Archive of Our Own

猴子的屁股坐不住  “A monkey's butt never sits still.”

“You are the Great Compassionate Bodhisattva Guanyin…Thank you, thank you for coming to see me! At this place every day is like a year, for not a single acquaintance has ever come to visit me.” ~JttW ch 8

There was a strand of ivy in his ear.

Monkey’s hands were pinioned just slightly too far away from his face too pull the creeper free, and no amount of shaking his head seemed to deter the damn thing. It had spent the last few weeks worming its way along the rockface and curling up through his hair, and now it had stuck an exploratory tendril straight down his ear canal. Deep down, past the Ruyi Jingu Bang and on toward his brain. If he were anything less than what he was, it’d probably be agonizing; instead, it tickled. Incessantly.

He was pretty sure that was worse.

Also, it blocked his hearing, which was worst of all. Not just because he didn’t actually know how he’d cope if he had to hold still in silence on top of everything else, but because today was definitely (absolutely, this-time-for-sure) the day that Guanyin’s promised scripture pilgrim would pass by, and Monkey couldn’t afford to miss him. It had been five months since she had gone to pick him out.

Five months and eight and a half days.

He tried hard not to wonder how far away the so-called Great Tang was from his prison. He didn’t even know which continent he was currently laminated to, but he had to hope it was the same one as this Tang place.

He tried harder not to remember Guanyin’s answer when he’d asked her how long it’d be. “It rather depends on whether or not he’s been born yet,” she’d said.

Monkey reminded himself ferociously that human lives sped by quickly. And anyway just five months (and eight and a half days) ago, he’d truly believed that he would spend the rest of eternity immobilized and alone. The fact that it was taking the monk a long time to show up almost didn’t matter. What mattered was that hope was no longer just some fragile silken lie he bound around his chest every morning to keep the mountain from crushing it entirely; it was real. Someday he would be free.

Probably today. Definitely today.

Monkey jerked his head as far as he could to one side, but the ivy just moved with him.

Argh.

He’d just watch for the scripture pilgrim’s approach if he could, but his chin was about five inches off the ground, with solid rockface behind and a fairly dense forest in front. Unless he craned his neck up painfully, his line of sight mostly involved grass and tree roots. And that funny-shaped rock three feet away. It had been the most interesting thing he’d had to look at for five centuries—though it had been briefly supplanted by an anthill, once. The anthill had been amazing.

Sometimes wildlife passed by. Birds. Once he thought he’d heard a monkey’s screech, but no matter how he called, he never heard it again.

He did have his nose. Maybe he’d be able to smell the scripture pilgrim coming?

He was grateful all over again that that stupid berry patch had finally died off. It had brought in wildlife for forty years or so, which was nice, but the smell of mulberries ripening so sweetly in the sun had been a special kind of agony, with his stomach hollow and snarling, and the taste of molten copper and his own charred tongue filling his mouth.

Monkey shook his head violently. The ivy refused to be dislodged.

He let his head drop and his hands dangle. He listened to the forest and the rustle of ivy. He watched the shadows crawl.

Today. The monk would come today for sure.

Tomorrow at the latest. Definitely.

***

Monkey would freely admit that he sometimes played fast and loose with the truth. Harmless jokes, mostly. Less-than-harmless jokes, when the occasion called for it.

And he told himself lies, by way of encouragement. He figured: he knew they were lies, but they were still better for him than chasing ugly truths endlessly down into the dark. He’d spent his second and third century under the mountain doing that. It…hadn’t been good. He didn’t want to do that again.

But that was the thing: he’d been treating all his own encouraging thoughts with the kind of amused indulgence he’d feel when a grandkid spun him a tall tale. So when the scripture pilgrim actually showed up around noon, he straight-up didn’t believe it.

Because, okay, that flat-footed tromping through the undergrowth didn’t sound like any of the local wildlife, and okay, maybe Monkey could smell something like horse-human-leather-sweat, but he’d absolutely gotten his hopes up about this before. And it was one thing to conceal the truth from yourself, but it was another to forget where you’d put it.

Still…

Monkey squinted, feeling heat build painfully behind his eyes. He forced them wide through the starburst of pain, and the world was suddenly diamond-bright, sharp as cut glass—and in many ways translucent as glass, too. He could see the faint quiescent spirits shifting within the nearby trees, and through their trunks he could see the flicker of birds and insects, the dull steady life-light of a mortal horse, and…

“Oh,” he breathed.

That was him.

The scripture pilgrim glowed, shimmering golden halos rippling around him, gilding all the leaves and turning the forest floor into a coruscating pool of light. The brilliant azure sky looked dull and gray by comparison. Monkey had never turned his diamond vision on Guanyin, but he couldn’t imagine even the bodhisattva could possibly be any brighter or more beautiful; he didn’t think anyone could be.

