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On teeth, the pulling of to get Muse to show up for work sometimes. - Diary of a Necromancer
Excuse me, I'm making perfect sense, you're just not keeping up
On teeth, the pulling of to get Muse to show up for work sometimes.
...Um, yeah, not entirely sure what happened there. Or whether, after all of that, this scene is even in the right order within the story, I suspect Muse may have got her index-cards shuffled when I let her get into the DayQuil a couple of weeks ago. Annnyway. In the interim, meeksp did a tidied-up version of her sketch, and Jason is pleased to have his dreads back:


Jason has appointed himself to design the catering for Sandra's wedding, whether she likes it or not. "She's my sister. If she wants fucking ortolans I'll find a guy."

"Language," Susan says.

Without missing a beat Jason repeats his remark in Swedish, obscenity and all. Of his siblings he appears to have kept up the most fluency, I suspect so that his mother can have someone to converse with outside of her academic circle or the grandmother back in Minnesota who prefers not to use English if she can help it. (Button-Down and Sandra had chosen instead to exert their linguistic efforts toward getting the memegwesi who liked to hang about under the footbridge to teach them how to tell people to piss off in half a dozen Algonquian languages. After all, it wasn't exactly as if Susan could disapprove.)

Perhaps not surprising that Jason returns to the ancestral den so often. The bungalow is overflowing with photographs -- dandelion puff of a blond afro front and centre in stiff school groupings here; over there the children are dressed as cartoon cats for Hallowe'en, possibly the first and last time that Button-Down had ever worn anything so casual as a red ball-cap. Even, scattered between the rest, a few glimpses of an unusually large dog watching over three shaggy-coated pups. Susan and Michael plainly love their offspring unreservedly, determined that all their lives should be as normal as anyone's despite whatever irregularities the family may need to work through.

(Whatever normal is, for anyone.)

They've switched back to English now for my sake and for Michael's, still debating the specifics of Jason's initial flood of ideas. Sandra's thinking that as many traditions from both families as can be managed should come into the wedding menu, even if that means jerked prawns with lingonberry chutney; I can tell that mother and son are between them at something of a loss as to how this may be received by the Olafsens and Dahls on the guest-list. You know they're going to be expecting all meatballs and bork bork bork, Jason says, in a way that suggests he's not having it.

Tonight's invitation to supper had been more a casual suggestion that this would be where the food was than anything, never a qualm about dropping a guest into a family discussion. Jason's parents move as a well-practised unit in this kitchen, flawless choreography of chopping and fetching that would have taken many years together to work out. The old scars on Susan's right hand flex into different runes as she pulls open a cabinet; "Trevor, hon, could you see if there's another can of chickpeas in the pantry --"

I wave off her embarrassed little smile as she catches up to her words. After all, I look of an age with her son. I go to comply with the request, and when I can attend once more to the flow of conversation Susan is reminiscing about pleasures now forbidden her. I miss chocolate.

Of course the mother of this bride can't even mark the occasion with champagne. (I've had some strange late-night talks with Jason, one very frustrated chef wondering aloud why such bloody commonplaces have to be unfriendly to a were's chemistry.) Susan begins to clear away the expanse of wedding-planning papers scattered in front of Jason on the kitchen table. "And do I hear that Sandra should be putting you down for a plus-one at the reception, Trevor?"

Jason's mouth. My flatmate is sitting with a perfectly innocent expression to match those of his parents, all Susan's eyes and Michael's cheekbones. "Possibly," I allow.

Even Michael is grinning over his pot of chili. "Hope she's gonna look after you better than this one does," he says, with a nod towards his eldest. "You are skinnier than that winjy kitten Ben dragged home."

Jason takes on a supremely martyred look. "I feed him. It just doesn't help."

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morgynleri_fic From: morgynleri_fic Date: May 6th, 2011 04:12 am (UTC) (permalink this entry)
*spins you, and feeds your muse donuts*

Yay for more! Which is all the more coherent I can be after getting home from work to find this waiting for me on my flist.
robling_t From: robling_t Date: May 6th, 2011 06:42 am (UTC) (permalink this entry)
At least the next few shouldn't be as delayed -- I hate it when Muse insists that a certain bit Goes Next and then wanders off to work on other pieces instead...
ashnistrike From: ashnistrike Date: May 14th, 2011 05:31 pm (UTC) (permalink this entry)
That's really adorable. And now I'm contemplating jerk prawns with lingonberry chutney.

robling_t From: robling_t Date: May 14th, 2011 08:26 pm (UTC) (permalink this entry)
And here we see Muse deciding that just making David randomly Australian wasn't enough trouble to get into, she wanted to throw in some Punjabi ancestry to really put a spanner in the works... {sigh} (I mean, it fits with the overall themes of identity and belonging, it's just kind of, "...Um, whut?" so far as actually making sense goes...)
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