Jaime turns quickly at the sound of his name. He didn't lose all his reflexes when he lost his sword hand. The alert tension eases at the recognition of who's calling him. "Oly." And he comes on over, whistling for a house-elf as he does. Normally he goes for self-service (ha, ha) but he's not going to go to the bar first and make Oly think he's snubbing her. Dwarves, he has learned from his brother, are especially sensitive to perceived slights, though too proud to show it.
He sits opposite her and leans his elbows on the glass-topped table, the golden hand crossed before the other: gold clinks against glass when he does this. "So we've got a gymnasium now. It'll be useful, but damned if I know what the word means."
I shrug and manage what I hope is something better than a rictus when I grin. "We seem to," I answer. "And now, every time I go intop the common room, I will now get to smell stale sweat and watch any number of pissing contests to my heart's content. Oh well. At least the Sorting Hat didn't magic up a swimming pool. It's bad enough I'll probably now see way more Spandex than I ever wanted to. There are some people the world was not meant to see in Speedos." Jesus Christ, Hoppy, do you think you could babble any more inanely? I knock back the rest of my shot and signal a house elf to refill it.
"I believe the Sorting Hat may have mentioned spandex as a Gryffindor favorite, at some Sorting or other I've had the misfortune to attend. I've not heard of 'Speedos'. Should I ask, or is it one of those things we're all better off forgetting?"
Two house elves appear at the table, one at Jaime's signal, one at Oly's. There is a moment of offended territoriality between the elves before the first elf yields, and the second triumphantly refills Oly's shot glass. Jaime, amused, asks this elf for a tankard of "some ale. Good ale, mind you. Something that isn't piss."
He doesn't reckon with the literality of house elves. Happily the request for 'good ale' may override the rest.
This done, he turns back to Oly. "How long have you been putting those away?" he says, eyeing her shot. "Does stale sweat bother you that much? If so, you've chosen the wrong drinking companion." Though he actually doesn't smell like anything but soap, because he can't find Steff today for the promised sparring.
I watch the byplay between the elves with some amusement and consider tipping the loser, but manage to check the impulse because it's not like I have any money.
"Yeah, you really don't want to know," I say in response to his first question.
At his last, I shrug. "I've just gotten started," I inform him. "I was planning to see how long it takes. And, fuck, no. I'm not *that* offended by our new common room decorations. I just brushed up uncomfortably against the past, and I figure drinking's a good enough coping strategy."
(( starting a new thread in the same post, so you can edit that last tag at will. ))
Jaime imagines the notebook Oly left for her daughter. In his mind's eye it looks something like the White Book. He remembers painstakingly inscribing, with his remaining hand -- the wrong hand -- what history he needed to inscribe.
"You'll never know whether she read it, then. Depriving her of her would-be benefactor might be called a severe imposition on your part, if she did wish to rid herself of her tail. But to impose on one's offspring is the duty and sacred privilege of a parent, isn't it? What did her father have to say about all this?" Jaime wants to know.
"Her father wanted me to kill her," I say, because absinthe has made me matter-of-fact. "And he's dead now, so as far as I'm concerned, he doesn't actually get a vote." I can hear the bitterness and the frustration in my voice, and I hate the fact that even now, I can't think of Arty without missing him desperately. Even here, in this place, I do.
It's not my way to sugar-coat things, and since Jaime seems to be my confessor, I admit it.
"My brother. Arty. A more ambitious, manipulative son of a bitch you'll never meet, but I loved him. Hell, I worshipped him to an unhealthy degree, and when I realized that nobody'd ever fuck me, because I wasn't exotic like my sisters and I didn't have the way with people that Arty did, I just... had my brother Chick take care of things. He could move things with his mind, even small things. So I got pregnant with Arty's baby. He thought it made me stupid and disgusting, and maybe it did, but she was mine, the one thing of his that I could keep... At least until after she was born and his rumblings about getting rid of her started becoming more ominous." I sigh and shake my head, and then I can't help laughing. "Christ, I should lay off this stuff. I can't imagine what kind of a fucking freaky idiot you think this makes me."
Comments 44
He sits opposite her and leans his elbows on the glass-topped table, the golden hand crossed before the other: gold clinks against glass when he does this. "So we've got a gymnasium now. It'll be useful, but damned if I know what the word means."
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Two house elves appear at the table, one at Jaime's signal, one at Oly's. There is a moment of offended territoriality between the elves before the first elf yields, and the second triumphantly refills Oly's shot glass. Jaime, amused, asks this elf for a tankard of "some ale. Good ale, mind you. Something that isn't piss."
He doesn't reckon with the literality of house elves. Happily the request for 'good ale' may override the rest.
This done, he turns back to Oly. "How long have you been putting those away?" he says, eyeing her shot. "Does stale sweat bother you that much? If so, you've chosen the wrong drinking companion." Though he actually doesn't smell like anything but soap, because he can't find Steff today for the promised sparring.
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"Yeah, you really don't want to know," I say in response to his first question.
At his last, I shrug. "I've just gotten started," I inform him. "I was planning to see how long it takes. And, fuck, no. I'm not *that* offended by our new common room decorations. I just brushed up uncomfortably against the past, and I figure drinking's a good enough coping strategy."
Reply
Jaime imagines the notebook Oly left for her daughter. In his mind's eye it looks something like the White Book. He remembers painstakingly inscribing, with his remaining hand -- the wrong hand -- what history he needed to inscribe.
"You'll never know whether she read it, then. Depriving her of her would-be benefactor might be called a severe imposition on your part, if she did wish to rid herself of her tail. But to impose on one's offspring is the duty and sacred privilege of a parent, isn't it? What did her father have to say about all this?" Jaime wants to know.
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"You loved him, then," he surmises. "Who was he?"
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"My brother. Arty. A more ambitious, manipulative son of a bitch you'll never meet, but I loved him. Hell, I worshipped him to an unhealthy degree, and when I realized that nobody'd ever fuck me, because I wasn't exotic like my sisters and I didn't have the way with people that Arty did, I just... had my brother Chick take care of things. He could move things with his mind, even small things. So I got pregnant with Arty's baby. He thought it made me stupid and disgusting, and maybe it did, but she was mine, the one thing of his that I could keep... At least until after she was born and his rumblings about getting rid of her started becoming more ominous." I sigh and shake my head, and then I can't help laughing. "Christ, I should lay off this stuff. I can't imagine what kind of a fucking freaky idiot you think this makes me."
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