zelman clock » the red-eyed murderer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
exanimatus) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
paradisalogs2012-02-25 10:08 pm
exanimatus) wrote in paradisalogs2012-02-25 10:08 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Who: Galadriel & Zelman
What: Dinner, conversation, picking the other's brain, etc.
When: The evening of the 21st.
Where: Zelman's mansion.
Rating: PG... 13...? 8(
It has not been a particularly good couple of days for Zelman.
Which is funny, because he's finding it increasingly difficult to think of it as a couple of days when the whole week has been weird, and when the whole month has been weird, and when, really, the whole order of his personal universe seems to have been jostled around a little ever since the Christmas holidays. He can't imagine why (a blatant lie--he can easily imagine why, but it seems silly, and he has no reason to suspect a cause-and-effect relationship between the two events just yet). All right, not actually that funny at all.
What's funny is finally getting so fed up with building and circling and decomposing and building again while the rest of the world buzzes about in tiny cycles, like fruit flies (except that fruit flies can actually get something done when their numbers are high enou--for fuck's sake, he's been doing this all day). And then the intelligent, rational, interesting fairy lady seems to respect him as a person and so help him, he lashes out for a bastion of sanity and common sense in the most eloquent way he can manage. Immediately and apathetically asking her to join him for dinner.
He's waiting by the massive gates outside his house, sucking his way through a cigarette, thinking about how this is a poorly-thought-out idea. No, no. That's giving it too much credit. It was barely thought out, but he has a gut instinct. A feeling. Call it a hunch. He's leaning against the bars, one side swung open and digging between his shoulder blades. The whole of him is a little off today. He seems tired, apathetic. If he were a flame, he would be burning lower than usual. The snow around his feet is only melted for about two feet in every direction, instead of his usual five.
But he's determined. He sticks, patient and a little early, to the diagonal shadows that usually keep people out. It occurs to him that he doesn't actually know how she'll show up, but this is a new pack of smokes. He's not really worried about it.
What: Dinner, conversation, picking the other's brain, etc.
When: The evening of the 21st.
Where: Zelman's mansion.
Rating: PG... 13...? 8(
It has not been a particularly good couple of days for Zelman.
Which is funny, because he's finding it increasingly difficult to think of it as a couple of days when the whole week has been weird, and when the whole month has been weird, and when, really, the whole order of his personal universe seems to have been jostled around a little ever since the Christmas holidays. He can't imagine why (a blatant lie--he can easily imagine why, but it seems silly, and he has no reason to suspect a cause-and-effect relationship between the two events just yet). All right, not actually that funny at all.
What's funny is finally getting so fed up with building and circling and decomposing and building again while the rest of the world buzzes about in tiny cycles, like fruit flies (except that fruit flies can actually get something done when their numbers are high enou--for fuck's sake, he's been doing this all day). And then the intelligent, rational, interesting fairy lady seems to respect him as a person and so help him, he lashes out for a bastion of sanity and common sense in the most eloquent way he can manage. Immediately and apathetically asking her to join him for dinner.
He's waiting by the massive gates outside his house, sucking his way through a cigarette, thinking about how this is a poorly-thought-out idea. No, no. That's giving it too much credit. It was barely thought out, but he has a gut instinct. A feeling. Call it a hunch. He's leaning against the bars, one side swung open and digging between his shoulder blades. The whole of him is a little off today. He seems tired, apathetic. If he were a flame, he would be burning lower than usual. The snow around his feet is only melted for about two feet in every direction, instead of his usual five.
But he's determined. He sticks, patient and a little early, to the diagonal shadows that usually keep people out. It occurs to him that he doesn't actually know how she'll show up, but this is a new pack of smokes. He's not really worried about it.
no subject
He misses intelligent conversation, he really does--Legato was his previous source of it and, well, we can all see how well that worked out. So he follows all of it with a smirk, his elbows set on the table, propping up his frame. He can feel the pressure up at his shoulders, more signs that he should really probably be resting.
But time waits for no one.
"The powers-that-be are bad enough," he extends, picking at his food (though he is not paying attention to it in the least), "But Legato has always been... good at making things much more difficult than they need to be."
no subject
Partially, it was their few cryptic conversations that led her to that conclusion. Partially, it was his personality and-honestly? It was partially the nature of his abilities.