Monkey felt a surge of something he’d felt a few times before: when he landed on the far side of a waterfall and looked up at a stone palace, when he touched his Ruyi Jingu Bang, when he smelled the Heavenly peaches. That click. He hadn’t coveted any of them for an instant, because the moment he’d seen them, he’d known with complete certainty that they were already his.

That monk was his.

His—Master?

Monkey didn’t like the idea of calling anyone Master again: the first time had ended badly. And anyway these days he was powerful enough that the very idea sounded like a farce. He was no one’s student. If there was any sense in the arrangement, he should be Master.

Except he wasn’t actually powerful these days, was he? He was more mush than monkey right now.

Anyway, Guanyin had been pretty clear that taking this guy on as his teacher was Monkey’s one and only shot at redemption. She hadn’t wanted to let him out at all when her journey led past his mountain—stuff about how she feared he would “once again perpetrate violence,” and “that would be very bad.” Like he didn’t know better than anyone exactly how bad. But when Monkey had insisted, over and over, that he’d learned his lesson, that he would walk any path to prove it, she had relented and assigned him to learn good works from her chosen scripture pilgrim. Even when he enthusiastically agreed, she hadn’t seemed convinced he could pull it off.

“There must be a means of control,” she had said.

Monkey had been offended enough to forget he was being good and grateful. “No one controls me!” he’d snapped.

“No,” said the Bodhisattva, sorrowfully. “Not even you.”

Monkey had sputtered outrage. Because okay, that was just—

That—

Anyway, why should he bother controlling himself, he was the best and strongest, the point of being best and strongest was that you didn’t have to put up with rules or…

punishments…

Monkey had suddenly felt extremely conscious of a thousand tons of rock compressing his ribcage.

“I can control myself fine,” he snapped. He could, he was sure, if he really wanted to. He’d controlled whole armies; this couldn’t be any harder.

“Enough to submit to another?” Guanyin asked him. “A mortal?”

“Absolutely,” Monkey shot back, even though…eeesh. Out of all possible teachers in the cosmos, a human? Might as well submit to a butterfly. At least they were pretty for the short time they lasted. But he wasn’t about to back down now. “Just you watch, I’ll be the best disciple the world’s ever seen.”

And he would be. He was always the best at everything.

…sort of.

Monkey hadn’t ever been one to go in for self-doubt, or any kind of doubt at all: if it was him doing it, it was probably an amazing thing to do. The mountain had…dented that. Hard. A lot of his thoughts, the first century, had been occupied with how he could’ve been better, but it was all just—if he’d seen that squadron attacking sooner, if he’d shapeshifted into a dragon or a tree or anything instead of that stupid shrine, if he hadn’t laughed it off when his allies were being captured and killed, if he hadn’t scared his little monkeys into thinking he was a monster who would turn on them…

But that last one in particular had set him wondering if maybe he could have been better…you know, deeper down. A better person.

He did not like those thoughts, but that was the thing about being immobilized for five hundred years: thoughts were all you had. There was no way to escape them.

Anyway, Monkey wasn’t a damn coward. It had always been his practice to go straight for the heart of anything he didn’t like.

And he…maybe didn’t like himself as much as he had, since his war with Heaven.

Clearly no one else did, either. The Goddess of Mercy had been his first and only visitor.

But! Who could possibly fail to like the king who was humble and gracious enough to take on a mortal teacher (eeeesh), and who gained spiritual enlightenment and possibly even Buddhahood, and who, incidentally, brought back a bunch of scriptures that would make the whole world better and save a hell full of lost souls? That was real hero material, right there, that was somebody even Monkey could look up to. That was good enough to drown out all his mistakes.

It had to be. If it wasn’t enough…

Then he’d find something else. He just had to get out first.

Wait.

Wait, shit, this was happening, the monk was here. Monkey was—he was actually going to get out. He was getting out today—right now—

Monkey wrenched wildly, uselessly, against the stone. Debris pattered down out of his filthy hair. “Master!” he yelled, and then had to stop and cough, choking on the dust and the dry autumn air. Enraging. He forced more cries out through the coughing: “Master, Master, over here! This way, I’m down here! Master!”

The monk turned. He hesitated, and then moved a bit closer, his luggage-laden horse trailing behind, until he could squeak out, “Who is calling?”

“It’s me, Sun Wukong!”

The monk looked baffled.

“Down here!” insisted Monkey.

The monk parted a few bushes, picking his way closer. Monkey waved both hands and bobbled his head to get his attention.

He got it. The monk stopped dead. For a few seconds, they stared at each other.

