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06 December 2012 @ 08:08 pm
FIC: Thou Canst Not Leave Thy Song  
Title: Thou Canst Not Leave Thy Song
Series: A Kind of Natural Phenomenon
Author: joonscribble
Fandom: Cloud Atlas (film)
Rating: PG
Timeline: Set 14 years after the conclusion of the Frobisher segment
Spoilers: Only for the ending of the Frobisher segment
Disclaimer: I most definitely do not own the characters Robert Frobisher or Rufus Sixsmith. They belong to David Mitchell. The ones that appear in this story are the versions brought to life by the Wachowski siblings & Tom Tykwer with the help of Ben Whishaw and James D'Arcy.
Summary: Sixsmith’s present shelters his past.
Author's Note: Again, major thanks to guardian_chaos who took a first read at this. The general plot of this one (well, sort of plot) was inspired by a line in the novel about the value Frobisher's letters hold for Sixsmith during the Luisa Rey segment. And again, I stole the title of this fic from a poem by Keats.

First story in the series is HERE.


1950 – London


“Not much of a view, is it?” John commented. He was pulling back the faded green drapes that had previously obscured the vision of the orange and blue awning of the chip shop across the road. “Why do you never take a room above the 3rd floor?”


From his place by his opened suitcase, Sixsmith shrugged, his hands filled with flannel and wool. His first exposure to hotel rooms had been ones on the floors no higher than the 3rd. Since then it had felt like habit to simply ask for those.


 “Not a fan of heights, I suppose,” he speculated, noncommittally. “I rather like the horizontal space instead.” The hotel suite was certainly that. It spread out to a bedroom where they current were, living area connected via an actual hallway and a rather spacious bathroom. When his brother had first seen the room, his eyes reflected a kind of surprise that Sixsmith supposed had been in his own gaze when he’d first seen the house he had rented back in California. Houses in America, in particular the West, seemed so intent on sprawling themselves out over the vast amount of space available.


Letting the drapes fall back to their original position, John watched for a few beats as Sixsmith continued to unpack. Over the quiet sounds of clothes being slid into drawers, they could hear Anna and Megan in the living area talking, their words indistinct. “Are you sure you don’t mind, Rufus?” John asked.


“Not in the least,” replied Sixsmith, meaning it. “I love spending time with Megan, you know that.”


It was true. For a few years Sixsmith had regretted that he would never have children. But having Megan had dispelled all such regrets into the ether. He doubted he could ever have had a child of his own whom he would love more than his niece. Apparently the 6 year old in question had felt the same, begging and pleading her parents that she be allowed to stay with her uncle rather than go with them to visit Anna’s father who now lived out in Surrey.


“We’ll pick her up no later than 7,” John continued to fret a little as they walked through the hallway. “She has her schoolwork so she shouldn’t bother you too much.”


“Oh well, it’ll just be me bothering her then,” replied Sixsmith with a half smile as they entered the living area.


His eyes fell on the two figures sitting by the coffee table. Both Anna and Megan were on the floor, their heads tilted toward each other, pouring over what looked like multiplication tables, half filled in. The scene was quaintly domestic and filled Sixsmith with a warm joy as well as a lingering fear of how fragile it all was. After the last 8 years that combined his work with the war, everything felt suddenly much more fragile.


The melancholy that lay inside his throat like a lingering film of medicine abruptly alleviated as Megan lifted up her small head from where she was pondering her 12 times 11 and smiled at him as if he were her favorite person in the world.


“Uncle Rufus! Can we have jam sandwiches for dinner?”


**


Jam sandwiches ended up being dessert instead. It was a compromise they’d negotiated with Sixsmith agreeing to teach Megan square roots if she agreed to consuming a dinner that consisted of more than fruit and sugar.


