful fingers slip the nipple into his mouth, saw her eyes open a sliver and regard the infant, watched those tiny hands flutter and tuck against the swollen breast. She'd worked out a system with the child already, as sure and smooth as laying cover fire along a corridor with his father.
John stands, shifting the baby to his shoulder. Today is the first time he's held his son since he caught him in the pool four days ago. He watches Aeryn sleep as he pats the tiny back, listening to her breathing and his grunts. It occurs to him that this is probably the first sleep she's gotten since giving birth. He murmurs against the warm fuzzy head, which jiggles as he lightly pats, "It's going to be us guys for a while, 'cause it's your mom's turn to be comatose."
"You were out for three days, it's no wonder."
John barely controls the startle, shifting his body between the baby and the door before he parses the jagged voice as Chiana's.
"You don't have your pistol on." She nods to his right hand, caught in the air down by his thigh.
Before John can reply, the boy erupts with a moist belch.
"Guess you're armed after all." Chiana smiles crookedly as she plucks a faded old t-shirt from the floor. He feels the wetness soak through as Chiana turns him around to scrub the milk plume from his back. "So far that narl takes after Rygel the most."
"He just ate, babies do that af--"
"I know." She turns the shirt to wipe clean his little face and hands, then tucks it over John's shoulder to catch any more eruptions. "He and I have an understanding. He can vomit wherever he wants to, but he only pisses on his mother."
"You make any deals about me?" John looks askance between the Nebari and the baby, who's taken on a Churchillian look of concentration.
Chiana returns the gaze, tilting her head as the baby reddens and grunts. "You're on your own."
John nods soberly, patting him as he begins to wriggle and fuss. "I've dealt with worse."
"Come on, I'll show you where she put the supplies." Chiana leads him to a niche near the waste funnel, a wide bench draped with a bed sheet and stacked with cloths and a pile of rags. He kneels and she crouches, watching him unswaddle and clean the child, showing him the right way to fold and fasten the fresh cloth. "I thought you'd handled narls before."
"Different kind of supplies." John sits back on his heels and holds a little wedge of a foot in one hand, setting his thumb against the sole and watching the toes curl and flex. The umbilical stump has shriveled like a pumpkin stem, this tiny boy like a fruit clipped from a vine and stolen from a field. The dirty diaper at his knee seems out of place for a moment, an unconvincing detail in the midst of hallucination. His son kicks and John bends to kiss the sole of the foot, soft against his chapped lips. The baby grunts at him, watching him intently as if he's asked John a question. "Different because he's my own narl."
Chiana leans her elbows on the bench and grazes her fingertips down his plump cheek. He lazily roots toward her, then catches sight of her face and stares, open mouthed.
He's been busy while his dad's been out, charming the crew with those expressive eyes. "He likes you."
"He's got good taste." Chiana's gaze flicks toward him, her pupils widening. "Aeryn talk to you about a name for this narl?"
"Didn't have time to pick one out before." John glances over his shoulder toward the bed. "She'll probably sleep well into tomorrow. We'll figure out a name eventually. With my luck she'll want to name him after some ancient battle hero."
Chiana lowers her head for a moment, and when John leans over to look at her she shakes her head. "I was thinking that D'Argo should be here. To see you be a dad."
He pulls her around the corner of the bench and tucks her against him. "Make fun of me, more likely."
"He'd have enjoyed that." Her voice is choked but she doesn't cry. "You're an easy target."
His tears fall into her hair while she pats his back and the narl watches, solemn. She reaches out to the baby and catches one of his little feet in her hand.
When he begins to squeak she rises up on her knees and folds him in the blanket. "He likes to be carried."
John drags his forearm across his cheek and scoops up his son. Chiana cups her hand over his tiny head as he lets out a colossal yawn, sinking deeper into the crook of John's arm. He looks down and feels himself settle, anchored by the baby's contentment.
Chiana stands and lays her hand on John's head. "When Aeryn wakes up, tell her that I agree after all. It's a good name."
John catches her hand as she turns to leave, but she gently pulls it free.
