(no subject)
Title: The Social Etiquette of Lycanthropy
Summary: To Remus Provence was a place of peace.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Relatively unbetaed. I just needed to flush everything out.
The Social Etiquette of Lycanthropy
It was heady, almost like wine, he sniffed-that was one of the benefits of his, what Marie called, “his little problem”, he could taste the scent of her tomato soup, a hazy rust orange drifting out of the kitchen’s open window. In the corner of the courtyard was the old chair he’d been meaning to paint for several summers, now faded from its original disgusting turquoise to an insipid baby blue. Then there was the faintly sweet smell of this morning’s breakfast French toast, which lay abandoned next to his useless typewriter. Remus sighed, the only thing, he reflected worse than a writer without words was a dancer without feet. And even then they could wave their arms about in a sort of rhythmic way, couldn’t they?
He stopped a moment at the gate, which swung open to his light touch. Getting down on his knees he peered under the hedge. “Hey there beautiful” He murmured to the black and white cat cowering in the shadows. He offered his hand and she retreated farther back into the bramble.
He looked at his coat ruefully; there were still long dusk brown hairs on it. “Smelling the big old nasty dog on me?” He asked sadly, “It’s alright, it’s me, really…no mean old dogs around here,” He cooed soothingly, sticking his head down on the ground, on level with hers. She mewed gently, moving forward, rubbing against his hand. The odd thing was that the only dogs near their tiny honey-suckled cottage were a pair of old floppy eared things with long pink tongues that hung out as if their owners were terminally dying for a drink.
The cat looked up at him with imploring mud-brown eyes, he grinned at her, “Hungry are you? Has old Aunt Marie forgotten to feed you then?”
Marie’s voice echoed from inside the cottage, a faintly French accent dulled by years abroad, but still with a sharp biting quality, “I heard that”
“Well Sister mine, we all know you were hardened by the ruts and bumps on your life’s path. No one’s blaming you for becoming a cruel inhumane spinster”
“Who’s fault was that?” She called out dryly. “Don’t ask me, I wasn’t the one born from an egg.” Remus yelled back, shaking his head amusedly at the cat. “Mystery agrees with me, doesn’t she?”
“You do realize that cat used to be perfectly house-trained before you came along”
“I’ve shown it the beauty of a life in the wilds, how could any cat raised on Meow-Mix resist?”
“Cat corruptor!” She called back, shaking a rolling pin at him playfully. “One of many official titles I’ve held over the years, including Blackboard Monitor”
“Old fogey”
“You youngsters will never understand the intricacies of such patient processes as the waltz”
“Helene told me you stepped on her feet three times at the dance last month”
“Exactly. Once to establish it, once to repeat it, and once to alleviate the dulling and suppressive atmosphere. Plus, a bad dancer always gets twice the cider. A sort of conciliation prize if you will ”
“Well go step on Jean’s feet, we need milk, that silly cat of yours.”
“What’s mine is yours, my dear”
“Well in that case you can be the one to clear out her litter basket”
“God forbid I should ever appear henpecked” Remus said with a shrug dusting off his knees.
“I heard that!”
“Just leaving” He shouted back, and was half way down the road, whistling cheerfully, before she could warn him to a put on a muffler.
Life in the tiny town of Luxe suited Remus, he suspected that he’d been cut out for the country life. Many of his friends would have been appalled if they’d known where he was, they who spent there lives in what was vaguely termed as high society; spending their time drifting from one club to another. The country wasn’t anything like the dull place full of sheep and pigs as city folk imagined.
It was the people. It sounded rather idiotic to say it, but they were characters, no airs, no graces so they didn’t all put one in mind of a strangled pig in a ruff.
Remus strolled down the Mainstreet of the town. Luxe wasn’t a terribly large town, but it was famous for the Toy Making Festival that was held there each year. Already in midsummer as the fields slowly fried to a crisp golden there were posters for Le Festivale du Toy Making everywhere.
He raised his hat to Mme Dupont, who waved a long bony hand ensconced in a long lilac glove. In her youth, of which the supposed ages contrasted vastly, she had been the town beauty. Indeed, she had lived in Hollywood for several years and starred in a few minor motion pictures, usually as a French maid; her French career had been rather much more impressive. She twinkled at him grinning, cheeks red with roughe meeting in large apple cheeks, the fuschia feather in her own hat waving in the cool morning breeze.