They sat side by side in companionable silence on the floor, their backs against the sofa with their work spread out in front of them. Megan quickly scratched a series of numbers on her paper. Periodically Sixsmith looked up from his own notes on the lecture he’d have to give tomorrow and marveled at how far she was getting along with nary a question. But soon he lost himself to methods of plutonium extraction, jotting his critiques of the bismuth phosphate process.


“What are these?” Megan suddenly asked. She was peering into Sixsmith’s open briefcase, her eyes clearly locked onto the small bundle of papers sitting on top of the plain beige folders. “They look old.”


Reaching over, Sixsmith picked them up. “They’re very old,” he Sixsmith. “Much older than you,” he added, touching his finger to her small nose. Megan scrunched her face into a pleased smile. “They’re very old letters from a friend of mine.”


“Is he a scientist too?” she inquired.


Sixsmith laughed, amused at the idea of Frobisher even attempting to be something as rigidly disciplined as a scientist. “No, he was a composer. He wrote music.”


Megan inched closer to study the addressed envelopes. “Like Benny Goodman?” Sixsmith could only imagine Frobisher’s reaction to such a comparison. Clearly John and his record collection were carrying on the Sixsmith tradition of never touching the classical.


“Not quite. He wrote older music. Well, only one piece but very beautiful.”


Sixsmith’s one recording of The Cloud Atlas Sextet was currently ensconced back in California. He could see it clearly resting gently against a copy of Handel’s La Resurrezione.


“At least you keep me in fine company, Sixsmith.”


“Why do you have them on your trip?”


“I always carry them with me.”


Unlike the letters, the recording of the Sextet he left at home. In the 20 years he had the record, he had only listened to it a handful of times. His reasons for doing so were the same as to why he had not hunted down additional copies of the Sextet or why he had let Frobisher travel so far from him all the those years ago. But the letters. The letters were his, the one part of his love that he had never been required to share with anyone else. So they would be with him wherever he went, a steady presence when all else was gone.


“Why doesn’t he write to you anymore?” Megan asked.


Sixsmith blinked at her, surprised. “Why do you think that?”


“You look sad,” she answered.


He smiled at her quick observation. “He died a long time ago.”


“Oh.” She paused, clearly struggling with curiosity over being possibly rude. But the childish curiosity of hers won out as it often did. “How did he die?”


Sixsmith sighed inwardly, trying to think if it were even possible to explain to someone as young as his niece the motivations behind his unstable, doomed Frobisher. “He was very sad,” Sixsmith offered, thinking on the last letter that was currently nestled at the top of the pile. “And I suppose he didn’t wish to be sad any longer.”


Megan looked troubled. “Can people die from being too sad?” And for all her genius with numbers, she sounded very much her young, vulnerable age.
 

“Very rare,” Sixsmith reassured her, letting her wriggle closer to his side as he put an arm around her shoulders. “He was very, very rare in that way.”


**


It was getting on half past six when John rang Sixsmith. The motor they’d driven to Surrey had broken down. They had already missed the last return train to London but promised to take the first one back in time to retrieve Megan before the conference.


And so it was that Megan, looking dwarfed in one of Sixsmith’s shirts, curled up in the large bed as he tucked her in. There was no storybook to be had and Sixsmith doubted he knew of any traditional bedtime stories. So he made do with giving Megan a biography of Lise Meitner, whom he’d had the pleasure of meeting a few years back. His niece listened with rapt attention for a good half hour as Sixsmith embellished a little on how Meitner had escaped Germany to Sweden to be a famous scientist. But soon she dropped off, her face buried in the soft pillow.


Sixsmith sat on the bed a little longer, sifting through Frobisher’s letters. Talking to Megan about the lost composer had been like pressing on a faded bruise. Painful but comforting in some ways. He could hardly believe that he would soon be turning 50 while Frobisher remained forever young and beautiful at 24. He tried to imagine Frobisher as he may be now but found he could not. Such a potential future as alien to Sixsmith as it had been to Frobisher who had often predicted he would not live to see 25.