Monkey didn’t think much of human beauty. They all tended to be sort of creepy-ugly: hairless and flat-faced and weirdly stretched out, all leg and neck. And they smelled wrong, and their voices never had enough pitch or expression.

Of course, after this long without company, he’d be prepared to find a thunder-god beautiful. But even he could tell this human was actually pretty. Perfect symmetry, flawless skin, big soft innocent eyes. Even without the aura, he glowed.

Heh, but maybe that was exertion. It was a warm day for autumn, and the priest was badly overdressed, and clearly not used to hiking through a forest, if the muddy green stains on his knees and backside were any indication. A stray twig had stabbed through his woven grass hat. The leaf on it waved like a little flag.

“A monkey?” asked the scripture pilgrim, confused.

Why was he confused?

“The Monkey!” said Monkey. He strangled down the urge to cough again. He wasn’t used to talking. “I’m the Monkey King! I’m your new disciple!”

The monk made a soft, wounded sound, and looked away fast. “I don’t want any more disciples,” he said. And then awkwardly forced out, “Thank you for the offer, though.”

More? He was alone.

Wait, didn’t want? What did what his wants have to do with it, Guanyin had told him to free Monkey! He was a human and a Buddhist, he had to do what she said, right?

Unless—shit—

“Did Guanyin not actually tell you?” Monkey demanded. And then: “Wait, you are the scripture pilgrim, right? The Tripitaka?”

“Yes, I—Tell me what?”

“I’m the monkey, you know, the famous one that the Buddha fought! You’re supposed to free me!”

Tripitaka blanched.

Shit, okay, yes, that was a stupid line. You can do better than that, Monkey King, you’re supposed to be charismatic. You’re five hundred years out of practice but you remember the basics: everyone wants something. Even holy shiny golden monks need a little personal incentive.

Monkey’s eyes caught on the scripture pilgrim’s wrists, braceleted with black bruises and raw red lines. Someone had tied him up?

Monkey didn’t like that at all. Someone had tied up his monk. How had he gotten free?

…What if he hadn’t gotten free? What if he’d been killed, and then Monkey was stuck here waiting, counting off weeks and months and years and unchanging ongoing decades…

“And then I’ll keep you safe on your journey,” Monkey promised. “It’s a dangerous road, but I’m the best fighter in the world; you’ll be perfectly safe if you’ve got me along.”

“Oh,” said the monk, not looking like he felt perfectly safe. “Um. May I ask why the Buddha fought you?”

“Because I’m the best in the world,” said Monkey. “I—got sorta carried away proving it, but I’ve repented. Guanyin said my punishment was up! You can ask her!”

The monk laughed, incredulous. “How would I do that?”

“Oh,” said Monkey, remembering how limited humans were. He fought back another cough, crushed it down to a wheeze. He was too dried up, after five centuries, for his eyes to water; instead they itched and stung. “Okay, better plan,” he said, “you let me out and I can go fetch Guanyin and she’ll tell you I was telling the truth! I promise, she set it all up for me to be your disciple!” He conjured up his best human smile.

…Why did the monk suddenly look like he was going to cry? Monkey had a perfectly charming human smile, he’d practiced it for years.

“Did she know, then? That I would lose…my two…” Tripitaka’s voice cracked.

Monkey had no idea what the monk was blubbing about, but it didn’t matter; the important thing was that he was asking the question as if Monkey might know. He was starting to believe him about Guanyin, ha!

“I’m sure Guanyin knows more than either of us,” he said piously, even though in his opinion it’d be damn hard for anyone to know more than Monkey. Definitely not this guy. Monkey’s confidence in Guanyin’s prescribed redemption was wavering the more he looked at that wibbly worried face: that did not look like a wise moral guide to him. But he needed the monk anyway. “Best to do what she says.”

“Yes… Um. Yes. But…”

“What but?” demanded Monkey, and then broke off in another coughing fit, ugh. His chest spasmed against the unyielding rock, he couldn’t get enough air, his throat hurt. He tasted blood and copper and old charred flesh.

He didn’t have time for this, he needed to convince this monk to let him out, he needed—he—

“Do you need something to drink?” the monk asked him.

Monkey blinked up at him, still choking. “What?”

The monk pulled a canteen from his luggage and waved it, a little awkwardly, at Monkey. There was a slosh.

Oh.

Suddenly it was all he could do not to start clawing at the rock like he’d gone rabid. He knew instinctively that any further talking would set him coughing again, so he pinched his mouth shut hard.

