(no subject)
So I guess what's going to happen here is that I'm going to keep writing random things until my plot turns up. Normally when I do that I just delete them and write over it because it feels pointless to bother posting stuff that's, you know, pointless and plotless and all (except that's everything I write...so short is what I'm saying? idk, look, over there's it's something interesting!). It's Thanksgiving week, though, so I guess these are a little thanks for y'all being awesome all the time.
People are sick here, so I'm making chicken and wild rice soup and noodling around on this story as I do. I do know where I want the real story to go, but it's been so long since I read the books I'm having to do "research" which bums me out as I'm lazy as HELL.
I guess I need a tag. Life, she is hard.
18th December
Americans do things differently. That's as true in the magical community as it is in the muggle one. They're far more traditional, for one.
"I can't believe you celebrate Christmas," Arthur snarls when Eames breaks out the eggnog. He doesn't decline the drink, however.
When Eames transforms a woeful looking cactus the previous inhabitants of the warehouse had left into mistletoe, he feels exultant, because Arthur can't object on religious grounds. Arthur simply shakes his head and smiles in his tilted, ancient way.
"You can call it Yule and feel morally superior if you like," Eames pins the mistletoe to a chandelier he charms in thin air.
"Could you please stop doing things like that?" Arthur undoes Eames's work with a wave of his pen. The smiles's gone, replaced with the mew of distaste Eames associates with transgressing one of Arthur's innumerable rules.
Eames always has had a thing for the uptight ones. The eggnog has too much nutmeg and not enough rum.
*
Oimelc
Americans step in and out of the muggle world with ease. They're raised to integrate, to blend in plain sight. They don't draw attention to themselves by being too far removed from the mundane world of electricity and polio vaccines. Americans wear the Burning Times on their skin, raised to remember, to mourn, and to know thy enemy. They blend into society in a way that isn't true in Britain, a wolf in sheep's clothing approach, Eames thinks.
Arthur keeps the old holidays like secular Christians do Christmas. He measures the magical calendar from Halloween in the old fashioned cyclical way, on a base thirteen, a custom that's totally fallen away in Britain where there is only the muggle calendar these days. Eames finds this enthralling and delightful.
"Would it be possible for me to come round to yours and see your hearth fire, Arthur, darling?" The snow's falling fat and wet outside the window of the flat they're using as an operational base. February is dire. Eames is bundled up in a threadbare cable jumper and wool trousers, his fingertips cold in his pockets as he lounges at his desk. Arthur's in a camel cashmere sweater and tan and maroon checked slacks.
"Absolutely not." Arthur taps at the screen of his tablet.
"Think of me as an anthropologist, my dear. I simply want to witness your tribal customs." Eames plucks at his bottom lip to prevent the smile he feels bubbling up.
"Have you never even heard of discretion?" Arthur hisses and looks towards the door.
"That's what obliviate is for, Arthur, do they teach you yanks nothing?" Eames is actually the soul of discretion, which Arthur knows perfectly well. He has the property charmed so that the snitch in his pocket would wake if someone broached the edge of it. The importance of security is woven into his weft in a way that only happens when you live through war. Eames has survived more than one war now, and he plans to survive any and all future wars it's his ill luck to stumble into.
Arthur regards him with a genuine expression, his eyes half-lidded and chin tucked down. "They teach us to avoid the need for obliviate instead of ways to get away with using it."
"If only life was as neat and tidy as your kitchen." Sometimes their conversations turn serious too swiftly for Eames to deflect.
"There's a stack of dishes in my sink right now, actually," Arthur rolls his eyes and returns to whatever painstakingly detailed task he's whipping into order.
Eames turns to watch the snow fall. He pulls his lighter out of his pocket and flicks the flame to life.
*
People are sick here, so I'm making chicken and wild rice soup and noodling around on this story as I do. I do know where I want the real story to go, but it's been so long since I read the books I'm having to do "research" which bums me out as I'm lazy as HELL.
I guess I need a tag. Life, she is hard.
18th December
Americans do things differently. That's as true in the magical community as it is in the muggle one. They're far more traditional, for one.
"I can't believe you celebrate Christmas," Arthur snarls when Eames breaks out the eggnog. He doesn't decline the drink, however.
When Eames transforms a woeful looking cactus the previous inhabitants of the warehouse had left into mistletoe, he feels exultant, because Arthur can't object on religious grounds. Arthur simply shakes his head and smiles in his tilted, ancient way.
"You can call it Yule and feel morally superior if you like," Eames pins the mistletoe to a chandelier he charms in thin air.
"Could you please stop doing things like that?" Arthur undoes Eames's work with a wave of his pen. The smiles's gone, replaced with the mew of distaste Eames associates with transgressing one of Arthur's innumerable rules.
Eames always has had a thing for the uptight ones. The eggnog has too much nutmeg and not enough rum.
*
Oimelc
Americans step in and out of the muggle world with ease. They're raised to integrate, to blend in plain sight. They don't draw attention to themselves by being too far removed from the mundane world of electricity and polio vaccines. Americans wear the Burning Times on their skin, raised to remember, to mourn, and to know thy enemy. They blend into society in a way that isn't true in Britain, a wolf in sheep's clothing approach, Eames thinks.
Arthur keeps the old holidays like secular Christians do Christmas. He measures the magical calendar from Halloween in the old fashioned cyclical way, on a base thirteen, a custom that's totally fallen away in Britain where there is only the muggle calendar these days. Eames finds this enthralling and delightful.
"Would it be possible for me to come round to yours and see your hearth fire, Arthur, darling?" The snow's falling fat and wet outside the window of the flat they're using as an operational base. February is dire. Eames is bundled up in a threadbare cable jumper and wool trousers, his fingertips cold in his pockets as he lounges at his desk. Arthur's in a camel cashmere sweater and tan and maroon checked slacks.
"Absolutely not." Arthur taps at the screen of his tablet.
"Think of me as an anthropologist, my dear. I simply want to witness your tribal customs." Eames plucks at his bottom lip to prevent the smile he feels bubbling up.
"Have you never even heard of discretion?" Arthur hisses and looks towards the door.
"That's what obliviate is for, Arthur, do they teach you yanks nothing?" Eames is actually the soul of discretion, which Arthur knows perfectly well. He has the property charmed so that the snitch in his pocket would wake if someone broached the edge of it. The importance of security is woven into his weft in a way that only happens when you live through war. Eames has survived more than one war now, and he plans to survive any and all future wars it's his ill luck to stumble into.
Arthur regards him with a genuine expression, his eyes half-lidded and chin tucked down. "They teach us to avoid the need for obliviate instead of ways to get away with using it."
"If only life was as neat and tidy as your kitchen." Sometimes their conversations turn serious too swiftly for Eames to deflect.
"There's a stack of dishes in my sink right now, actually," Arthur rolls his eyes and returns to whatever painstakingly detailed task he's whipping into order.
Eames turns to watch the snow fall. He pulls his lighter out of his pocket and flicks the flame to life.
*