Bagoas of Susa (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pathnottaken) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
taxonomites2013-10-21 03:57 pm
pathnottaken) wrote in taxonomites2013-10-21 03:57 pm
Entry tags:
glittering dot, singing bangle, sparkling nose ring [location: all over!] backdated to Oct 10th
When dawn comes, it brings with it a morning of new opportunities: so Bagoas has learned well since a very young age. He rolls over in his bed - his bed, not a sugary monstrosity - and a bright, beaming grin spreads over his face. Nothing smells of caramel or rosewater (well, no more rosewater than he is perfectly used to), nothing sticks to him: he is of flesh and blood once more.
So he breathes deep, and stretches out onto his belly like a drowsy, sleepy puppy.
...or a dog.
...with a bone.
... ... ...
Eyes wide open, Bagoas, son of Artembares, son of Araxis, lies very, very still.
That is not something his body has ever done in his entire life. It bears investigation, though he can't help but wonder if this is another 'swap' thing - though he very vividly recalls not waking up in his own bed that time. On the other hand, what's to keep their captors from swapping people around in other ways than the purely metaphysical?
Five minutes later he's beaming at himself in the bathroom mirror, making ridiculous faces at what is very much his face, but not at all. He can see his father looking back, and his mother, in the sharp angle of his jaw, in his nose and the curve of his smile.
He is still himself. He is what he might have been, had his life continued on its first path, all those years ago: he is a man, with all that that entails.
Too bad this also means hardly any of his clothes fit - he mourns their loss, but makes do. His undergarments may be too short, but they are wide and spacious as per tradition, and with a few sweeps of colourful sari by way of too long arms around too long legs (perfectly long, muscular, dancer's legs) he has fashioned for himself a type of pant that hangs about the legs in a way that becomes of a modest enough man.
Then there's the question of kaftans, all of which he owns (not many of them in his wardrobe, but still) are frightfully tight across the shoulders and never so much as make it past his neck.
Another sari, then, wrapped around his torso and shoulders in the ways of the women of India. A pair of ear-hugging earrings, oiled hair and painted eyes, then he goes out into the cold October air (but when is it not cold, when one has grown up in the summers of Susa?).
He'll see the city, and his friends, from a new perspective. From a full five inches higher up: he is nearly as tall as his first King, or so he imagines.
The day is full of promises - even if he is not quite steady on his sandal'd feet. Not yet, but he shall be.
So he breathes deep, and stretches out onto his belly like a drowsy, sleepy puppy.
...or a dog.
...with a bone.
... ... ...
Eyes wide open, Bagoas, son of Artembares, son of Araxis, lies very, very still.
That is not something his body has ever done in his entire life. It bears investigation, though he can't help but wonder if this is another 'swap' thing - though he very vividly recalls not waking up in his own bed that time. On the other hand, what's to keep their captors from swapping people around in other ways than the purely metaphysical?
Five minutes later he's beaming at himself in the bathroom mirror, making ridiculous faces at what is very much his face, but not at all. He can see his father looking back, and his mother, in the sharp angle of his jaw, in his nose and the curve of his smile.
He is still himself. He is what he might have been, had his life continued on its first path, all those years ago: he is a man, with all that that entails.
Too bad this also means hardly any of his clothes fit - he mourns their loss, but makes do. His undergarments may be too short, but they are wide and spacious as per tradition, and with a few sweeps of colourful sari by way of too long arms around too long legs (perfectly long, muscular, dancer's legs) he has fashioned for himself a type of pant that hangs about the legs in a way that becomes of a modest enough man.
Then there's the question of kaftans, all of which he owns (not many of them in his wardrobe, but still) are frightfully tight across the shoulders and never so much as make it past his neck.
Another sari, then, wrapped around his torso and shoulders in the ways of the women of India. A pair of ear-hugging earrings, oiled hair and painted eyes, then he goes out into the cold October air (but when is it not cold, when one has grown up in the summers of Susa?).
He'll see the city, and his friends, from a new perspective. From a full five inches higher up: he is nearly as tall as his first King, or so he imagines.
The day is full of promises - even if he is not quite steady on his sandal'd feet. Not yet, but he shall be.
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There was only so long she was going to go looking like she was wearing her own hand-me-downs. Now, maybe something to eat? Yes, something to eat would be fantastic.
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He comes down the street, carrying a paper cone of pink marsipan-covered almonds (they smell of orange water, and taste even better), a bright cherry lollipop tucked into his cheek, and what appears to be a myriad of dried fruit in a see through plastic bag hanging off his arm (which was once impressive enough, being that of a dancer, but now is plain ridiculous).