“Bonjour Mr. Lee” She called out in her deep throaty voice. “Bonjour” He called back, 2 years and this was the only French he could manage without sounding like he had a ferret in his throat. “You must come and see my garden” she insisted, popping her head round the door of Le boulangerie. “It would be an honor Mme.” He said gravely.
She smiled broadly, showing an excellent pair of pearly whites, and disappeared inside the floury scented boulangerie with vague sentiments of goodwill towards Marie.
Remus hesitated for a moment scratching the bridge of his nose, basket swinging against his side, “Wait a moment Mme” He said hurrying quickly across the cobblestoned street. “Yes my dear?” “Would you happen to know if M. Charleston is in?” Her delicately plucked eyebrows raised.
“Why?” She asked with an air of marked curiousity he’d come to expect from the French. He responded quickly with an “Oh. Just thought I’d pop in and see how he was doing”
“He is in croix buying grain for his chickens” She said giving him a suspicious look, red painted lips opened to ask another question; but Remus had already bent a hasty retreat.
Charleston’s Chicken farm was at the edge of the town; at the bink of the rolling mass of greenery known as le foret.
Looking quickly around him, there wasn’t a soul in sight on this misty morning, he turned up the dusty path that wound its way towards the red farm house.
Charleston was known far and wide for having the most succulent chickens on the coast. Remus licked his lips in memory of some very happy, very sticky meals. There was a sign over the doorstep to the chickenerie.
Une Poulet-35F
Deux Poulet-55F
Trois et Quatre-Vingt pour Poulet
Une Douzen D’oufs-10F
He hardly needed to look at the sign, the numbers ingrained into his head, his hands reached into a pocket and withdrew a cream colored envelope, flicking off the brown-orange tinged hair on it, too course to be a humans, and withdrew the 55 francs that were neatly folded inside. He smoothed out the creases with a thumb; placed them under a rock on the doorstep and then walked away as fast he could before someone spotted him.
Summary: To Remus Provence was a place of peace.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Relatively unbetaed. I just needed to flush everything out.
The Social Etiquette of Lycanthropy
It was heady, almost like wine, he sniffed-that was one of the benefits of his, what Marie called, “his little problem”, he could taste the scent of her tomato soup, a hazy rust orange drifting out of the kitchen’s open window. In the corner of the courtyard was the old chair he’d been meaning to paint for several summers, now faded from its original disgusting turquoise to an insipid baby blue. Then there was the faintly sweet smell of this morning’s breakfast French toast, which lay abandoned next to his useless typewriter. Remus sighed, the only thing, he reflected worse than a writer without words was a dancer without feet. And even then they could wave their arms about in a sort of rhythmic way, couldn’t they?
He stopped a moment at the gate, which swung open to his light touch. Getting down on his knees he peered under the hedge. “Hey there beautiful” He murmured to the black and white cat cowering in the shadows. He offered his hand and she retreated farther back into the bramble.
He looked at his coat ruefully; there were still long dusk brown hairs on it. “Smelling the big old nasty dog on me?” He asked sadly, “It’s alright, it’s me, really…no mean old dogs around here,” He cooed soothingly, sticking his head down on the ground, on level with hers. She mewed gently, moving forward, rubbing against his hand. The odd thing was that the only dogs near their tiny honey-suckled cottage were a pair of old floppy eared things with long pink tongues that hung out as if their owners were terminally dying for a drink.
The cat looked up at him with imploring mud-brown eyes, he grinned at her, “Hungry are you? Has old Aunt Marie forgotten to feed you then?”
Marie’s voice echoed from inside the cottage, a faintly French accent dulled by years abroad, but still with a sharp biting quality, “I heard that”
“Well Sister mine, we all know you were hardened by the ruts and bumps on your life’s path. No one’s blaming you for becoming a cruel inhumane spinster”
“Who’s fault was that?” She called out dryly. “Don’t ask me, I wasn’t the one born from an egg.” Remus yelled back, shaking his head amusedly at the cat. “Mystery agrees with me, doesn’t she?”
