Purity personified repost
Selecting the boxes' whole content then copy/pasting that into your new posts will make exact copies. As we said, we'll make a copy of the comment you've already received and repost it on your new part 2 once it's up. Thank you!
Subject line: Professor Leon: Or How He Learned to Stop Worrying and Love His Weapon (ahem) - SPOILER for 4x06
Part 1
AN: I know this is probably not what you had in mind, like at all, and probs quite a bit crap but the idea struck me and I had to scribble it out! I apologize in advance for the shortness/quality.
****
It was late. The museum was empty apart from the solitary cleaner, moping the marbled floor under a flickering half light. The tourist footsteps had faded long ago and so had the researchers and experts. Leon knew that there was a security guard watching footage of the abandoned corridors but there was so little life in the building, he also knew the guard was likely asleep. This was when he enjoyed his job the most. When he was at peace with his collection; when it was private and intimate.
But tonight, Leon felt miles away from the satisfactory hum of research. Tonight a shrill beeping on his phone and a terse, turned down invitation had made him doubt. Tonight Leon was busy rethinking his life choices. It wasn't that he regretted his life. It wasn't that he wasn't happy. But it was that you could only take so many declined pub invitations on a Friday night before people starting hinting, rather strongly in Gwayne's case, that you might need to start reconsidering. Before, as Gwayne put it, you've wasted your entire life with old mouldy bits of wood and no memories to show for it. Leon ran his hands through his hair and leaned back against the plush antique chair in his office. He favoured dark colours, wine reds and heavy dark greens. On the walls various weapons gleamed, each one bolted down with a personal history. When he looked at them he saw an entire population unfold like a picture in the popup books he would read to Elyan's baby sister. The fold of the pommel told of a craftsman, an artist sweating in a dark room. The weight of the weapon told of the politics these weapons upheld; all the countless traditions and rivalries, compromises and rebellions. And the nicks in the blade announced the lives they had ended. Leon couldn't help it if he prefers the whispers of his weapon collection to the deafening roar of the pub. And maybe that does involve the gentle caress of polish for hours on end and yes, Gwayne, he knows it sounds dull but it's actually really fascinating and amazing. But sometimes... just sometimes he wonders if there is something wrong with him.
Leon rests his head on his desk, an inch from his prize crossbow. He sighs. 'Maybe it is dull. Maybe it is pathetic to spend so much time polishing wood.'
There is a cough at the door. Leon jerks up. The cleaner is watching him back straight, but his fingers curled, slightly tense and slightly hesitant.
'You know,' the cleaner starts, 'so many people nowadays mistake dedication for being boring...' and Leon remembers seeing the man bending over a scuff mark on the floor, arse bobbing in the air, face red, and breath uneven. 'They can't see the beauty in the routine- or feel the satisfaction in a repetitive job done well.' He takes a step forward and Leon feels like this almost-stranger is about to say something that will change his life. 'But I've seen you - working with your weapons, the way you ... polish... them, hands moving up and down so strongly', the man blushes and Leon wonders how far down that blush will travel, 'so lovingly. And I think that it is, I mean you are, a bit amazing, the way that you spend your time with your weapons like they're the only thing that matters in the world. How you touch them like they can feel your fingers and you want to please them.' The man hides his trembling hands in his pockets. 'I like how you touch them. It takes my breath away when you talk about what you love' (the word 'love' comes out oddly chocked he recovers and rushes out the next bit as if he wants to justify himself)- 'sometimes I overhear conversations when I'm cleaning- not on purpose- but people don't often see me. And well, the truth is I think it's wonderful to like the small, boring and unimportant things.'
Part 2
The man looks horrified at himself for being so forward and yet somewhat hopeful. During his speech he had been unconsciously advancing into Leon's office and now he freezes, his front nearly pressed against the desk. Leon slowly stands up. Belatedly he notices that he hadn't moved during all that time. He walks around the rickety antique, crosses the five steps to his door and closes it, twisting the lock. Steadies himself against the door frame, takes a breath and asks:
'What's your name?'
'George.'
'OK. Ok, George.' Leon turns around 'Tell me, George- I think that you are right. How do you feel about spending this Friday doing some, um, polishing. With me.' He moves to stand in George's space, tense like a freshly primed crossbow.
George smiles, suddenly wicked, his gaze direct before deliberately dipping his eyes downwards. 'Polishing is my favourite' he says.