Obviously it was a trick. It could only be a trick. The monk was scared of him, clearly didn’t want him, and now he was offering a gift? This was exactly the flavor of bullshit Heaven had pulled, back when Monkey was stupid and trusting and…ugh. He still wanted desperately to smack his idiotic wide-eyed younger self. Possibly halfway across the Earth. It’d hurt a hell of a lot less.

But Monkey could still see the echo of that golden aura shimmering around the monk, glowing in his big wibbly eyes. It was almost impossible to imagine malice from someone like that.

And. Come on, honestly. What could the guy do to him that would possibly be worse than his present situation? Wukong was at literal rock bottom, and he knew it.

Annnd he could just feel his future self wanting to smack him halfway across the Earth for thinking that. There was always higher to climb; there was always lower to sink.

But he was so thirsty. He’d been parched dry even before Laozi chucked him in the furnace—nothing took it out of a monkey like fighting a war and then being strung up for a week while Celestials threw axes and lightning and fire at you—and he hadn’t had a drink in all the centuries since.

Molten copper didn’t count.

Sticking his tongue out to catch the occasional raindrop…maybe counted?

And anyway, since when did he think things through this extensively? He was a monkey: he wanted something, he grabbed for it.

Self-control, Guanyin’s voice whispered in his ear. He shook it off.

He nodded, just once.

The monk approached, rabbit-footing through the tussocks of grass, clearly unhappy about getting so close to Monkey’s teeth and claws, however immobilized. But get closer he did, and unscrewed the canteen, and crouched down to hold it out.

It smelled like—water. Not a trick.

Monkey made a frankly embarrassing noise of desperation and relief when the water hit his throat.

The monk held the canteen steady for him, and did not object when Monkey drained it completely. It wasn’t enough—a river wouldn’t be enough—but it helped. Monkey sagged, his head hanging down at an angle that almost wasn’t painful anymore, after five centuries. The monk stood, shuffling nervously. Monkey was level with his shoes.

Probably he ought to say thanks.

“Why?” he asked instead. “You don’t believe me, but you still…?”

The monk bowed his head over one upraised hand. “Though I am sure the Buddha’s punishment was just, I—I do not like that you are suffering. And it was in my power to relieve it; why should I not do so?”

“‘Cause I’m a rude and wicked ape?” Monkey suggested. “I have it on the very best authority.”

“You can still be thirsty.”

Monkey stared up at him for a few seconds. He was feeling…

Um.

Just. Just a lot of feelings that he’d prefer not be available to the viewing public, okay.

And it got worse: Tripitaka crouched down again and gingerly pulled that awful strand of ivy away from his ear. His fingers carded very gently through the tangled fur, clearing away twigs and moss, even while his own messy little twig-flag bobbed and waved. 

Monkey wasn’t gonna make another pathetic needy noise like he had over the water, he was already seriously underselling himself to this guy.

But oh, oh, oh, it felt so good, it felt so good. Even the slightly painful tug when a clump of burrs came free. Monkey pushed up into the touch.

Warm human hand, parting his stiff filthy untouched fur—gah, so good. So—much. Too much. He was buzzing, his skin hurt, or—or—

He’d had basically two emotions for the last five centuries: boredom and rage. Okay, and misery. Three. And today—so many. Too many.

Too much.

Wukong jerked away. Sort of. He made it a few inches.

Gods, he didn’t even have control over this, over some pathetic weakling daring to touch his head, stroke him like a fucking pet. He wanted to scream and snarl. He wanted—

Out, he wanted out, let me out, let me MOVE, let me—fucking EXIST—

—For which he needed this monk. Tripitaka had frozen with his hand a few inches away; now he curled it back against his chest and stood up once again.

No…

The monk held his hand upright before him in blessing. “I wish you well, Monkey King. Buddha is compassionate; surely he will free you in his own time.”

No.

No, no, no—

When Monkey didn’t respond, too overwhelmed with horror, the monk bowed a little, and turned away.

…Damn it. Fucking damn it. Rock bottom had a basement.

Monkey stretched out his hands.

“Please,” he grated out, hopelessly.

So pathetic. But he couldn’t, could not, let this opportunity go without exhausting every single play—even the one he’d once sworn, while smoke curled through his lungs and his fur scorched and his skin bubbled, he would never ever stoop to:

The Monkey King was begging.

“Master. Please.”

Tripitaka stopped.

“This is my only chance at—” Anything. He hurried on, words spilling out of him faster than he could grab them back. “Please. I can’t stay here, I can’t—do this anymore.”

He couldn’t, he couldn’t take any more. He’d cultivated too many immortalities to be able to go insane—he’d tried, several times, on the basis that crazy people at least always had someone to talk to—but if he had this last hope pulled out from under him, Monkey thought he might just start screaming and never stop.

