Duke Crocker (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
betterthanaplan) wrote2024-01-23 11:18 am
betterthanaplan) wrote2024-01-23 11:18 am
Entry tags:
The Cape Rouge, Tuesday afternoon
Duke was having one of those days. The ones where he was still in bed well after his partners had gotten up to start their days. The ones where he would quite possibly still be there when they came back to bed in the evening.
Some days he'd push himself, even when he was in this mood, and manage to crawl out of bed at least long enough to rub his brush over his teeth in the bathroom and shove a spoonful of peanut butter into him, without either Lucifer or Octavia having to push him through it.
He wasn't sure yet if this would be that sort of this sort of day, yet.
The singing, though. That part was new.
"What's the blues, when you've got the greys?
I think I've given up, my body's given in,
In a building, i lie still, and then i turn back over again
In a building that has heating
And sweat sweat sweat sweat dried-on stains."
He managed to sit up, though his body felt like it weighed approximately three tons. (Like it might capsize his boat if he moved around too much. And wouldn't that maybe be nice?)
"I'm sick of feeling sick and not throwing up
And you sit in my stomach and you seem to be stuck
And it won't work its way through my guts and just go away
I woke up this afternoon thought maybe today
That the world might be a more colorful place
But there's no luck, it's still just grey."
He slumped at the end of the bed, staring at the door to the rest of the boat.
"Come back here."
[for anyone with a reason to show up, sure!]
Some days he'd push himself, even when he was in this mood, and manage to crawl out of bed at least long enough to rub his brush over his teeth in the bathroom and shove a spoonful of peanut butter into him, without either Lucifer or Octavia having to push him through it.
He wasn't sure yet if this would be that sort of this sort of day, yet.
The singing, though. That part was new.
"What's the blues, when you've got the greys?
I think I've given up, my body's given in,
In a building, i lie still, and then i turn back over again
In a building that has heating
And sweat sweat sweat sweat dried-on stains."
He managed to sit up, though his body felt like it weighed approximately three tons. (Like it might capsize his boat if he moved around too much. And wouldn't that maybe be nice?)
"I'm sick of feeling sick and not throwing up
And you sit in my stomach and you seem to be stuck
And it won't work its way through my guts and just go away
I woke up this afternoon thought maybe today
That the world might be a more colorful place
But there's no luck, it's still just grey."
He slumped at the end of the bed, staring at the door to the rest of the boat.
"Come back here."
[for anyone with a reason to show up, sure!]
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"Nothing fucks with my babies," he sang again. "Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. . . ."
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Island did what it wanted to.
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At least this was some nice quiet singing? They weren't being compelled to dance? Or revealing anything they didn't already know. . . .
"Ain't it warming you, the world gone up in flames?
Ain't it the life you, you're lighting of the blaze?
Ain't it a waste they'd watch the throwing of the shade?
Ain't you my baby? ain't you my babe?"
Okay, that was maybe a little rude, there.
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Octavia inhaled through her nose, and looked away.
"Nothing fucks with my babies."
Raspier, darker in its mildness.
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"Nothing can get a look in on my babies," he sang into her hair.
He loved her. Even the parts that turned the songs dark.
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She curled into him a little. Her arm found its way awkwardly around him.
"Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing..."
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"Ain't you my baby," he said softly. "Every bit of you."
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"Don't always know whether that should be the case," she muttered. "But I want it to be."
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