Lazy, and lying on your belly -- 3843 words

Changeling has spent the better part of three hours watching Yu-Gi-Oh on its phone, laying half splayed out against its headboard. It is still over the covers because that means it is not "going to bed" yet, which means that it does not have to take its headband off yet. The room is quiet, aside from the tinny sound of the duel race and the light sound of the little piercings its mom had helped put into its furry ears, rattling every time Changeling shifts its head.

They jangle louder when the unexpectedly abrupt opening of the door startles the Changeling so bad it nearly drops the phone on its face.

Augustus — the culprit — barely reacts to the fierce scowl Changeling sends her way. She does not even bother speaking in her defense, instead tossing herself to lay face down in the empty side of Changeling's bed with enough force to send it sliding down the headboard a few inches further.

"Did you walk into the house without knocking?" Changeling asks, torn equally between incredulous and annoyed, but not enough to actually bother pausing its show to ask. Its mother had left for work a few episodes ago, it recalls — she had stopped by its room to say goodbye. "Was the door unlocked?" it demands, something sharp and alarmed pricking at its lungs.

"Your mom said I could," Augustus replies before the panic can hook itself in too deeply. "She told me where she hides the spare key."

Well, that is its own kind of alarming — they should not have a spare key hidden out in the open at all. That is how stupid burglaries happen. If its mother had wanted to give Augustus access to the house, she could have simply given the copy to her. That would have been safer — Augustus never misplaces keys, she keeps them all clipped to her belt.

(It does make sense that Augustus should have her own key by now; she comes over often enough to more than earn the use of one. Changeling should have thought of it before itself, but she really should just take the key instead of having to routinely retrieve it from a hiding place, which would make itself fairly obvious to neighbors and passersby after a while. It makes a mental note to put the key on her carabiner as soon as possible.)

"Fine," it says stiffly, shifting back up a little. Augustus does not respond, not even to move. She just lays there, face tucked against one of the Changeling's pillows, her breaths big and sighing in the quiet. Changeling grits its teeth, reaching up to rub the corner of an ear between its knuckles, fingers smoothing over the fur, considering. The silence is atypical; its chest feels taut and heavy (frustrated?) and it is not certain why. "What is wrong with you?" it blurts out, dropping its hand to yank on one of its human earlobes instead.

"Gimme ten," is Augustus' nonsensical reply.

Changeling blinks down at the back of her head. Yusei rattles off the name of a card in its phone speakers.

"Minutes?" it clarifies confusedly, and Augustus grunts. Which is only probably a yes, but it is annoyed enough that the onus to re-clarify should that not be the case is now on her shoulders, not its own. So Changeling skips back a few minutes to the beginning of the race where it had stopped paying attention, occasionally tapping the screen to show the time purely to satisfy its own curiosity.

Throughout, Augustus remains disengaged dead weight at its side, her presence marked solely by the slow leech of her body heat into the Changeling's hip where her arm presses against it. The Changeling considers moving to distance itself from the touch, as it typically would, but finds itself refraining for now — the discomfort that usually drives the impulse does not seem to be settling in. It wonders if perhaps it is just too distracted to be bothered, for once.

"What is wrong with you?" it repeats, precisely ten minutes later, actually pausing the show this time so it will not have to rewind again.

This time, Augustus turns her face out of the pillow to squint up at Changeling directly. She is not wearing her glasses, and it makes her face look strange and unfamiliar. Changeling glances away. "You know how the bookstore had those two lights by the register that have been burned out for forever?" Even free from the confines of the pillow, her words come out slow and tense — as if she is concentrating harder than usual to get them out of her mouth. She is more likely to sound like this during or after long shifts than she is before them.

"Yes," Changeling replies, abruptly annoyed by her second nonsensical response to its relatively straightforward question, but restraining itself from saying so valiantly. Augustus is more loquacious than Changeling is; she will almost always use more words than less, even when she could save time and effort by simply answering questions directly rather than always proliferating and clarifying things.

"Well," she says. "Rosemary finally got someone to replace them, which was an awful surprise. They even went so far as to replace them with flor-four," she huffs. "Fluorescents," she manages, forcing each syllable out individually. "This in combination with the windows there, it has become far too bright. And loud. I can hear them even over the dumb music. And they are not even the same color as the other lights on the floor. It looks dumb, and I have suffered the last several hours with a terrible ache in the backs of my eyes for it."

This is why Changeling never leaves the house without sunglasses on. It does not point this out this time. "Frick," it swears sympathetically instead. Then idly adds, "Just like the Ark of the Covenant," when the image of the bright, face-melting light flashes in the back of its head for a heartbeat.

