(no subject)
It was not a particularly unusual thing for Thomasina to be sitting in the rec room, surrounded by books and papers, on a sunny afternoon. From a distance, the only thing that would have appeared out of the ordinary about the scene surrounding her at the moment was perhaps the sheer amount of paper; there were stacks of it, a couple of reams easily, as much as she was able to fit into her bag to bring with her.
One would have to get a bit closer to see the dark circles under her eyes, the drawn tension in the corners of her mouth, the intensity with which her concentration was fixed on the work in front of her. She had not slept since awakening on Sunday morning, both because after two days' sleep, her body refused to relax, and because every time she closed her eyes there was a part of her that expected to open them again in that cafe in Paris, as the sun rose and the National Guard arrived. She knew by now, of course, what had happened to them, that they had never been in Paris - or danger - at all. But the memories felt no less real, the trauma was no easier to dismiss now that she knew.
Thom rubbed a hand over her eyes and closed the cover to her notebook. It was easier, in the end, to bury herself in her work than to sit, stew, and worry over what had happened, and what might yet come to pass. She pushed the notebook aside and reached for one of the large stacks of paper on the table. This was not truly her own project, but Septimus's; only a fraction of the paper that had appeared in their hut on the night of the blizzard, but still a huge stack by any standard. She had made little progress in deciphering what precisely he'd been trying to do in the two months that had passed since, but there was a reason it had been given to her, and she wasn't one to give up on a challenge easily. As she pulled the unwieldy pile towards her, it began to slide, and before she could stop it hundreds of pages were fluttering to the floor. "Damn." She stooped to begin to shuffle them back into order.
[Have some pity and help an overtired girl put her work back together. Friends and acquaintances very welcome, and all appearances to the contrary, it's never a bad time to meet her. She needs to make friends. ST/LT just peachy.]
One would have to get a bit closer to see the dark circles under her eyes, the drawn tension in the corners of her mouth, the intensity with which her concentration was fixed on the work in front of her. She had not slept since awakening on Sunday morning, both because after two days' sleep, her body refused to relax, and because every time she closed her eyes there was a part of her that expected to open them again in that cafe in Paris, as the sun rose and the National Guard arrived. She knew by now, of course, what had happened to them, that they had never been in Paris - or danger - at all. But the memories felt no less real, the trauma was no easier to dismiss now that she knew.
Thom rubbed a hand over her eyes and closed the cover to her notebook. It was easier, in the end, to bury herself in her work than to sit, stew, and worry over what had happened, and what might yet come to pass. She pushed the notebook aside and reached for one of the large stacks of paper on the table. This was not truly her own project, but Septimus's; only a fraction of the paper that had appeared in their hut on the night of the blizzard, but still a huge stack by any standard. She had made little progress in deciphering what precisely he'd been trying to do in the two months that had passed since, but there was a reason it had been given to her, and she wasn't one to give up on a challenge easily. As she pulled the unwieldy pile towards her, it began to slide, and before she could stop it hundreds of pages were fluttering to the floor. "Damn." She stooped to begin to shuffle them back into order.
[Have some pity and help an overtired girl put her work back together. Friends and acquaintances very welcome, and all appearances to the contrary, it's never a bad time to meet her. She needs to make friends. ST/LT just peachy.]