Note: The second part of "fit to print" is coming! It's taking somewhat longer than I thought, because I'm a perfectionist who must rewrite everything until I post it just to be done with it. In the meantime, have this!

The original request from Penelope Wendy Bing: I think I want you to write... a story in the POV ofthe beastie of your choice.

I kept hoping I'd have an idea for a non-bizarre fic from the Leviathan's POV, but alas, it never came. ;)

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Bovril is trying to sleep.

It truly is. It has had a long and wearying – though very exciting and fascinating and new-things-learning – sort of day, and it is rather tired and would like to sleep. Bovril has already worked out that a loris does not sleep as deeply as a human person. It has connected this detail to another: a loris requires more hours of sleep to be rested.

Bovril certainly needs more sleep than its People, who are still quite awake.

The noise is not the problem; its People are whispering, which Bovril finds a pleasant and reassuring sound. It's the way they continue to jostle the bed that is the trouble.

Bovril has carefully selected the most comfortable corner of the bed, arranged the linens to its satisfaction, and curled into a wonderfully tight ball that is just the thing for falling sound asleep.

But its People are sitting on the floor, and they continue to bump into the bed at irregular intervals. And now the whispering has turned into muffled sounds of amusement.

Bovril lifts its head, flicking its ears forward to better catch what they are saying. It's always listening, but it is not always paying close attention when it is, for example, trying to sleep.

"Give it here –"

"I haven't finished -"

"God's wounds, yes you have!"

Bovril sits up and, from this better vantage, sees that they are struggling over a piece of paper. Mr. Sharp has possession of the paper and is holding it out to her right side, as far away as possible from Alek, who is on her left. Alek is trying to grab it from her hand, and she is trying to fend him off.

Bovril thinks that either of them might succeed in their respective ambitions, if they would stop shaking with barely suppressed laughter.

"Give me that! It's a terrible picture," Alek says. He seems to want to scowl, but is grinning.

"I reckon – I reckon it looks just l-like you," Mr. Sharp says, her breath stuttering with the effort not to laugh. "Though the ears – the ears could be – a squick bigger, aye?"

Alek hmphs! and makes a diving sort of grab for the paper, sending both of them toppling to the floor.

Bovril moves to the edge of the bed and peers over.

There is an impromptu wrestling match as Mr. Sharp stretches her arm out above her head, still keeping the paper away despite Alek's best efforts. And then, quite suddenly, they are not wrestling but kissing, and the paper lies on the floor, utterly forgotten.

Except by the loris. It is always happy when its People are happy, and kissing one another seems to make them very happy indeed. But it finds the act rather boring, otherwise. The abandoned paper looks much more interesting.

It climbs down to the floor and examines the paper. Mr. Sharp has drawn a picture of Alek. She is a good artist normally, but the drawing does not match Alek's proportions at all. Apparently this is funny.

Bovril makes note of this detail, then sits back on its haunches to look at its People.

They are still kissing. Mr. Sharp has Alek pinned beneath her, and he has buried his hand in her hair and is pulling her hard against him.

Bovril compares this scene to similar others it has observed, and decides that it has information worth imparting.

"Next watch," it says in Mr. Newkirk's accent. "See you then."

Its People go still. Then Mr. Sharp clambers to her feet, wiping at her mouth and saying, "Barking spiders, Newkirk'll be here any second!"

Alek says a word in German that Bovril has not heard before – a new word; how exciting! – and stands as well. They spend a moment helping to put each other's clothes to rights, and then Alek makes a hurried farewell and leaves the cabin.

Mr. Sharp pushes a hand through her hair and blows out a heavy breath. "Too sodding tricky, this kissing business," she mutters to no one. She glances down at Bovril, then picks him up and settles him on her shoulder. "Thanks, beastie. That would've been dead impossible to explain away."

"Impossible," it agrees.

She scratches its ears, which is extremely satisfactory as far as Bovril is concerned. When Mr. Newkirk arrives, she sets Bovril down on the bed and strolls off to perform her duties as if nothing unusual has transpired.

Bovril waits for a minute, but there are no further disruptive incidents. The noises of the airbeast are entirely normal. And it has been useful to its People, which feels right, on the very deepest level.

It finds the most comfortable corner of the bed, arranges the linens, and curls into the tightest ball it can manage.

Just the thing.