“I need to be better,” he gabbled, vaguely aware that might be a more convincing plea. “I need to, to make myself into something better, I can’t rot here forever and never be anything but…” His claws dug into his own palms, ripping at old scars. He’d torn them open over and over the first few centuries, desperate to feel something, to remember that he existed and wasn’t just a resentful ghost of himself.

No one had come to visit him. It had been five hundred years.

He’d had a thousand friends, tens of thousands of little monkeys, six sworn brothers. He’d had soldiers and servants and drinking-buddies and sparring partners, he’d had attendants and colleagues and friendly rivals and casual acquaintances.

And, he admitted with a brutal twist of his claws, he’d gotten a whole lot of them killed, or captured. The survivors…

He didn’t know if they hated him, or were scared of him, or were scared of getting in trouble because of him, but whatever their reasons, the entire fucking cosmos had given up on Sun Wukong. And the worst part was that he wasn’t even sure he could blame them for it.

He had to be better. He had to get out. He couldn’t handle being alone anymore.

“I’ll do anything you ask, I’ll be such a good disciple, I’ll get you to India, I swear. I’ll swear on anything you like, just—Please.”

He wanted to curl away from himself in shame at what was coming out of his own mouth. He wanted to kill the monk for having heard it, for having seen this ugly whimpering low part of the Great Sage.

But more than any of that, he wanted out.

And. It worked. The arguments for the monk’s own goals hadn’t done anything, but all of a sudden Tripitaka was round-eyed and soft. He’d do out of sympathy what he wouldn’t do for self.

Weird, weird guy, but who cared, he was nodding. Oh, gods, he was nodding. He was saying, very tentatively, “But…how could I do it? I don’t have a shovel with me, let alone a chisel.”

Aw. He was gonna chisel away the stone that even the Great Sage’s claws couldn’t put a scratch on. Full points for earnestness.

Or maybe it was just stupidity, and Monkey’s perception was colored by glorious shining hope and happiness.

Who cared.

“No need for a shovel!” Monkey chirped, drunk with relief. “I can get myself out, if you’ll take the first step.”

“Ah?”

Monkey jerked his head upward. “The Buddha put a seal on the mountain. Pull it off, and I can get myself out.”

“You think I can pull off a seal set by the Buddha himself?”

“Guanyin said you could set me free,” Monkey insisted. “So it must be possible.”

Weirdly, the monk’s face cleared at once. He took a few steps back and squinted up at the peak, clutching his hat. “If it is possible,” he said, “it will only be because Buddha wills it so.”

Sure, yes, fine, whatever.

“That makes sense,” Monkey said solemnly. “If you can take it off, you’ll know you’re meant to take it off.”

He was treated to a smile of quite literally blinding relief. He had to sorta blink the afterimage out of his eyes for a bit. Ha, if he was going to be traveling with this guy, he’d better restrict his True Seeing to emergencies only; if he’d been using that diamond-bright clarity just now he’d have wound up dazed and dazzled.

“Well,” said the monk. “If you truly are a great fighter, I…It would be good to have a companion whom I wouldn’t have to worry I was leading into danger. And I admit I would appreciate some help. I’m learning that I’m not, ah. Not exactly cut out for adventuring.”

No kidding. Monkey could smell the blood from the blisters on his feet, and his white soft hands were striped red from his horse’s reins.

But the monk was looking at his wrists, at the scabbed-over burns, with eyes gone haunted and guilty. His hands trembled.

“You couldn’t ask for a better protector,” Monkey cut in cheerfully. “Nothing’ll touch you if you’ve got me around.”

The monk snapped out of wherever he’d gone, giving Monkey a cautious, hopeful smile.

“So…?” Monkey prompted.

Get moving already. Please please MOVE, dammit—

“Right,” said Tripitaka, squaring his shoulders. He stepped back to scan the mountain over Monkey’s head. “Where is this seal?”

YES!

“Right at the top.”

The way the guy’s face fell would have been hilarious, if it hadn’t shot a spike of answering panic through Monkey’s chest. “Coupla hours of work,” he wheedled, “and you’re perfectly safe for the rest of your trip.” He remembered to tailor his arguments to his audience: “And the scriptures will need protecting on the way back, too; I can do that.”

Tripitaka re-squared his shoulders at that. “I’ll be right back,” he said, all determined, and off he marched.

Monkey exhaled explosively, and craned his neck to watch until the monk had vanished from his field of vision. Eventually even his clumsy human footsteps and labored breathing disappeared into the ambient sounds of the autumn forest.

Monkey flapped his hands and blew out his cheeks and bobbled his head. If his tail could move, it’d be thrashing fit to split the Earth. He was getting out, he was getting out, he was going to get out!

Argh, he wanted to wiggle.

