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hey, only three weeks this time - Diary of a Necromancer
Excuse me, I'm making perfect sense, you're just not keeping up
hey, only three weeks this time
So far out of Muse's proposals for the cotton-candy bingo fics three of them involve World War II and another is a post-crash dark-future AU. FLUFF: UR DOIN IT RONG.


Jason's looking surprisingly dapper for a random evening, dreads bound back at the nape of his neck with a red ribbon. "Lucia's Day thing over at the chapel at Mom's school," he explains himself, and then adds, diffidently, "if you're not gonna explode or anything you could come?"

Considering that Jason had once summarised to me the faith he was brought up in with nice guy, weird friends I'm a bit surprised he can be arsed to turn up at a service. But then he mentions the pot-luck after with that little shudder that I've come to know by now is at the thought of a basementful of people being forced to eat dodgy potato-salad without him to help them, and I think I can see where his real motivations lie. As usual.

And if he put cranberries instead of raisins in the lussebullar he made for his mother to bring to the party, one assumes half the room will be too smashed on glogg to care.

It's odd, how we live our lives under a round of half-understood rumours and superstitious extrapolations. As we push into the vestibule Jason is eyeing me as if he's waiting to catch me if I go down, or possibly to grab a fire-extinguisher. "I should have realized you didn't have a problem with churches and stuff that time I came in and you were talking to those missionaries," he says, as if he's only now putting all of this together.

I've known those who've believed ill of faith with a strength to do themselves mischief, but my conscience on this, at least, is clear. "They looked hot," I say. (I'd given them lemonade and a lecture of my own, and sent them on their way looking distinctly unsettled. Our landlady has seemed as pleased as she ever does seem that no-one's come round the building proselytising since.)

Beneath festive decoration the chapel is all austere blond wood and blue upholsteries. We find two seats near Jason's mother, who's wearing a nametag says Dr. Susan Olafsen -- "We got tired of asking 'which Professor Turner?' when students called," Jason explains. Perhaps not surprising that Susan's without her husband, I reckon Michael's begged off this excess of sombre Lutheranism for something livelier, or more likely the football, given that these aren't his students to have to put in time with. I'm not sure I can fault him for his absence; the procession of candle-bearing children is all right, but I'm finding it hard not to scowl as the minister bangs on.

Bloody typical, always filling up what should be silences with too much talking to hear.

But it's not a tradition where saying as much would be appropriate, so I bear patient witness until I can escape to where the nibbles have been set up. I'd forgot how strict this uni is about forbidding alcohol on its campus. "It's still grapes," Jason says, pulling a face of distaste at the punchbowl of mulled juice.

Marianne had carried on drinking wine with abandon all the rest of her life, but then I do think Marianne would rather have died than forgo the patriotic pleasure of a good Burgundy. Jason's looking up ideas for spicing akvavit on his mobile when Susan drifts past, deep in conversation with a colleague, and pauses to give her son a one-armed hug; Yeah, this is one of them, isn't he huge now -- his roommate? oh, yeah, we knew they'd all moved out when there weren't any dinosaurs in the Nativity scene in the morning... When she moves on it's much to Jason's visible relief. "It's so weird when people remember you when you were crawling around on your Mom's office floor in diapers," he says.

There's a package on the front stairs when we get home. It's addressed to my given name, in-care-of Jason's rarely-used hyphenation; it must be from his mother's family. "I know presents aren't really your thing," Jason says, hint of apology in his eyes. "But she's ninety, it's about all she can do anymore."

Inside a gaudy inner paper is a pair of mittens to match Jason's. They fit perfectly. Whatever he says, Jason must have had a paw in this, to sketch out my size for her on his own hands if nothing else.

I'll have to remember to write her a thank-you note.


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ashnistrike From: ashnistrike Date: November 6th, 2012 03:40 am (UTC) (permalink this entry)
Yay ... and aww ... and yay! (And, Marianne? Hmmm.)

robling_t From: robling_t Date: November 9th, 2012 05:47 am (UTC) (permalink this entry)
Now, what someone who apparently comes up in the same thought as the modern werewolves' issue with grapes was doing at the vampire orgy...? ;)
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