Carefully, Sixsmith folded away the letters and placed them on the nightstand. He glanced down at Megan who continued to breathe deeply in her sleep, her small body a warm weight against his side. He sat there for a minute longer before slipping off to the living area and sleep.


**


“Sunt hic etiam, praemia laudi, sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangent,” read Frobisher, his tenor voice trumpeting the words over the hills they were currently overlooking from their place under the elm.


“Something involving tears?” Sixsmith hazarded.


He tilted his head back on Frobisher’s lap to look up at him as the other lightly thumped the leather bound book against Sixsmith’s chest. “You bring shame to Gresham’s School. The very foundation and stones.”


“I don’t see any use for poetry in Latin,” Sixsmith defended, lazily plucking at the grass under his fingers.


“This from someone who once railed to the heavens at my inability to learn the symbols of the periodic table?”


“That’s easy. There’s order to the table. Rules to guide you.”


“I’m hopeless to being guided. Just as you are hopeless at following me in my libertine ways, Sixsmith.” If that was an insult, which Sixsmith did not take it as, Frobisher eased it with a gentle kiss.


“I’m a scientist,” Sixsmith replied, grinning with foolish happiness at the bright eyes gazing down at him. “My kind can’t survive without rules.”


 “Then I suppose I shall have to tolerate the rules if they keep you with me.”



**


Sixsmith jolted awake at the sound of a shrill alarm. For a second he wondered if the phone was ringing at some ungodly volume before he began coughing.


Smoke. It was the fire alarm. The hotel was on fire.


His back wrenched as he leapt off the sofa and ran for the bedroom. He was halfway down the hall when Megan, still in his oversized shirt and blanket around her shoulders, came barreling out. Even in the smoky haze, Sixsmith could see her eyes wide with terror.


Barely breaking his run, he swept her up into his arms, blanket and all. He could feel her small hands tighten around the back of his collar, her heart hammering against his.


“It’s alright,” he whispered as he quickly tested the front door before wrenching it open, his other hand securing her to him. “Just hold on tightly. It’s alright.”


The corridor was dotted with other guests, blinking and shouting against the smoke that was rapidly filling the area. Against him, Megan jolted as she coughed in the oppressive air. Unconsciously he tightened his hold on her as he shouldered the door marked STAIRS on his left.


It logically only took less than three minutes, given the speed with which Sixsmith was running and that they had only been on the 2nd floor. But it had felt like an eternity before Sixsmith found himself outside in the cold London air. Cold, but fresh compared to where they had just come from.


In the distance he could hear the ringing of rescue coming as swarms of people, guests, hotel workers, and gawkers gathered on the street to watch a few windows of the building smash open as flames licked the ledges.


Still in his thin pajamas, Sixsmith sat down on edge of the street, still hugging Megan to him. “Alright?” He pulled back enough to see Megan’s face, illuminated by a street lamp, remarkably clean and unmarked by any soot. “Megan?”


She nodded, one hand still clutching Sixsmith’s shirt. Tears that had been welling up in the hallway of their room now fell, soaking his collar as she pressed her face against his neck.


“Shhh, shhh…it’s alright. You’re alright,” he soothed, wrapping the blanket still mostly tucked around her more securely to ward off the cold night air.


Another window burst open as the fire spread upward. With the heat of fire in front of him and the chill of the night at his back, Sixsmith realized he was sitting on a public street in only his pajamas, barefoot with nothing on his person. Not even his wallet. Or Frobisher’s letters.


He sucked in one horrified breath and sat paralyzed at the growing inferno that was engulfing everything. Absolutely everything.


Around him people shouted as bells rang above the roar of the fire. It all grew muted for Sixsmith who suddenly felt as if he was now underwater, far below, cold and lost.


In his arms, Megan stirred and something sharp jabbed him at his throat.


Startled, he surfaced and looked down and saw his niece pressing a bundle of letters against his chest, the corner of one envelop pressing against his skin. Even in the poor lighting, he could see the familiar handwriting sloping its way across the paper.