Soon he’d be able to wiggle.

Soon, soon, soonsoonsoon.

The sun crept toward the west. The birds sang. A hedgehog shuffled past, somewhere in the undergrowth: tiny little snorting snuffling noises, and a shiver of shrubbery.

Monkey flapped his hands more. He clenched his fists. He hummed a tuneless little song. It didn’t irritate his throat so badly, after having had a drink. First thing when he got out, he’d get himself another drink, wash the taste of metal and burning out of his throat once and for all.

What was taking so long?

The sun crept further still.

Seriously, how long did it take to climb a mountain? Humans were slow, sure. But that slow? Surely not that slow. Was the monk stopping for tea? A picnic lunch?

Impatience and face-clawing frustration swirled through Monkey. He couldn’t even claw his face about it.

Had Tripitaka changed his mind? Had he chickened out when he saw how steep the mountain was? It was pretty damn steep. Monkey heard goats up there sometimes, but not much else; it might be really steep. Too hard for a human to climb?

…Had he never actually meant to help at all?

Oh, hells, Monkey could just see that happening.

Bastard, spineless little baby. Too nervous to say no to Monkey’s face. He’d just left.

He’d left him here alone.

Monkey’s one chance, and the monk hadn’t believed him, he didn’t want him, he thought he was just some Buddha-cursed demonic trickster. Monkey was gonna be stuck here for eternity, with his guts painted copper and the ivy growing into his ears and eyes and mouth until even all his immortalities failed and he became a ghost for real.

Would his ghost be sealed here, too? Or would he be allowed to go to hell?

No. No. Pull yourself together, c’mon Monkey King. The monk’s horse was still tethered in the grove nearby: he could hear her. The monk wouldn’t leave his horse. He was still climbing the mountain.

He was just. Slow.

Maybe he’d run into some sort of obstacle that puny human muscles couldn’t get past. See, this was why he needed a disciple!

Maybe he’d got hurt. Stubbed his delicate mortal toes and stopped to nurse them.

Maybe he’d fallen off a cliff and broken his leg.

Maybe he was dead. Monkey’s brand-new shimmery golden monk, lying at the bottom of a ravine somewhere for the vultures.

This was why he needed a disciple! Stupid fragile human!

Monkey was vaguely aware that he was getting worked up over probably nothing, but dammit dammit literally everything was on the line here and Monkey was not used to being helpless.

You’d think he would be, after five hundred years, but no. It wasn’t something you got used to.

And he’d gotten enough people killed already.

He thought about yelling up a question. Maybe if he was loud enough, the monk would hear and…

Except what if he decided to stop and come down and find out what Wukong was yelling about? No.

He needed to just.

Wait.

Patiently.

…

He was gonna lose his mind, he really was.

Each second inched past. Minutes stretched out long and thin. Monkey chewed on his lip, ground his teeth, scratched at the unforgiving stone prisoning his wrists. He’d never been able to leave a single mark on it—as far as he could tell the entire mountain was one solid piece, a huge magical talisman. He’d had to tear through the earth beneath it just to get his head and hands out, when it first fell on him, and then that seal had landed on the peak and the stone had flowed down around him and that had been it.

For centuries, that had been it.

But maybe this time he’d be able to scratch it. Maybe the mountain would know somehow, maybe once the monk got close enough to the seal it would start softening. There had to be some kind of signal.

Any minute now. Surely. Surely. Any second now.

He chewed back a scream of impatience. The sun started to sink behind the mountain, where he couldn’t see it anymore. Five hundred years with no sunsets. Looked like it’d be five hundred years and one more day.

Maybe Guanyin had been wrong about this monk. Maybe he’d gotten to the top but couldn’t remove the seal. Maybe the Buddha hadn’t meant it to ever—

The second the seal came off was the oddest moment of Monkey’s life, which had contained no shortage of oddities to that point. Most of the weirdness stemmed from how not weird it was: one second he was the immobilized prisoner beneath the mountain, and the next he was Sun Wukong again. There wasn’t any great rush of power. It was like—like when you’d been reaching for something that was too far for anything but a brush of your fingertips, except then the object rolled or shifted and your fingers closed on instinct and there it was in your hand. All his magic and strength and—Sun Wukong-ness—was suddenly in his grasp again, after five centuries of straining.

“Oh,” he said.

There should have been fire and explosions and cheering. Instead he stared at his hands. He made a few magic signs, and felt the universe shift, effortlessly, in obedience to his will.

“Oh,” he whispered, and he pushed one arm forward against the stone, the same pointless movement he made all the time, over and over a hundred thousand times a day, reaching for freedom.

