quote_gentle_unquote | # [closed post]

Grantaire, on the other hand, is heading to the library with half a mind to find a book on bees, but fully willing to grab anything else that caught his fancy instead, when Susan emerges. "Oh, hello. You managed quite the haul."

"I believe the library is working double-time in the wake of Dark," says Susan, wryly. "Hello Grantaire."

"Clearly it wants to make up for lost time. Libraries yearn for readers and if if has no books of note, what is there to entice them?"

"Perhaps," says Susan. She scoots to the side so that Grantaire can pass. "What have you come for?"

"Bees." He shrugs. "Or if something more interesting than bees rears its head instead, then that."

"Bees!" says Susan, shifting - she's got a general entomology textbook in the pile somewhere - "Whatever for?"

"They came up in conversation the other day and it remained in mind, so why not bees?"

"I suppose." Susan has found the textbook in the pile; she goes back into the library so that she can set the books down and work it out of the mix.

He trails behind her into the room. "One never knows if one might be asked to give a lecture on bees, after all."

"That sounds dangerously like preparation."

"If this counts on preparation, then I'm basically not allowed to read anything for the foreseeable future, and that hardly sounds like an intended consequence. I assure you, if bees are actually in the draw, I'm unaware of it."

"I suppose," she allows, and then a tiny smile twitches across her lips. "I must confess: I've sneaked a peek at some of the submissions."

"Oh, have you? Don't tell me any of them, but do let me know your general thoughts."

"I suspect we might be in for a treat."

"I am absolutely delighted to hear it."

Susan flashes a small smile at him. "So. Grantaire. I trust you've been well."

"I would be even more a fool than I already am to complain."

Susan gives him rather a severe look at that. "Oh?"

"By which I mean, yes I've been well, and in fact things are going far better than I ever envisioned for an afterlife."

"Better this one than the alternative," she says, emphatically.

"I certainly have become quite fond of it, yes."

Susan, who is surprised at herself in retrospect for even tangentially referencing her issues with heaven with someone she's not particularly close to, doesn't bother correcting Grantaire. "And you've recovered from Dark?"

"Thankfully. It didn't end as bad as I'd feared at the start, but I still couldn't wait for it to be over."

"A universal sentiment, I believe."

"Almost certainly. Hence Dionysus's celebration. Although now that there's a bit of remove, I now can't help but wonder after Rainbows."

"Yes, that was much needed - how was the afterparty, by the way?" Susan asks, with impeccable politeness and no small amount of curiosity.

"Delightful and exhausting."

Another flash of a smile. "Jolly good. I'm glad."

"In that case, I'm happy to be the bearer of good news."

"Not too overwhelmingly masculine, I hope?" Susan would have found it too overwhelmingly masculine, but she knows she's one of the few invitees who would.

"I'll say we made do with what we had available, at least."

"Rather a lot of cock, I imagine," says Susan, more primly than anything else she's said in months. (After all, why should she be circumspect? They both know she's sexually motivated. Susan has never bothered to learn the rules for being friendly with a one-time assignation before - in London, they were so rarely people she interacted with in any meaningful way, after the fact - but surely this is within the bounds of some sort of propriety?)

He laughs. "Categorically true, I must admit."

"I must admit," Susan says, emboldened by the laugh. "I'm wildly curious. If you were generating the list on your own, rather than amending Bacchus's, who would you invite?" And then she comes to her senses, and adds, "Obviously you needn't say if you'd rather not."

"You know, there is some impish part of me that would just put a sign-up sheet on the table and watch what chaos unfolds from that."

"Precisely how much unrest would you like to sow?" Susan wonders.

"You're right. It could work, but is much more likely to explode even beyond what I would find entertaining."

"I fear there's far too many children here for such malarkey," she sighs. "Perhaps a different question, then. Who do you think would most benefit from growing breasts?"

"Benefit in what way? Or is that for me to judge?"

"Benefit the group, I suppose."

He's quiet for a moment as he considers. "Possibly Dionysus."

"Oh?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to give anyone breasts who would categorically reject them, first of all, because making someone uncomfortable in their own body would not benefit the group. And although I can't be sure of everyone on that account, as it's certainly not something I've polled people about, it seems to me that Dionysus would be one of the more generally well-liked individuals who would probably be amenable to the idea. Of course if they're just temporary breasts, that might affect the calculation."

"And what if they were temporary?"

"I'd try them."

"You seemed rather convinced they'd ruin your proportions when last we spoke."

"They absolutely would. But it would be temporary, so I could manage."

"And if you were to pick another sort of benefit?"

"If it were for personal benefits, I'd bestow them on anyone who'd like them."