“I put them in my shirt when I woke up,” she murmured. She sniffled back the last of her tears. “I don’t want you to get too sad and die.”

Swallowing against the pain in his throat, Sixsmith covered the small hand that was holding the letters with his own, hugging them both to his chest.

END
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Astoundingly fond of avocados and rainy weather.: SPN_Rainguardian_chaos on December 8th, 2012 06:29 am (UTC)
This chapter brings to mind a quote from one of my favorite movies, What Dreams May Come: "That's the trouble with soulmates, isn't it? One's not much good without the other." At the time the quote was said, one side of the pairing was dead, and the other was not. The movie jumps in and out of the afterlife, yet there is that tenuous strand keeping the two bound, even though they may never see each other again due to circumstances not fully within their control. You write in here about the risk of a person dying of sadness, and the parallels, while still so distinct in their own ways, swim up to me and it's beautiful.

Such a potential future as alien to Sixsmith as it had been to Frobisher who had often predicted he would not live to see 25.

I don't know if I've already mentioned this or not, but man, would I love to hear more about that line.

“Sunt hic etiam, praemia laudi, sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangent,”

WHAT IS HE SAYING? I BESEECH YOU FOR ANSWERS, AS ONLINE TRANSLATORS HAVE FAILED ME.

And fire scene! Fire scene! Eeee! Favorite part. Love it so.

NEXT CHAPTER, PLEASE
formerly lifeinsomniacjoonscribble on December 8th, 2012 11:29 pm (UTC)
Eeee! You read it! Again!

I don't know if I've already mentioned this or not, but man, would I love to hear more about that line.

The line about Frobisher thinking he wouldn't make it to 25 comes directly from the novel. In his last letter he reaffirms that he always knew he wouldn't live to see his 25th birthday. He tells Sixsmith not to blame himself for failing to stop him from committing suicide because it's always been an inevitable thing. *WEEPS*

WHAT IS HE SAYING? I BESEECH YOU FOR ANSWERS, AS ONLINE TRANSLATORS HAVE FAILED ME.

It's from Virgil's Aeneid. It roughly means, "virtue hath her rewards, and mortality her tears: even here, the woes of man touch the heart of man!"

So Sixsmith was sort of right of it involving tears. In the novel Frobisher also references it in his last letter.
Astoundingly fond of avocados and rainy weather.: TemptingFateguardian_chaos on December 9th, 2012 04:59 am (UTC)
Eee! I did! It's good! Of course I did! Plus my name is in the author's note, which automatically makes things that much more awesome to be a part of.*beams proudly*

The line about Frobisher thinking he wouldn't make it to 25 comes directly from the novel. In his last letter he reaffirms that he always knew he wouldn't live to see his 25th birthday. He tells Sixsmith not to blame himself for failing to stop him from committing suicide because it's always been an inevitable thing. *WEEPS*

Ah, well, that kind of makes me want to go re-read that part of the book. Except I also don't, because sad. D:

It roughly means, "virtue hath her rewards, and mortality her tears: even here, the woes of man touch the heart of man!"

Oh gosh, I feel thick here. It's a beautiful line, but I don't understand its exact meaning. What's the connection between "here" and "virtue" there? Ah. I think my cold or whatever it is is fogging my head. As is, incidentally, my current struggle against this iPad's bloody auto-correct feature, which is turning my attention to its existence with annoying frequency. Every single time I write the word "well" it corrects it to "we'll" Do you know what this is doing to me!? DO YOU!? *flips tables*

But I digress. Still looking forward to the next chapter! *camps out by your keyboad*


Edited at 2012-12-09 05:00 am (UTC)
formerly lifeinsomniacjoonscribble on December 9th, 2012 05:18 am (UTC)
Oh gosh, I feel thick here. It's a beautiful line, but I don't understand its exact meaning. What's the connection between "here" and "virtue" there?

