a tiny piece of the tombstone
so my hard drive is literally a graveyard of fics that will never be finished / see the light of day.
(uhh, fandoms include The Silmarillion and NaPolA. oh god, that massive NaPolA fic...can you believe i'd been working on that for over three years? yeah. and it's only 8,000+ words. jesus christ. and i never told owls-in-winter this, but her NaPolA stories caused me to fall in love with writing, again. and dawn-felagund for Silmarillion like you've never seen it before. they're so...so, i can't even say hi.)
anyway, it's spring-cleaning time.
so, here. have this tiny scoop of A/E, because god knows if/when i'll go back to writing those two.
out of my hard drive, damned spot.
i think the original prompt involved the giving of unsuitable gifts.
i know, i know. i'm Pavlovian!
"What is going on?"
Eames's query goes unanswered, as he stares at what looks like a brand-new dehumidifier.
(A glance at the accompanying instruction manual confirms this.)
"Is the humidity rising here? Is that what Arthur's trying to tell me?"
The appliance remains silent and unmoved.
"This is baffling."
+
"This is absurd."
"Of course I knew what you were doing."
"But you don't use them. I specifically bought them because you didn't have any of them."
"I do! At home." Belated catch. "Wait. You catalogue my things?"
"What home." Arthur conveniently brushes aside Eames's question.
"My lakeside cabin." The look of suspicion - if anything - intensifies.
"You hate water." He says this with conviction.
"Assumption. When I say I hate the beach, I mean I hate seeing nearly-naked people." A grimace. "God, I should stop advertising myself as a forger."
"Huh." Looks off to the side. "I don't know anything about you."
"If it makes you feel better, neither does anyone else."
"Really." Disbelief. "Not even your mother."
"She sends me biweekly anti-drug and Religious Society of Friends pamphlets. So, no, not really." Drumming of fingers. "The cataloguing. Let's go back to that."
A huff. "Does it really matter?"
A pointed look. "Yeah, it kind of does."
Arthur bites the inside of his cheek and mumbles.
"What was that?"
"I break into your safehouses, okay?" he shouts defensively.
"Uh, not okay. And I'm getting new safehouses after this discussion is over. But first things first. Why?"
"I don't owe you any explanations. Figure it out yourself!" The door slams after him.
"Am I missing something?" Eames has never felt less like the best forger in the business. He looks at the ceiling. "I need to find sane people to spend my free time with."
(uhh, fandoms include The Silmarillion and NaPolA. oh god, that massive NaPolA fic...can you believe i'd been working on that for over three years? yeah. and it's only 8,000+ words. jesus christ. and i never told owls-in-winter this, but her NaPolA stories caused me to fall in love with writing, again. and dawn-felagund for Silmarillion like you've never seen it before. they're so...so, i can't even say hi.)
anyway, it's spring-cleaning time.
so, here. have this tiny scoop of A/E, because god knows if/when i'll go back to writing those two.
out of my hard drive, damned spot.
i think the original prompt involved the giving of unsuitable gifts.
i know, i know. i'm Pavlovian!
"What is going on?"
Eames's query goes unanswered, as he stares at what looks like a brand-new dehumidifier.
(A glance at the accompanying instruction manual confirms this.)
"Is the humidity rising here? Is that what Arthur's trying to tell me?"
The appliance remains silent and unmoved.
"This is baffling."
+
"This is absurd."
"Of course I knew what you were doing."
"But you don't use them. I specifically bought them because you didn't have any of them."
"I do! At home." Belated catch. "Wait. You catalogue my things?"
"What home." Arthur conveniently brushes aside Eames's question.
"My lakeside cabin." The look of suspicion - if anything - intensifies.
"You hate water." He says this with conviction.
"Assumption. When I say I hate the beach, I mean I hate seeing nearly-naked people." A grimace. "God, I should stop advertising myself as a forger."
"Huh." Looks off to the side. "I don't know anything about you."
"If it makes you feel better, neither does anyone else."
"Really." Disbelief. "Not even your mother."
"She sends me biweekly anti-drug and Religious Society of Friends pamphlets. So, no, not really." Drumming of fingers. "The cataloguing. Let's go back to that."
A huff. "Does it really matter?"
A pointed look. "Yeah, it kind of does."
Arthur bites the inside of his cheek and mumbles.
"What was that?"
"I break into your safehouses, okay?" he shouts defensively.
"Uh, not okay. And I'm getting new safehouses after this discussion is over. But first things first. Why?"
"I don't owe you any explanations. Figure it out yourself!" The door slams after him.
"Am I missing something?" Eames has never felt less like the best forger in the business. He looks at the ceiling. "I need to find sane people to spend my free time with."