Augustus squints her eyes back open just to glare sullenly up at it. The sight inexplicably makes the Changeling's hands clench around its phone hard enough to inadvertently turn off the screen entirely. "I don't watch movies," she reminds it petulantly.

"You understood the reference fine, idiot," Changeling replies tartly, deliberately stretching out its fingers and attempting to rub away a sudden tightness in its chest.

"I did not," Augustus argues back.

Before the Changeling can counter that she had clearly recognized it enough to know it was a reference to a movie specifically, Augustus abruptly hauls herself up onto her elbows. Changeling freezes, unsure if she will need it to move so that she can get off the bed, and is instead pinned in place when Augustus moves only to lay back down with her head placed squarely in the center of the Changeling's chest.

Beneath her, the Changeling goes stiff.

"You're warm," Augustus mumbles, half to herself, shuffling the rest of her body in closer to pin her arms down under the weight of her own chest, body pressed up against Changeling's side. It freezes, hands hovering uncertainly above her shoulders, unsure of what to do with itself. Usually, it would have shoved her off immediately. Usually, she would have asked before she touched it at all. She used to forget to do this frequently, but has not done so in a while. Do I hate this? Changeling wonders anxiously, and has no answer for itself.

Oblivious, Augustus finishes curling her body around the Changeling's side and sniffs pathetically. Instead of asking for either forgiveness or permission for the breach in etiquette, she says, "Cover my eyes, man — your lamp is too bright."

The words 'Do it yourself' rise up on impulse and lock uncomfortably in the Changeling's throat. The light is one of the dimmest bulbs available — all of Changeling's lights are — but perhaps Augustus' headache is worse than she let on. This thought is enough to halt its urge to extricate itself as quickly as possible in its metaphorical tracks. It deliberates on its own memories of past migraines — white hot railroad spikes of pain radiating all the way down its neck. Does it hate this? If it pushed her away, the probability is high that Augustus would not react in anger, but in passive acceptance of the Changeling's boundaries as she has always done in the past, but does it need her to stop touching it? Does it want her to get off?

For once, it is not so sure of the answer.

Cautiously, the Changeling lowers its arms to touch her, bracing itself to recoil from the contact the instant it sours, but finding the action surprisingly unnecessary. Its arms settle lightly over her shoulders, and the only thing that happens is the weight settles in more firmly. Is this comfortable? Augustus does not seem to be complaining, either. It stares intently at the curve of her cheekbone, and then deliberately adjusts so that the crook of its elbow wraps neatly over the bridge of her nose, blocking the light from her eyes completely. It continues to wait for the moment the touch overreaches into something intolerable, and finds that this moment does not seem to be arriving.

Do I like this? it wonders, baffled. It cannot determine this either. The weight of Augustus' body on its own feels overwhelming and mildly claustrophobic, but not quite smothering. It decides it feels mostly confused, and that it is not panicking. She usually asks, it thinks again. Had she just forgotten? Does her head hurt her that badly?

Changeling's brain provides it with an image of a wolf cub curled up, asleep, on the back of a beleaguered looking adult. It does not clarify much.

Augustus takes the opportunity to shuffle closer, tucking her face more efficiently into the bend of Changeling's arm, letting out a sigh that makes it shiver. It grits its teeth — that sensation was decidedly more unpleasant, air ghosting too lightly over the hairs on its arm, raising irritated goosebumps; but at least it has a baseline now. It decides that this touching is indeed tolerable, but the tolerance is limited. For now, it resolves mainly not to think about it, and turns its head to clumsily turn its show back on with its one free hand to distract itself before it creates a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Despite its fixed attention on the duel race, Changeling can feel it when Augustus goes from listening along to the show to sleeping — her weight on its chest growing warmer and more dense. Something hot suffuses Changeling's chest at the realization, flooding its mouth with saliva. It focuses doggedly on Yusei's next turn instead of dwelling on this, refusing to give into the impulse to turn its head to stare. Once again, it debates the merits of extricating itself from under her, and once again finds itself refraining.

Do I like this? It glances sidelong at the back of her head. It cannot see her face for how she has it hidden, and thinks it finds this disappointing for a reason it cannot decipher.

Something in its jaw aches fiercely with an impulse it does not understand. When it realizes belatedly that its phone has gone silent, it attempts to refocus itself once again — picking the device back up and turning it on to start the next episode.