“You do realize that cat used to be perfectly house-trained before you came along”
“I’ve shown it the beauty of a life in the wilds, how could any cat raised on Meow-Mix resist?”
“Cat corruptor!” She called back, shaking a rolling pin at him playfully. “One of many official titles I’ve held over the years, including Blackboard Monitor”
“Old fogey”
“You youngsters will never understand the intricacies of such patient processes as the waltz”
“Helene told me you stepped on her feet three times at the dance last month”
“Exactly. Once to establish it, once to repeat it, and once to alleviate the dulling and suppressive atmosphere. Plus, a bad dancer always gets twice the cider. A sort of conciliation prize if you will ”
“Well go step on Jean’s feet, we need milk, that silly cat of yours.”
“What’s mine is yours, my dear”
“Well in that case you can be the one to clear out her litter basket”
“God forbid I should ever appear henpecked” Remus said with a shrug dusting off his knees.
“I heard that!”
“Just leaving” He shouted back, and was half way down the road, whistling cheerfully, before she could warn him to a put on a muffler.
Life in the tiny town of Luxe suited Remus, he suspected that he’d been cut out for the country life. Many of his friends would have been appalled if they’d known where he was, they who spent there lives in what was vaguely termed as high society; spending their time drifting from one club to another. The country wasn’t anything like the dull place full of sheep and pigs as city folk imagined.
It was the people. It sounded rather idiotic to say it, but they were characters, no airs, no graces so they didn’t all put one in mind of a strangled pig in a ruff.
Remus strolled down the Mainstreet of the town. Luxe wasn’t a terribly large town, but it was famous for the Toy Making Festival that was held there each year. Already in midsummer as the fields slowly fried to a crisp golden there were posters for Le Festivale du Toy Making everywhere.
He raised his hat to Mme Dupont, who waved a long bony hand ensconced in a long lilac glove. In her youth, of which the supposed ages contrasted vastly, she had been the town beauty. Indeed, she had lived in Hollywood for several years and starred in a few minor motion pictures, usually as a French maid; her French career had been rather much more impressive. She twinkled at him grinning, cheeks red with roughe meeting in large apple cheeks, the fuschia feather in her own hat waving in the cool morning breeze.
“Bonjour Mr. Lee” She called out in her deep throaty voice. “Bonjour” He called back, 2 years and this was the only French he could manage without sounding like he had a ferret in his throat. “You must come and see my garden” she insisted, popping her head round the door of Le boulangerie. “It would be an honor Mme.” He said gravely.
She smiled broadly, showing an excellent pair of pearly whites, and disappeared inside the floury scented boulangerie with vague sentiments of goodwill towards Marie.
Remus hesitated for a moment scratching the bridge of his nose, basket swinging against his side, “Wait a moment Mme” He said hurrying quickly across the cobblestoned street. “Yes my dear?” “Would you happen to know if M. Charleston is in?” Her delicately plucked eyebrows raised.
“Why?” She asked with an air of marked curiousity he’d come to expect from the French. He responded quickly with an “Oh. Just thought I’d pop in and see how he was doing”
“He is in croix buying grain for his chickens” She said giving him a suspicious look, red painted lips opened to ask another question; but Remus had already bent a hasty retreat.
Charleston’s Chicken farm was at the edge of the town; at the bink of the rolling mass of greenery known as le foret.
Looking quickly around him, there wasn’t a soul in sight on this misty morning, he turned up the dusty path that wound its way towards the red farm house.
Charleston was known far and wide for having the most succulent chickens on the coast. Remus licked his lips in memory of some very happy, very sticky meals. There was a sign over the doorstep to the chickenerie.
Une Poulet-35F
Deux Poulet-55F
Trois et Quatre-Vingt pour Poulet
Une Douzen D’oufs-10F
He hardly needed to look at the sign, the numbers ingrained into his head, his hands reached into a pocket and withdrew a cream colored envelope, flicking off the brown-orange tinged hair on it, too course to be a humans, and withdrew the 55 francs that were neatly folded inside. He smoothed out the creases with a thumb; placed them under a rock on the doorstep and then walked away as fast he could before someone spotted him.