Bagoas looks on Selina with recognition in his eye, and he beams. "Miss Kyle, yes? Can I interest you in a praline?"
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"I was thinking of finding something to eat and here you are... with pralines."
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"Could I interest you in lunch, perhaps?"
Because I haven't gotten around to this elsewhere...
Wait.
A few other facts becomes quickly obvious to Spike.
1 - His bed is outside.
2 - This means he is outside.
3 - The sun is shining.
4 - He is not bursting into flames.
5 - He's wearing what he usually wears to bed, i.e. nothing.
He's been in more awkward situations, certainly, but the awkwardness of it doesn't even occur to him as he's too caught up in the amazing fact that he's not on fire. And he's breathing. And.... starving.
For just this brief moment, though, he's going to lay here in this patch of sunlight and bask.
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It is not every day that Bagoas simply happens upon a stark naked man - that sort of thing often takes a bit of careful planning and execution of said plan.
His head tilts, eyes quite blatantly cataloguing certain shapes and curves and dips. No harm in simply looking, now, is there?
...sometimes he misses his azizam more than others. This would qualify as one such occasion.He lifts his hand to his mouth, fingers curled into a loose fist - and clears his throat. Very politely.
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"S'just me or have you had a bit of a change as well?" Spike pushes himself up into a sitting position, bed sheets shifting with his movements. He loses coverage in some places and seems to truly notice that it is cold out here as he shivers.
[location: Emma's home]
She's put her book down in favor of a rousing game of solitaire. If that's not symbolic, she's not sure what is.
The door, incidentally, is within ten feet of the couch. If someone were to knock she'd be obliged to answer.
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He comes to Emma's door bearing gifts, as is only right when one of the many is in need.
Knock-knock.
"Miss Swan? It is I, Bagoas."
And if he should sound distinctly different, he still speaks as melodiously as ever.
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She uses the peep hole and...okay, yeah, what she can see of the outfit and the eyeliner convinces her, so she opens the door and looks up at him.
"Wow, you're...taller." This is what happens when she can't think of anything snarky. "Good morning?"
It's a genuine question, complete with a little are-you-okay frown.
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"I have heard tell of other residents who have undergone similar changes overnight...though perhaps not in so particular a fashion."
He beams, jiggling his head and the basket in his still-painted hands - that is perhaps another clue: who else in Taxon can emulate a bobble-head?
"I heard you are under the weather, and when one in the fold finds herself in need, her peers must provide. I've come to offer my services, and company, should you want it.
"I hope you've a taste for pomegranate. Or dates, perhaps?"
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Extreme Makeover: Alien Edition has, objectively, done some good work here but someone is going to have to take him clothes shopping, and she's un-volunteering herself. For now, she musters up the best smile she can manage.
Her apartment is tiny: little galley kitchen on the left, bathroom to the right, tiny table in the middle and living/bedroom beyond. There's a small sofa and chair to one side and a single bed - haphazardly made - to the other, with a coffee tale that's been cleared of clutter but now occupied by playing cards. It's all very spartan but it suits her.
"Company's...yeah, I think I need some, thanks. I'm feeling a little better but sometimes it goes haywire again." The pillow-trick Metody mentioned seems to be helping with getting her breath back, so that's one thing. Emma eyes the basket curiously; there's some space on the table or the counter for it. "I don't know, I haven't really had pomegranate, or dates, so this'll be a new thing."
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It's a discrete kind of outfit. Subtle.
She exits with her nose in a book, not paying attention at all to what's in front of her, and so is obliged to stop very short to avoid a hard impact with this new and improved Bagoas. She blinks up at him, startled, one hand over the drinking hole in the lid of her cup.
"Oh - goodness, I'm sorry!"
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Or a chai latte, or even a chocolate syrup, vegan, almond milk café au lai-- "Oh!"
A collision! With a familiar face!
"Metody!" Exclaims what surely must be a total utter stranger; what's more, the stranger beams. "Oh, that is lovely..." Peering closer at the goldfish, then up at her and man are his eyes greeny-brown in this light.
"What is it?"
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"I'm sorry, I don't - have we met?"
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He brings two fingers of his right hand, index and its most immediate neighbour) to his dimple, twists them like a key - he smiles.
"I am Bagoas, though I confess I am not quite as I was - rather than what I was meant to be." His eyebrows dance, his head bobs sideways, to and fro. See? See? Come ooooooonnnnnn.
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"Oh, most beautiful flower I know, you wound me even more in that you have become even taller, that is so not fair."
She huffs, and reaches to give him a tight hug. "Look at you! You've become a giant!"