The arms of its headband digs uncomfortably against the shell of its human ears, splitting its attention once again from the episode recap. The thought of taking the headband off now feels like a concession of some sort, an inexplicable hot flash of embarrassment in some admission. The Changeling pointedly leaves the dog ears exactly where they are, merely readjusting them instead. Privately, it wishes it understood whatever unspoken thing its body seems to know that it does not.

Typically, it might deign to ask Augustus for clarity on the matter. Somehow, it understands enough to know that it will not do so this time.

Atop its chest, Augustus sleeps on, oblivious to it all.

The Changeling makes it through several episodes in this manner: welding its thoughts to the dialogue of the show in order to avoid thinking about the way it has begun to sweat, how this discomfort is stabilized by the rhythmic pattern of Augustus' breath beneath the noise of the show, the way the shifting of their rib-cages has fallen into a comfortable synchronicity, the way her unconscious presence continues to conjure images of wolves baring their throats in its mind.

The longer Changeling dwells on it, though, the more intense the sensory input becomes. It feels hyper-aware of its palm against Augustus' back, the way the fabric of its shirt has creased between their bodies, of its tongue in its mouth.

Beneath its increasingly conflicted discomfort, however, some part of Changeling is able to acknowledge that there is something satisfying in the situation. Something that feels heavy and important in having Augustus here, in its inner sanctum, where Changeling can watch over her and ensure her safety from the many threats of the outside world. Something heady in the knowledge that Augustus had come here, to Changeling's house, instead of her own. That she had chosen to seek comfort in Changeling, before anyone else. She trusts Changeling to be both over and beneath her while she is hurt, and asleep. The thought makes its jaw ache for something it struggles to understand.

It does not come to a precise conclusion on this issue before it decides instead that it would prefer to no longer be pinned underneath anyone as it watches over her.

"Please move," it growls out finally, when its ability to distract itself with the confusing intricacies of its own opinions and emotions runs dry. The damp folds of its shirt, creased awkwardly beneath Augustus' cheek, is no longer passively tolerable and instead teeters on the uncomfortable edge of panic-inducing. There is a part of Changeling that would like to remain in place until Augustus wakes up on her own, but it knows itself well enough to know that if it allows things to progress much further, it will lose whatever ability it still has to be chivalrous in the way it extricates itself. "Off," it emphasizes louder, pushing itself party up onto its elbows to jostle Augustus just slightly.

"Sorry," she slurs out, finally rousing enough to pick herself up off of the Changeling so that it can slip out from under her. It does so swiftly, shedding its shirt as it goes and discarding the fabric on the floor on its retreat to the corner, shaking the lingering ghosts of the sensations off of itself. It readjusts its headband and tries to catch its breath.

"Should I leave?" Augustus asks hesitantly, her eyes intense as she watches Changeling shake out its arms, wanting to cross them over its chest but feeling unable to tolerate the idea of brushing against its own skin to do so.

"No," Changeling pants, steadfast. It needs a moment, but it is not so overwhelmed that it needs complete solitude. The last thing it wants is for Augustus to go anywhere. "Stay," it instructs, and she nods loosely, dropping to lay back down, eyes lidded. "I- Does your head still hurt?" it checks. It is getting easier to catch its breath, but it still feels all-too-aware of the weight of Augustus' eyes on it, it feels hot and too alert beneath her gaze. It wants an excuse to step out, to calm down somewhere else.

"Not as bad," Augustus reassures it, which still means Yes, because Augustus is very bad at asking for what she needs.

"I will get you some medicine," it tells her, and goes to leave and do just that. It pauses halfway out of the door. "Stay," it instructs again, emphatic, and waits for her to nod in acquiescence before closing the door behind it. Its heart is fluttering in its chest, stomach twisting, and the cause does not feel entirely physical at all, but it is a little less overwhelming now that it is alone. It readjusts its ears with clumsy hands, smoothing the fur back into place, and makes a hasty retreat to the kitchen where it can be certain its pacing will not disturb anyone.

"Hey, Spencer," its mother says softly when it stumbles into her instead. It hovers unhappily in the doorway — the constant unexpected encounters have grown tiresome by now — but then it pushes through to meet her properly. "I saw Augustus' car on the curb — is she spending the night?"

Changeling is too busy reviewing a mental note to hear the question. "Is there a spare key hidden on our porch?" it asks, squinting pointedly at the wall. "That is not very secure."

"Augustus is the only one who knows where it is," its mother says. "I thought we trusted her."

"I do," the Changeling affirms. "She should have the key. It should not be on the porch — someone else could find it. She should have the key."