Don't feel thick at all. I don't think I gave you the best translation of it. The better and most likely more relevant translations are:

"These ones are tears of things and mortal things (sufferings) touch the mind."

or

"The world is a world of tears, and the burdens of mortality touch the heart."

Autocorrecting in general tends to piss me off. I spend more time trying to teach my electronics things than I spend just retyping genuine spelling errors. GAH.

Still looking forward to the next chapter! *camps out by your keyboad*

Oh, how I wish it was going well. Writing Frobisher is so hard. Yes, I whine and whine about it. Writing the entire Frobisher family (small as they are) is even harder.
Astoundingly fond of avocados and rainy weather.: TemptingFateguardian_chaos on December 9th, 2012 05:32 am (UTC)
"The world is a world of tears, and the burdens of mortality touch the heart."

Oh...oh, that is really beautiful. Thank you. I love Latin phrases in stories, no matter that I generally don't know what they mean on first sight. It's such a lovely language.

Autocorrecting in general tends to piss me off. I spend more time trying to teach my electronics things than I spend just retyping genuine spelling errors. GAH.

It has done horrible things to the texting habits of my friends, also. Some of their texts are so hard to understand due to the text's being over-corrected to within an inch of its life, and I feel like I'm Nancy Drew trying to uncover the great mysteries held within the words.

Speaking of, I actually am well-aware of the difference between "its" and "it's," but this seems to be a favorite target of my auto-correct. That has been popping up a lot as an AAAAAAUUUUUGH-worthy reaction for me, because I haven't been noticing it until the dreaded deed is already long done.. I just feel like mentioning this, for my own sanity's sake. *nods-nods*

Oh, how I wish it was going well. Writing Frobisher is so hard. Yes, I whine and whine about it. Writing the entire Frobisher family (small as they are) is even harder.

Well, I am available if you want to bounce ideas off of someone. I am about to go to sleep right now, but I can definitely try to reply to an e-mail from you tomorrow, if you'd like. :)

Edited at 2012-12-09 05:33 am (UTC)
formerly lifeinsomniacjoonscribble on December 9th, 2012 05:39 am (UTC)
I love Latin phrases in stories, no matter that I generally don't know what they mean on first sight. It's such a lovely language.

Me too! I highly regret that I never took Latin when I was still in school. But I love googling it (I'm sure Latin scholars are reeling in horror) for when I have to think of spells for Dresden fics.

Well, I am available if you want to bounce ideas off of someone. I am about to go to sleep right now, but I can definitely try to reply to an e-mail from you tomorrow, if you'd like. :)

Thanks for the offer! It's not so much plot or idea that's gotten me stuck. It's more just the execution. I know what has to happen. It's now just a matter of writing it so that it doesn't completely suck. I'm also just having a tough time sticking to one version of Frobisher. I tend to flip flop in between the one in the book and the one in the film.

I'll just have to figure it out. At the very worst Frobisher will just come off as inconsistent when maybe I can pretend is just him?
Astoundingly fond of avocados and rainy weather.: BBT_NerdDance!guardian_chaos on December 9th, 2012 05:47 am (UTC)
Ahahaaaaa, I remember your accurate-sounding use of Latin-derived spells in your Dresden Files fics was one of the first things that drew me to those fics, so I'm very, very glad you love using it. *G*

I'm also just having a tough time sticking to one version of Frobisher. I tend to flip flop in between the one in the book and the one in the film.

Ah, I see...well. Go with your gut! I'm sure you'll make the right call, and I don't know if I should influence you either way here so I shall just take a step back and smile at you encouragingly instead. :D

Frobisher is a flighty character by nature, anyway, so you have some leeway if you wanna take the best bits of each and combine them in your own way. It'll be great! You'll see.
formerly lifeinsomniacjoonscribble on December 9th, 2012 05:57 am (UTC)
Go with your gut! I'm sure you'll make the right call, and I don't know if I should influence you either way here so I shall just take a step back and smile at you encouragingly instead. :D

Frobisher is a flighty character by nature, anyway, so you have some leeway if you wanna take the best bits of each and combine them in your own way. It'll be great! You'll see.