There was a sharp crack of rock, and the mountain shivered, and—and he could reach nearly an inch further. The grooves he’d clawed in the dirt around him had, for five hundred years, marked the uttermost bounds of his reach, but now his nails touched fresh soft earth.

And he’d have exploded forward right then if he hadn’t also heard, very faint and high above, a cry of fright.

Oh, gods all damn it, the monk was still up there. He’d be killed for sure if Wukong broke the mountain.

He was going to have to wait even longer?

Redemption wasn’t worth this, surely. Nothing in the world could possibly be worth even ten more minutes immobilized. The suffocating horror of the last five centuries was rising in his chest, the fear and helplessness and desperate loneliness and literally crushing boredom. The emotions were a mountain unto themselves.

Wukong clenched his fists and his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, battling for just a few more minutes of endurance. He could do this. He’d lasted forty-nine days in that damned furnace, he could last one hour for the sake of his new monk.

Yeah. Yeah…for his Master’s sake. That sounded…good. Honorable and…good. He was going to be better, wasn’t he? This was a good first test.

His breathing settled a little. Obviously he couldn’t fall over flat right out of the gate like that; he was the Great Sage; he owed it to his own pride and reputation to do this disciple gig properly.

It helped that he had something to do, for once. He summoned up the local spirit with a flick of his fingers and a single word. An instant later, the gnarled old tudigong popped out of the ground, dislodging the Interesting Rock.

Just like that, company. No one had come to check on him, not when he’d screamed his throat bloody, not for five hundred years. But now he was strong again; he could make someone show up when he ordered.

Maybe that was good enough. Maybe Wukong didn’t have to go through all this learning humility and self-control shit, maybe he didn’t have to wait even one more second for this frail fumbling mortal. He could just take all his newly-returned power and go home, back to his old amazing life, and order everyone to say they would have come if they could, of course they’d wanted to come.

He squeezed his eyes shut. His fur felt all weird where the monk had touched it. Barring the occasional winter gale, it had all been stuck in exactly the same position for centuries. Now it was different. He couldn’t pretend meeting Tripitaka hadn’t made everything different.

It was one thing to hide the truth from yourself for a while; it was another to forget where it was.

Tripitaka had helped Wukong for no better reason than that Wukong had needed it. Wukong might not be thrilled about the idea of submitting to a human teacher, but he knew himself: Tripitaka was his person, now, completely. Wukong would do anything for him.

His voice came out strange and thick with incomprehensible emotion as he commanded the tudi to help Tripitaka off the mountain as fast as was safely possible. The place was coming down, he said.

The tudi bowed, and fled.

Wukong amused himself calling up little flashes of light and glamour, ignoring the way his hands shook. He was determined not to think about how close he was, how in just a few more minutes…

The monk tumbled into view, red and scratched and filthy, and at Wukong’s urging did not pause even a moment before mounting his mare. He kneed her into a gallop. She was a good horse; even with the additional weight of the luggage she kicked up her heels and bolted away through the trees. Wukong watched her go. His heart pounded in his ears. His fists opened and shut spasmodically.

…That was far enough, right?

“Further, further!” he shouted, throwing qi behind the words so they’d travel. He waited, twitching against the stone, as the monk’s light dwindled.

Yeah. That should be safe.

He took a breath, feeling the stone compress his ribs for the last time, and cracked the lid on his fizzing self-control.

Sun Wukong lunged for the sky.

Slabs of cliff face thundered down around him, shattering into stony shrapnel. He shouldered them aside, arrowing up up up up—

“YES!” he screeched, bursting into open air like a firework, all his limbs extended and grabbing at the sunlight. He flung himself into a dizzying series of flips and aerial cartwheels, spinning and dancing in midair and screaming with exhilaration. He was free, free, free forever, he would never, ever let anything bind him down again, he wanted to eat the wind and wrestle the sun and possibly explode.

“Sun Wukong is BACK!” he exulted, arms outflung. “Look out, universe! Ahahahaha!” He clawed the remaining moss out of his ears—ahh, that felt good—and scrubbed his hands over his filthy face.

First order of business was a bath. He was horrifically matted, soot and sweat and blood compressed by time and pressure until his fur was a solid itchy lump. He scratched furiously, all over, writhing around on his somersault cloud like a cat. Bliss. He scratched harder. He wanted to peel his entire pelt off and shake it out like a rug.

Maybe that monkish practice of shaving your hair wasn’t completely out of the question.

Oh—right, monk!

Wukong swooped down, hunting for his shiny new Master amid the billowing clouds of dust. There was a lot of dust. And rubble. Wukong spotted the crater of his former prison, with the five peaks toppled away from it in five directions, huge hulking ridges of shattered stone.