It is quiet a moment. "Alright," mom says. "Is Augustus spending the night?" she asks again.

Changeling shifts its gaze to the clock on the oven and blinks in surprise. It is much later than it had thought or realized; it had not noticed so much time had passed. "Yes," it decides. Augustus will not leave this late — her father's house is not far, but she has an aversion to driving at night, regardless of the distance. She will stay until the morning at least.

"Okay," mom says, an odd lilt to her voice. It glances at her suspiciously, but if she has another thought, she does not voice it. "Let me know if y'all need anything. I'm about to head back to work, but I'll have my phone," she adds instead, leaning in to bump her head lightly against the Changeling's as a minimal-contact goodbye.

Changeling sways into the touch, and then pulls back. "The key," it requests. "Augustus keeps them on her belt. It will not be lost."

"Well, I wasn't worried about that," its mother says, but she heads to the door anyway. "Not without a shirt or bra," she says firmly, holding up a flat hand to halt the Changeling when it makes to follow her.

It huffs. It was not going to go outside, but it stays put where she indicated and waits for her to return anyway. She presses the key into its hand and steals another head bump for her trouble.

"Goodbye," it bids her, waving after her as she departs for real. It waits until the door shuts and locks properly before returning to the kitchen proper, crossing its arms tightly over its chest and squeezing firmly. The pressure is reassuring, but it does not feel as warm as it had felt underneath Augustus. The comparison makes it feel so overwhelmed that it bites down hard on its lower lip to push the emotion back.

It resolves not to think about it.

(This is becoming a pattern.)

Instead, it digs a couple of protein bars out of the pantry, because it can no longer remember what time Augustus had arrived, but if she had come straight from work, then it is unlikely she had eaten dinner before arriving. It is important that she eat something, particularly with Augustus' headache. Hunger will make the nausea worse, even if she does not realize it — she often fails to notice these things, after all. The Changeling gets a flash image from a documentary in its head — a wolf dragging a deer back to its den. It is good to be a provider. It retrieves the Tylenol from a cabinet as well, shaking the correct dosage out into its palm, so that Augustus will not be forced to endure the way the pills rattle noisily against the plastic container.

When it returns to its room, it is to find that Augustus has turned over onto her other side, curled tightly around another of Changeling's pillows, the knot of her hair splayed messily over the sheets, appearing to be asleep again already.

Changeling huffs, dropping the snack bars and medication onto the table next to its bed — it would do more harm than good to wake her up just so that she could take them immediately. It stoops to pick up a discarded sleeveless hoodie from the floor, and eyes the amount of space left in the bed calculatingly as it pulls it on. Despite the inexplicable desire for more in its stomach, in its Brain it knows that it does not want to wind up pinned underneath someone again if it were to lay back down. It also does not feel inclined to sleep on the floor instead.

It ponders this quandary briefly, reluctantly reaching up to remove its headband and hide its ears away in its drawer. It pauses to double check that it is not wearing its tail on its belt loop today, and then climbs decisively into the bed. It does not lie down, but props its pillows into the corner made between its headboard and Augustus' shoulders, so that it can relax but remain mostly sitting. A compromise — to be close without being pinned, standing guard over her to ensure her safety even at her most vulnerable, entrusted with watching her back.

It is careful to ensure Augustus' hair is not caught beneath anything as it settles, and then after a moment of deliberation, very carefully begins to untangle the rubber band holding her hair back in a ponytail. It works slow and deliberate — Augustus cannot stand to have her hair pulled, so it is imperative that Changeling does not rush or move carelessly. Hopefully, the relieved tension of the ponytail will help to further alleviate her headache at least a little bit further. When it finally succeeds, it puts the rubber band on its wrist, so it will not get lost, and carefully sweeps her hair up higher on the pillow, where it can be the most out of the way. 

Then, it remembers the key, and leans over Augustus' side to find her carabiner. It is always on her right side, which means Changeling can access it without having to reach under her, and it presses the little bar down to slide the new key-ring on with little fanfare.

This is a kind of trust too, it thinks, and then must carefully regulate its breathing when all of its limbs go stiff with some overwhelming emotion it cannot quite name.

Changeling settles back against the pillows, feeling the fabric shift just slightly with the rhythmic rise and fall of Augustus' chest. It is not altogether unpleasant.

It gets another flash image in the back of its head — a pack of wolves, piled on top of one another as they sleep. Augustus is, of course, not a wolf, but like this, Changeling supposes that together, they are close enough.