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now with bonus Unexpected Naked Trevor! - Diary of a Necromancer
Excuse me, I'm making perfect sense, you're just not keeping up
now with bonus Unexpected Naked Trevor!
Still haven't started that post for crowdfunding... because Muse got it into her head to finish up another installment of the crowdfunded project first. (Which was possible mainly because she decided that some material she'd been proposing as part of this installment, was actually more appropriate to another character's POV altogether... {shrug} I don't explains 'em, I just chases 'em around the room trying to get good enough pictures for blackmail later.) So I suppose now I should go write that post, yeah...


It's dark when I rouse -- I revise still to again when Jason speaks from beside the bed: "Hey."

He's sitting on the floor with a laptop, looks as if he's been camping out for some while. "What day is it?" I whisper through a parched throat.

Jason gives me a you've done this before look as he passes me his bottle of water, but answers, "Thursday. Somebody named Anton called me yesterday, I could barely understand him but I think you were supposed to meet him for lunch?"

He and Max must have been frantic, to resort to ringing my flatmate. (I had been lying unconscious in hospital, the once, some protest gone sour, Max asking at Casualty after Casualty until one admitted to harbouring an unidentified male answering to the description. I've never asked what favours he needed to call in to have me out of there.) When Jason hands me my mobile it shows many missed calls and a series of increasingly alarmed texts in Polish, the most recent of which I take a moment to answer: da iawn, diolch. Which doesn't exactly mean what it says, as such, but Max will be able to work out the rest. That at least no one else would have given that response.

I don't recall much from the past few torpid days and nights. Murmured voices of the householders come to check in on the battered refugee in their spare-room, and once a stab of light, pupils responsive -- sorry mate --

And blood. Just a taste, just a trace, just enough to bolster the knitting of grievously abused flesh. I picture them deducing this between themselves, some poor rodent from David's practice smuggled home surreptitiously to a stranger fate than being a python's tea. Jason's eyes lock onto the bruises on my chest as I sit up; "So, another thing that's 'bollocks', then."

It's a prerequisite, but not in itself the fatal act. Day to day we're in more danger from ourselves, from bad blood and faulty mains and all the other little hazards of modern circumstance. "If you think I'm telling you how to be rid of me, you can get stuffed," I say, and he grins.

"Nah, the rent's due anyhow." A noticeable pause. "That still has to hurt like hell, though."

I have to think about this. "I wouldn't describe it as pain, exactly," I say. I'm hurting now, deep aches that don't bear examining all up under my ribcage, but the dazzled urgency of a sensation beyond human experience is difficult to recall in any way that makes meaning of it, simply the reduction of the entire world to a few bright certainties. Chief among them that urge to shed blood for blood.

Jason looks down into his lap, here, running a finger along the seam of the computer's closed lid. "I suck at the whole big bad wolf thing. I just stood there watching you get mugged."

"Thank you for not doing something rash," I say.

I think he might be blushing. "Don't know what I could have done anyway. I haven't been in a fight since the time I punched Bobby Movelli for calling me a doodyhead. You can guess how long ago that was."

Which is exactly as it should be, whatever else that Jason may be he's a grown man who's perfectly capable of setting aside the petty desire to hurt back. When I move to turn back the blanket he hands me fresh clothes, of my own, and I wonder if he's left my side after all, for all of it, or if he sent his sister over to ours to find something for me. I'm trying to recall what state we left the flat in when we walked out that evening, when Jason says, "You're gonna need to talk to David. He's used to his patients biting him, but... y'know." He makes a confused gesture that seems meant to encompass either the present company or half this side of the city. "Not us."


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ashnistrike From: ashnistrike Date: July 21st, 2011 03:01 am (UTC) (permalink this entry)
Oh, my... Did I miss one of these while I lacked connectivity? (If so, this one's perfectly comprehensible on its own anyhow.)

robling_t From: robling_t Date: July 21st, 2011 08:47 am (UTC) (permalink this entry)
Um, yeah, that'd be the one from Thursday. (Interesting that it reads all right even so!) Kind of why I started adding the opening lines to the cut-texts, 'cos I lost my place while I was working up the DW version...

(Are you guys back from walkabout, then? I think I've only got a couple of days clear for the rest of the month, actually... :( )
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