![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
channel 16
Title: Channel 16
Rating: G
Genre: Urban fantasy
Wordcount: 376
Remarks: Beaufort is mine; Guilt is Quixote's. Living with psychics is hard.
The baby was crying. Beau reached for consciousness, fumbled, and barely caught it by his fingertips, dragging his eyes open with what seemed an unfairly monumental amount of effort. The mere idea of light was painful, and he flailed an arm out to the side to touch the side of the nightstand instead, orienting himself enough that he could set his feet on the floor as he swung himself upright. His head spun unpleasantly, a lurching sensation that went right through to his stomach.
Covers shifted behind him, and then Guilt’s sleepy voice battled its way through their son’s insistent calls. “Beau?”
“It’s alright,” he said, or at least hoped he said; he had absolutely no faith he wasn’t just making unhappy garbled noises better befitting train station announcements.
There was a pause, and then: “Is it?”
He might have felt offended had he the energy for anything more than the task at hand, but he spared a moment to graciously say, “You can go back to sleep. He’s probably just hungry, and there’s still milk in the fridge.” He shifted his grip on the nightstand, preparing for the bodily heave it would take to get him out of bed once and for all. The wall was close enough to make such a lunge a little risky, but the worst case scenario would just see him bouncing off it into a position that was hopefully upright instead of flat on his face.
“Beau,” Guilt said distantly, and he blocked it out; the hungry child took priority, and whatever she had to say could wait at least that long. He braced himself to rise.
A hand suddenly grabbed his arm, making him start, and then Guilt’s chin was on his shoulder and her voice was at his ear, in his ear, in his head saying, “Jacob. Listen.”
He froze, listening, and his mind cleared so abruptly it stung. Outside of the fog the house was quiet save Guilt’s soft breathing, though somewhere a tap was dripping faintly. He sat like that, perfectly still, until the first stuttered wail began to echo from down the hall, audible to the external ear.
With a heavy groan he flopped backwards, making the mattress bounce. “Starting kind of young, isn’t he?”
Rating: G
Genre: Urban fantasy
Wordcount: 376
Remarks: Beaufort is mine; Guilt is Quixote's. Living with psychics is hard.
The baby was crying. Beau reached for consciousness, fumbled, and barely caught it by his fingertips, dragging his eyes open with what seemed an unfairly monumental amount of effort. The mere idea of light was painful, and he flailed an arm out to the side to touch the side of the nightstand instead, orienting himself enough that he could set his feet on the floor as he swung himself upright. His head spun unpleasantly, a lurching sensation that went right through to his stomach.
Covers shifted behind him, and then Guilt’s sleepy voice battled its way through their son’s insistent calls. “Beau?”
“It’s alright,” he said, or at least hoped he said; he had absolutely no faith he wasn’t just making unhappy garbled noises better befitting train station announcements.
There was a pause, and then: “Is it?”
He might have felt offended had he the energy for anything more than the task at hand, but he spared a moment to graciously say, “You can go back to sleep. He’s probably just hungry, and there’s still milk in the fridge.” He shifted his grip on the nightstand, preparing for the bodily heave it would take to get him out of bed once and for all. The wall was close enough to make such a lunge a little risky, but the worst case scenario would just see him bouncing off it into a position that was hopefully upright instead of flat on his face.
“Beau,” Guilt said distantly, and he blocked it out; the hungry child took priority, and whatever she had to say could wait at least that long. He braced himself to rise.
A hand suddenly grabbed his arm, making him start, and then Guilt’s chin was on his shoulder and her voice was at his ear, in his ear, in his head saying, “Jacob. Listen.”
He froze, listening, and his mind cleared so abruptly it stung. Outside of the fog the house was quiet save Guilt’s soft breathing, though somewhere a tap was dripping faintly. He sat like that, perfectly still, until the first stuttered wail began to echo from down the hall, audible to the external ear.
With a heavy groan he flopped backwards, making the mattress bounce. “Starting kind of young, isn’t he?”