Susan, who discovers she'd been hoping for a more outlandish response, nods.

"For sheer comedy, though, and again assuming a temporary occasion, Enjolras."

Susan considers whether breasts would improve Enjolras in her estimation. Perhaps he might be one of the few people they wouldn't work for. "That would be funny," she agrees.

"I would probably laugh for a week."

Another flash of a smile, and then: "You're close with him, yes?" Susan asks, and then stops - she's not certain where she wants to take this line of inquiry.

Edited 2024-05-13 03:54 (UTC)

"That's safe to say, I think."

She raises an eyebrow.

Oh, how to even begin to explain. "He was the chief of our group of friends in Paris. We died side-by-side and arrived here. In the months we've been here I've... gained more regard from him than I had in Paris, and am grateful for it."

"He has, on occasion, referred me to you to address specifics about his character."

"Well that's quite the responsibility, although it's not inaccurate to say I've certainly made a study of him over the years."

"Oh? And what are your conclusions?"

"With the caveat that I am undoubtedly biased... He's a man who is rather singular of purpose, and thrived in the environment that fostered it. He was, and he loathes this comparison, the sun that our friends orbited around. Illuminating the path, intent on lighting the path back to the Republic. And the path led to the barricade and it brought he and I here and now his all-consuming focus is gone. And I do mean all-consuming. He saw next to nothing other than the promised land of republicanism. Extremely adept in that and admittedly not much in many other things, and other things are now what he's starting to have to learn about. I'll never find him any less wonderful, though."

To her credit, Susan does listen to the entire explanation, and turns it over in her head, trying to fit it with her understanding of the man. It does square with her conclusion - that he's rather like Peter, in certain fundamental ways. "I see."

He shrugs with a grin. "As I said, though, quite biased."

"Perhaps," says Susan. A pause, and then she admits, "Your good opinion is a credit to him."

"Now there's something I don't often hear. Still, though, I'm more than happy to offer it."

The look Susan gives Grantaire now is laced with doubt - most people here seem to speak highly of Grantaire, either to or around her.

"You look skeptical. Which, in fairness, I generally support."

"It seems to me that many here value your opinions."

"I suppose that's true enough here. Strange thing to get used to, admittedly."

Susan is halfway through interpreting this in a way that once again discredits Enjolras and his social comportment when she realizes that Grantaire mightn't mean in that way. "Oh?"

"I've always been a frivolous man. Not exactly the type one looks to for advice on much beyond where to get the best food and entertainment in Paris. But admittedly very good at that."

"I might argue that's an essential skill."

"It has slightly less utility here, I think."

"No? Supposing the next calamity is one where an intimate knowledge of the best boulangerie in the third arrondissement is the only way to overcome whatever might be going on?"

"... Oh, please, mansion spirits, let that be the next calamity. I would be uniquely suited for it. Provided you ask for information accurate to the proper era."

"What would your answer be?"

"In the third? I think Père Chouinard's. His brioche is exceptional."

"And if you were charged to identify the best pain au chocolat in the fourth?"

"I'd give it to Marchand's, I think. Consistently delicious."

"And the best wine in the second?"

"The best overall selection I would give to a shop called the Trellis. But if you want to sacrifice available variety for quality at the upper end, then Moreau's shop just off the Rue Saint-Joseph."

"I suppose I shall have to take your word on all of this," Susan muses.

"It does seem likely, and it's subjective in any case, but my opinions are nonetheless firm."

"Have you got a ranking system?"

He shakes his head. "Oh, not in the least."

"And so you base your conclusions on...?

"Wanting to avail myself of the best places, or at the very least to know what to recommend when asked. But making a system out of it makes it entirely too much like actual work, which is a terrifying prospect, as who wants to make work out of entertainment?"

Susan, to her own surprise, laughs. "I rather enjoy systems," she says. "But very well. I shan't add creating a rubric for every bistro in the Latin Quarter to your box of lecture possibilities."

"I deeply appreciate your merciful nature."

"London, on the other hand," says Susan, "I imagine might be fair game?"

He laughs. "Oh, absolutely!"

"Have you ever been outside France? Before now, I mean."

"Had a trip to Genoa when I was young, so I've been to Sardinia. Other than that, no."

What is it with Lancelot's gentlemen callers and specifically referencing cities Susan knows primarily for how they were decimated by the war? "Very good," she says. "I shall limit my prompts to places you've never been."

"Excellent. More of a challenge, and will make it inevitably more interesting."

"I shall expect accuracy and detail."

"I can certainly promise you detail!"

Susan watches him for a moment, then nods to herself, decision made. "I know we're not close, but I was worried," she confesses. "That you might come to resent me, during Dark."