Hahaha oops, lil’ too much force, there. The monk was okay, though: he’d gotten several miles away before the mountain came down. Wukong dropped down in front of him with a thud, hard enough that Tripitaka staggered, and bowed four times, forehead knocking on the ground, as he’d never bowed for anyone since Subodhi. He didn’t begrudge it an inch. Tripitaka got him out.

“Master,” he cried, half-singing with delight, “your disciple thanks you!”

Tripitaka went red. What was…Oh, Wukong was naked. Ha. Well, that’d be the second order of business after the bath. And the drink. Third.

“I can take the luggage,” he told his new Master, bouncing to his feet, “and then you can ride. It’s a nice horse you have there, very pretty lines, I’ll rub her down before we get going or she’ll get a chill with all that sweat. I’m good with horses. Oh, you lost your kasa, do you want me to go look for it?” He jumped up onto his cloud. He wasn’t sure how he’d find the woven hat, since it was probably crushed under a couple hundred tons of rock, but he was determined to nail this disciple thing. This Master wouldn’t ever have cause to give him the boot.

Also he wanted to move, move, move.

“Don’t worry about the hat,” said Tripitaka, half-laughing even though he looked sort of wild around the eyes. “I’ll make a new one.”

Wukong dropped back off his cloud. “I’ll pick the rushes for you!” he sang, dancing from foot to foot. His tail whipped back and forth. Ahhh, moving felt glorious. Sort of painful, but who cared, he could wiggle and jump and scratch, he could breathe, he was free free free and for that he’d follow this monk to the ends of the universe.

“One thing at a time,” said Tripitaka.

Wukong wanted to do a thousand things all at once. “Yes, Master!” he said, instead.

“I know it is customary to give a gift, when taking on a new disciple,” said Tripitaka, “but I haven’t anything of value that I can offer you. Would you accept a name?”

Oh. Wukong slowed his bouncing. That was kinda—touching? Master Subodhi had given Wukong a name, too.

Huh, Wukong was really starting a new chapter of his life, here.

Thank the fucking fates.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked.

Tripitaka looked him over. And Wukong knew humans had weird ideas about what was appealing and what wasn’t, but this one had sense enough to smile at what he saw. “You look like a little dhuta,” he said. And: “Pilgrim,” he decided. “I will call you Pilgrim Sun.”

Wukong felt a little shiver settle down through him. Words had power, and names in particular, and that—

“Yeah,” he said, beaming up at the monk. “That’s a good name.”

“Well then,” said Tripitaka, and, after one or two little hesitations, settled a hand on Wukong’s filthy head.

All the frantic eager twitchiness just kinda dropped out of him at the touch. It was like his souls had been flying in all directions and now they were back. He was aware of a marrow-deep ache in his neck and shoulders, of an unacceptable tremble in legs that hadn’t had to hold anything up in five centuries, of the weird chill on his back where the mountain had ground away patches of fur.

Of the fact that his eyes had gone all hot and prickly.

He couldn’t cry. He’d used up all his tears in the furnace, and he hadn’t had a drink in five hundred years.

…Until today.

“In the name of the Compassionate One,” said Tripitaka, “I welcome you to the sangha, the community of monks…”

He said some more stuff after that, ritualized formal words, except he clearly meant them with his entire chest. His voice throbbed with emotion.

This guy was the most ludicrously sincere person Wukong had ever met.

Wukong obediently recited the Three Refuges and Five Precepts, and hoped Tripitaka didn’t notice the way he was shivering under his hand. Way too many feelings today.

His Master finally took his hand away from Wukong’s head—he bit back a noise of protest—and smiled earnestly at him. “Welcome to your new life, Pilgrim Sun,” he said. “I’m glad to have you.”

Well—fuck. And he'd been holding it together so well.

Wukong half-fell forward, clutching at the monk’s robes to hide his suddenly overflowing eyes.

Tripitaka only hesitated once this time before wrapping his arms around Wukong’s shoulders.

Gods, that felt so good. Half-painful prickles of awareness rushed over his skin and snagged in his throat. Wukong couldn’t make himself move to hug back properly, so he just stood there pressed up against Tripitaka and shaking. 

Poor guy was all grimy and sweaty from mountain climbing. Still nowhere near as gross as Wukong. He should step back. He should pull himself together. He wanted this monk to like him—he was sort of shocked at how intensely he wanted it.

So he needed to impress him. No more pathetic needy monkey. He'd be friendly and funny and useful. Show off how good he was in a fight—Tripitaka was clearly the nervous sort, but he’d calm right down once he saw Wukong in action and realized that he was safe now.

Wukong stepped back, pulling on his very best human smile.

“I promise,” he told his new Master, “you won’t regret it for a second.”