Thank you! I really appreciate it. It's bizarre because every once in awhile as I write Frobisher, I see the version that was in my head when I read the book as in tall and blond. And then the rest of the time I see Ben Whishaw as Frobisher who is so not those things.

Apparently Frobisher is so flighty he can change his appearance every other paragraph. Is he a trickster?!
Astoundingly fond of avocados and rainy weather.: TemptingFateguardian_chaos on December 9th, 2012 06:07 am (UTC)
Oh my goodness, do you really want to start a conversation about tricksters with me? Because I will start hyperventilating with glee if I see even a hint of your trickster coming out, I just love him so unbearably much. It takes a grand effort for me not to beg you on a weekly basis to write stories with him in them, you do realize this, yes? You have no idea. NOW GO AND DARE TO MENTION THAT WORD AGAIN IN MY PRESENCE.

In terms of Frobisher, all the flashbacks I've read with him in them so far, even the one-liners, have sounded just right, so I wouldn't worry. :)
formerly lifeinsomniacjoonscribble on December 9th, 2012 06:10 am (UTC)
Right after I typed in my question about Frobisher being a trickster, I got a sudden, horrible/wonderful thought about him popping up in a Cloud Atlas fic. WHY IS MY BRAIN DOING THIS I HAVE FINALS TO WRITE??!

My Trickster took a vacation around the time The Avengers movie came out. In my head, my Trickster was always modeled after Loki before Hiddleston came on the scene.

But perhaps he's ready to come back and play again. He's yet to meet Sherlock and the gang.
Astoundingly fond of avocados and rainy weather.: ST_Captain'sChairguardian_chaos on December 9th, 2012 06:23 am (UTC)
GIVE THAT FIC TO ME NOW, I WANT IT, GIVE IT TO ME, NOT HAVING IT MIGHT IMPAIR MY ABILITY TO FUNCTION, ARE YOU UNDERSTANDING THE SEVERITY OF THIS PROBLEM, ARE YOU, ARE YOU!? *clings to your ankles and cries*

Maybe the Trickster would bring Frobisher back because something is needed of him?

"Wouldn't you know it, kiddo, but your music is in perfect synchronicity with the music of the planets themselves, and since I've got a day off, I thought I'd take you with me and we can use that to raise a little havoc with the gods! What do you say, boy? You bored with being dead yet??"

In my head, my Trickster was always modeled after Loki before Hiddleston came on the scene.

Oh, well that's a shame! Your trickster and the Avengers trickster are nothing alike. I like yours more, for one. He's a lot more engaging and cheeky. It's so much fun to read him.

But perhaps he's ready to come back and play again. He's yet to meet Sherlock and the gang.

*jitters everywhere* Yeeee!!
Astoundingly fond of avocados and rainy weather.: DW_Cheersguardian_chaos on December 9th, 2012 06:26 am (UTC)
*That's a shame that the Avengers disrupted your own Trickster, I mean. *coughs* Yes. Anyway.
formerly lifeinsomniacjoonscribble on December 9th, 2012 06:28 am (UTC)
Maybe the Trickster would bring Frobisher back because something is needed of him?

It's bizarre that you say this because that was my initial thought. But then because I'm apparently allergic right now to writing Frobisher properly, I went with the idea of the Trickster meeting both Frobisher and Sixsmith but ending up having a conversation with the latter.

WAIT WHY AM I TALKING LIKE I'M WRITING THIS THING?

Oh, well that's a shame! Your trickster and the Avengers trickster are nothing alike.

They aren't but I guess because they share a common inspiration (it's not like Avengers!Loki and Myth!Loki are that similar either) mine sort of peaced out for a bit.
Astoundingly fond of avocados and rainy weather.: SPN_Gamechangerguardian_chaos on December 9th, 2012 06:41 am (UTC)
WAIT WHY AM I TALKING LIKE I'M WRITING THIS THING?

