Log in

No account? Create an account
they don't believe in this love of ours - Diary of a Necromancer
Excuse me, I'm making perfect sense, you're just not keeping up
they don't believe in this love of ours
...And Muse has turned up to work again not even a week later, perhaps having had the wind put up her by the fright of having her pile of hardcopies on the counter in the kitchen ruined by Something Going Wrong Upstairs Again (I have learned to go look right now when I think I hear something dripping where it shouldn't, and managed to prevent an incident on the scale of the previous two, but it's just as well I don't have wifi to tempt me to leave, say, Sensitive Electronics Named George in that convenient workspace, rather than easily-replaced paper). Indications are also good for an increased production schedule for the next few installments, not least because I have to do something to distract Inner Trevor from sulking his way through series 2 of Downton Abbey on PBS...

(Thoughts, BTW, particularly appreciated RE Muse having rather gone to town with the tenses and timeframes in this bit, given that it's something of a departure from the immediacy of Trevor's usual narrative stream?)


Which isn't to say there isn't occasionally friction. Shot through the heart, and you're to blame, you give love... I smack the door of the bath with the flat of my hand, and Jason calls back that he'll be out in a few.

It puts me in mind of adjustments made in those first days, the moment-to-moment realities of adapting one's routines to those of someone whom one has only recently met. You sing in the bath as well? I'd said the first time it dawned on me that Jason's vocal exercises in the kitchen were but one part of a much larger whole.

"Well, yeah, I mean, if you've got it. Thought you'd be musical. You know, Bono, the Pogues?"

"That's the wrong bloody island. You want to be thinking of Tom Jones."

He frowned: "Maybe if I knew who he was."

Jason was barely twenty then. That was the third time that day I'd needed to remind myself of that. I tried a few measures of 'It's Not Unusual', and when he still looked blank I cast about and reckoned that he'd have seen The Full Monty. "'You can leave your hat on'..."

"You have a good voice," Jason said. "-- Is that part of the 'Charm Person' thing like the Puss-In-Boots trick?"

I shook my head; "More like a few thousand years of selective breeding for mine choirs. It's hard not to pick up --"

And there I'd stopped, because I could see that he'd fetched up against the very idea of having a history of such a span, or one that was in generally acknowledged currency at any rate. I would come to recognise that Jason shares his young country's tendency to assign anything that happened much longer ago than his own adolescence to some nebulous not-now where hippies on dinosaurs hunted Romans with a bow-and-arrow. (Possibly led by Robin Hood. He's better-educated than many, for that, but it's just not his field.) We're to have many more such conversations, these fumbling attempts to interpret in an idiom that he'll grasp: Well, if you'd said Duffy in the first place.

Now Jason emerges from the bath in a cloud of steam, blotting his dreads with a towel. "I know what you're going to say and if you see my bathrobe anywhere I'd like to hear about it, huh?"

Over the time I've known him Jason has filled out into the sort of man who'd be reasonably fit at half again what I weigh, but it still hasn't got to be any more of a sight that I'm interested in watching wander about the flat in the altogether. "Bloody hell, you couldn't get another towel?"

Jason gives me a look as if to say that in his mind he's acting perfectly reasonably, but condescends to knot the one he's holding round his waist. "Like you've never seen my junk."

"When you've got fur on." (And there's another thing that's bollocks: he's no hairier than anyone, somewhat less in fact.)

"I always thought Europeans were supposed to be so laid back about it." He's grinning as he slopes off for his bedroom. And adds in a parting shot, just as I'm closing the door to the bath behind myself: "Oh, we're out of shampoo."

(Jason's dressing-gown will turn up a week later, down the back of the settee in the lounge where he must have sloughed it off in a somnambulant fit. He claims to have no recall of this, or of his promises to keep better abreast of the housekeeping. Of course, I hadn't spotted it before then either.)


4 responses | moved to respond?
morgynleri_fic From: morgynleri_fic Date: January 18th, 2012 05:02 am (UTC) (permalink this entry)
I really should comment on more of these as they're posted, since I tend to pounce on them and read them as soon as I see them. This one works pretty well - I had no trouble following where it was going, certainly, and the changes of tense didn't jolt me out of things.
robling_t From: robling_t Date: January 19th, 2012 11:52 am (UTC) (permalink this entry)
Comments do make Muse happy, or at least less inclined to go around my house breaking random things "just to see what would happen"... ;)
ashnistrike From: ashnistrike Date: January 19th, 2012 01:59 am (UTC) (permalink this entry)
The tenses are fine. Trevor being body-concious is seriously amusing. (And his charactorization of American historical knowledge is more apt than one would prefer to acknowledge.)

I'm not sure about that opening sentance-fragment, but I'd have to see it back-to-back with the previous bit to be sure.

robling_t From: robling_t Date: January 19th, 2012 11:49 am (UTC) (permalink this entry)
There are definitely places in posting this where Trevor has basically just stopped for breath between two halves of the same general thought, yeah (the break between 11/12 also comes to mind) -- it'd be interesting to see how some of these would shake out as scene or chapter breaks later on in a compilation...

And he's certainly been here long enough to have become very aware of the truths behind the old "30 miles/30 years" joke... :)
4 responses | moved to respond?