And really, Leon muses when he is able to think coherently again (which is quite some time later) there is a lot to be said for the satisfaction brought on by a firm repetitive motion.
Subject line: Professor Leon: Or How He Learned to Stop Worrying and Love His Weapon (ahem) - SPOILER for 4x06
Part 1
AN: I know this is probably not what you had in mind, like at all, and probs quite a bit crap but the idea struck me and I had to scribble it out! I apologize in advance for the shortness/quality.
****
It was late. The museum was empty apart from the solitary cleaner, moping the marbled floor under a flickering half light. The tourist footsteps had faded long ago and so had the researchers and experts. Leon knew that there was a security guard watching footage of the abandoned corridors but there was so little life in the building, he also knew the guard was likely asleep. This was when he enjoyed his job the most. When he was at peace with his collection; when it was private and intimate.
But tonight, Leon felt miles away from the satisfactory hum of research. Tonight a shrill beeping on his phone and a terse, turned down invitation had made him doubt. Tonight Leon was busy rethinking his life choices. It wasn't that he regretted his life. It wasn't that he wasn't happy. But it was that you could only take so many declined pub invitations on a Friday night before people starting hinting, rather strongly in Gwayne's case, that you might need to start reconsidering. Before, as Gwayne put it, you've wasted your entire life with old mouldy bits of wood and no memories to show for it. Leon ran his hands through his hair and leaned back against the plush antique chair in his office. He favoured dark colours, wine reds and heavy dark greens. On the walls various weapons gleamed, each one bolted down with a personal history. When he looked at them he saw an entire population unfold like a picture in the popup books he would read to Elyan's baby sister. The fold of the pommel told of a craftsman, an artist sweating in a dark room. The weight of the weapon told of the politics these weapons upheld; all the countless traditions and rivalries, compromises and rebellions. And the nicks in the blade announced the lives they had ended. Leon couldn't help it if he prefers the whispers of his weapon collection to the deafening roar of the pub. And maybe that does involve the gentle caress of polish for hours on end and yes, Gwayne, he knows it sounds dull but it's actually really fascinating and amazing. But sometimes... just sometimes he wonders if there is something wrong with him.
Leon rests his head on his desk, an inch from his prize crossbow. He sighs. 'Maybe it is dull. Maybe it is pathetic to spend so much time polishing wood.'
There is a cough at the door. Leon jerks up. The cleaner is watching him back straight, but his fingers curled, slightly tense and slightly hesitant.
'You know,' the cleaner starts, 'so many people nowadays mistake dedication for being boring...' and Leon remembers seeing the man bending over a scuff mark on the floor, arse bobbing in the air, face red, and breath uneven. 'They can't see the beauty in the routine- or feel the satisfaction in a repetitive job done well.' He takes a step forward and Leon feels like this almost-stranger is about to say something that will change his life. 'But I've seen you - working with your weapons, the way you ... polish... them, hands moving up and down so strongly', the man blushes and Leon wonders how far down that blush will travel, 'so lovingly. And I think that it is, I mean you are, a bit amazing, the way that you spend your time with your weapons like they're the only thing that matters in the world. How you touch them like they can feel your fingers and you want to please them.' The man hides his trembling hands in his pockets. 'I like how you touch them. It takes my breath away when you talk about what you love' (the word 'love' comes out oddly chocked he recovers and rushes out the next bit as if he wants to justify himself)- 'sometimes I overhear conversations when I'm cleaning- not on purpose- but people don't often see me. And well, the truth is I think it's wonderful to like the small, boring and unimportant things.'
Part 2
The man looks horrified at himself for being so forward and yet somewhat hopeful. During his speech he had been unconsciously advancing into Leon's office and now he freezes, his front nearly pressed against the desk. Leon slowly stands up. Belatedly he notices that he hadn't moved during all that time. He walks around the rickety antique, crosses the five steps to his door and closes it, twisting the lock. Steadies himself against the door frame, takes a breath and asks:
'What's your name?'
'George.'
'OK. Ok, George.' Leon turns around 'Tell me, George- I think that you are right. How do you feel about spending this Friday doing some, um, polishing. With me.' He moves to stand in George's space, tense like a freshly primed crossbow.
George smiles, suddenly wicked, his gaze direct before deliberately dipping his eyes downwards. 'Polishing is my favourite' he says.
And really, Leon muses when he is able to think coherently again (which is quite some time later) there is a lot to be said for the satisfaction brought on by a firm repetitive motion.