BECAUSE I'M TRYING VERY HARD TO COMPEL YOU TO, THAT'S WHY. IS IT WORKING!? MY BRAIN STARTING TO OVERHEAT, AND I AM BECOMING ALARMED.

But then because I'm apparently allergic right now to writing Frobisher properly...

I think you're wrong about this. When you're drone writing something with him in it, send it to me and I shall reassure you that you've captured him well.

I went with the idea of the Trickster meeting both Frobisher and Sixsmith but ending up having a conversation with the latter.

Well, I would definitely read that one, too! Let me know what you decide. *smirks*

I guess because they share a common inspiration (it's not like Avengers!Loki and Myth!Loki are that similar either) mine sort of peaced out for a bit.

I never thought I'd have a reason to dislike The Avengers, but lo and behold, there's one. Huh. Fancy that.
formerly lifeinsomniacjoonscribble on December 9th, 2012 06:47 am (UTC)
Dammit, I think you pinged my Trickster!fic bunny.

Okay.

So, I'll make it short in order and maybe it'll kick start my Word Fairy into helping me out with the next oneshot for the Cloud Atlas series.

I'll throw something into your inbox soonish.

I never thought I'd have a reason to dislike The Avengers, but lo and behold, there's one. Huh. Fancy that.

Oh noes! It's not the Avengers' fault!

It's Hiddleston's.

No, no! I jest!
Astoundingly fond of avocados and rainy weather.: SPN_HurricaneSkyguardian_chaos on December 9th, 2012 06:56 am (UTC)
And I only had to burst two capillaries in my nose to do it! I consider this a victory.

So, I'll make it short in order and maybe it'll kick start my Word Fairy into helping me out with the next oneshot for the Cloud Atlas series. ...I'll throw something into your inbox soonish.

Yay! I know I said an hour and a half ago that I was going to bed, but I am ecstatic about this. Do you mind if I review it tomorrow? I'm suddenly terrified you'll stop if I succumb to the burning in my eyes that's begging for me to sleep. I'm so, sooo conflicted, ahh!

Oh noes! It's not the Avengers' fault!

It's Hiddleston's.


Oh, I can tell you're just itching to start something here, haha. XD

formerly lifeinsomniacjoonscribble on December 9th, 2012 07:01 am (UTC)
And I only had to burst two capillaries in my nose to do it! I consider this a victory.

Um. Yay? *hands you tissues*

Do you mind if I review it tomorrow? I'm suddenly terrified you'll stop if I succumb to the burning in my eyes that's begging for me to sleep. I'm so, sooo conflicted, ahh!

By all means, please go to sleep! I noticed just now that it is 2am over here so I need to be heading to bed as well. How about we both succumb to sleep for tonight? I promise I'll start up again on this tomorrow.
Astoundingly fond of avocados and rainy weather.: DTamers_BeautifulNightguardian_chaos on December 9th, 2012 07:07 am (UTC)
Considering the smoke that was pouring out of my ears, yay, indeed. *graciously accepts tissues*

I promise I'll start up again on this tomorrow.

I shall hold you to this! I need you to harass me to write something at some point, too. I need the motivation, yes. *nods*

Sleep well, 'Scrib! It's been lovely talking to you tonight. ^_^
formerly lifeinsomniacjoonscribble on December 9th, 2012 07:09 am (UTC)
I shall be more than happy to harass you in return!

Have a good night, g_c! Thanks for the additional fic idea which I totally Love/Hate.
Astoundingly fond of avocados and rainy weather.: DTamers_BeautifulNightguardian_chaos on December 9th, 2012 07:20 am (UTC)
And I look forward to that harassment! Haha.

Anyway, yes, tired. So tired. But happy about the fic idea you're working on, and looking forward to seeing what you do with it. Send it over anytime! I'll look over it as soon as I get a minute for it.

'Til tomorrow, my friend! :D