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*snort*
Anytime, dude. Did I mention in all the grumbling about pronouns that I liked the story? I sometimes forget to do that when I beta. Like this -- "He and I have an understanding. He can vomit wherever he wants to, but he only pisses on his mother." -- this is sooo Chi.
*heh*
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Like this -- "He and I have an understanding. He can vomit wherever he wants to, but he only pisses on his mother." -- this is sooo Chi.
Just picturing the moment that brought about that deal makes me laugh.
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I know you've already been through beta, but "his mother" right after "John" makes me think of Leslie Crichton. You might want to go with "Aeryn" there.
Otherwise lovely. How is it you can get me to read the shmoopiest stuff? You have a mental ray beaming into my head, I think...
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Good point--already changed.
How is it you can get me to read the shmoopiest stuff? You have a mental ray beaming into my head, I think...
*sings* Someone's getting a tin-hat for Christ-mas! *g*
Maybe it's because you know I'm also a sick twist, so there's always the chance the shmoop could go horribly awry? There's no safety net to the shmoop on this journal ; )
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This was lovely and sweet and just sad enough. And you made me read babyfic!
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Heheheheh...you kill one fetus and suddenly you're a loose cannon *g*
This was lovely and sweet and just sad enough.
I get the feeling that John's mourning for D'Argo won't be a period of grief so much as a melancholy that will linger for years, catching him up at the oddest moments.
And you made me read babyfic!
And don't you feel just a little dirty now? Heh.
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Lovely stuff. Chiana and John and baby and a nice moment that doesn't often happen. I like the release of emotion that both of them get here.
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Yes, but it's new and improved now--with pronouns! *g*
Lovely stuff. Chiana and John and baby and a nice moment that doesn't often happen. I like the release of emotion that both of them get here.
Thank you 8 )
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you re-naming this Second Shift? or is it still The Boy ?
either way, I still love this.
Daddy!John, the sorrow there for D'Argo, John and Chiana, it's all good. *g*
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I'm glad that you like it, since it's your pressie 8 )
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this is just wonderful. and this: "The dirty diaper at his knee seems out of place for a moment, an unconvincing detail in the midst of hallucination." is a great echo of the moments john has that still leave him dislocated.
thank you. *bg*
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Yes, that's it exactly! Focus and depth of field is an excellent analogy.
and this: "The dirty diaper at his knee seems out of place for a moment, an unconvincing detail in the midst of hallucination." is a great echo of the moments john has that still leave him dislocated.
Thank you 8 )
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*happy, happy sigh*
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"He and I have an understanding. He can vomit wherever he wants to, but he only pisses on his mother."
made me giggle. I love it! *g*
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Sigh, yeah, only you could make me want more babyfic, but the contingent is it has to feel like this. And well, I'll just tuck this gently away for that particular need:)
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I am a bad, bad Generalissimo. *sniffle*
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Well, I'm glad it was the jetlag and not me that made you cry *hugs Stars*
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That's it, babe, exactly--the aftermath in all it's concrete unreality; Aeryn's exhaustion leaves John to sort it out on his own, to play catch-up with all the changes that he didn't have time to pase before: his best friend dead, his situation altered on personal, political and cosmlogical levels--and closest to home, having become not just "a father" but the caregiver to a particular sentient being he's going to have to get to know.
It's one of those personal URs, like a death or grave injury or miraculous serendipitity, where your life has changed fundamentally and it's going to take a while for you to digest the ramifications.
"busy figuring out how to wake up" intrigues me, as an idea. Might have to play with that somehow, a person wending their way back. Maybe it's because I've been dreaming a lot lately and the transitions between made-up worlds and the tangible world have been less like waking up and more like lurching from one set of tracks to another.
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For me, this is part of the intrigue of the haunted detox clinic. The stage between unconsciousness and reality, that space and what happens. Like when you get out of bed, shower and get dressed and find that none of it happened, or getting up and opening a door, finding yourself in a hallway, disoriented. I think particularly, the idea of that transition, the intrigue of choosing a back or forward path.
And it's why I love your writing, it's real and immediate and layered with so much that it's never simply the words on paper.