He looks honestly perplexed by that statement. "Why would I have done that?"

"I grew up in a time of deprivation. I know how rationing tends to go."

"If Dark was a time to resent anyone, it was the spirits of the place. Certainly not you, without whom several of us would probably have lost our minds after two weeks."

Susan takes a deep breath, releases it, and allows herself to accept Grantaire's words at face value. "Good," she says, and then makes the lightest of grimaces. "Not, ah - the going mad. Obviously."

"I don't know that I would have been fond of that part either, in all honesty. But I should thank you. So thank you."

"You needn't," Susan demurs.

"Oh, the list of things I need to do is long and extremely easy to ignore. So you're right, I didn't need to."

"Very well, then, I shall accept your thanks," says Susan, straight spine straightening further.

He nods and grins. "Excellent. Now I'll never speak of it again."

"Jolly good!"

Grantaire laughs. "Most certainly."

Susan has one last thing to say, and then she shall actually let it go. "We ought to have had a toast," she says, regretfully. "At Bacchus's soiree. To never needing to experience Dark in precisely that way again."

"I would have joined that toast with enthusiasm."

"Next party then, I suppose. Whatever and whenever that might be."

"Agreed."

Susan smiles at him then, small and genuine, tinged with the faintest whiff of relief. "Jolly good," she says again, finally extricating that textbook from her stack and handing it over.

He had almost forgotten about that. "Oh, yes! Thank you!"

"But of course. Do let me know if it's of any use to you."

"If I learn anything at all, it will be of use, so my hopes are high."

"Splendid," says Susan, stacking the rest of her books up again.

"Will you want this back when I'm done with it?"

Susan considers the question seriously. "Only if it's got a sizeable chapter on worms," she decides.

"If it is, I'll even mark it for you."

"Much obliged," says Susan. She hesitates for another moment, squaring off her stack of books, then asks, "How are things with Lancelot?"

"I'd say things are going nicely. I think..." A brief pause. "I think I'm doing my best to assist him in trying to make up for an unfortunate shortage of carefree moments before his arrival."

"Good," she says, quiet, fierce. "He needs that."

"He certainly does. And I'm more than happy to provide what I can."

Susan and Grantaire mightn't be terribly close, but she does have eyes and ears and attend most social events. Grantaire is much better suited for carefree merriment than she or Laertes. She gives him another smile. This time it's slightly warmer, though she certainly hasn't been cold during their conversation. "I am pleased to hear it."

He grins. "Perhaps I should add a topic to the pool myself. 'On the importance of doing unimportant things.'"

"Unimportant," she repeats, raising her eyebrows.

"Or at least widely regarded as such. Frivolity. Things that are fortunate enough not to have the weight of the world behind them."

"In Narnia," says Susan, "it was just as important to dance with the dryads as it was to treat with the Telmarines."

"Good, then. I'm glad it is somewhere."

"I believe it might just be a matter of perspective," thoughtfully.

"Seems so. Of course, a lot of things are, when you think about it."

"I suppose."

A grin. "But maybe that's just a matter of perspective."

"Grantaire," says Susan. "Do you ever argue with yourself just for fun and talk yourself around to a new perspective in the process?"

"Oh, I'll certainly argue with myself for fun, although it's much more difficult to talk myself around as it usually requires a firm perspective in the first place to move from, and I do my best to avoid those as much as possible."

Susan blinks. "And this is fun for you?"

"Without reservation."

"I can't fathom how," says Susan, "but I'm pleased for you."

"And I will quite happily accept that."

"Lovely."

"I think it's probably good that you don't, too. The last thing any world needs is too many determined contrarians. Just a few for seasoning."

A ghost of a smile. "I'm only one of those things." Susan is, once again, attempting to tell a joke!

He laughs. "You probably chose the right one."

"Perhaps," she allows.

He opens the book in his hands, flipping through it absently. "Why worms, by the way?"

"I'm cultivating an interest in soil biota."

"Just for curiosity's sake?"

"I'm rubbish at gardening, but I should like to feel helpful."

"A noble cause, then, and a rarity among noble causes in that it is highly unlikely to end in bloodshed."

"I suppose that depends," says Susan, faux-thoughtful.

"Well yes, some people could indeed become very particular about their produce. Look at what a single golden apple did to Troy."

"I was going to say it depends on whether any of the books suggest bloodshed improves the soil," says Susan. "I shan't make any promises if that does turn out to be the case."

"With luck, that would be undertaken on a volunteer basis."

"Hmmmmm."

"Of course, now I wonder if the mansion could simply produce blood if it was beneficial. Gruesome but interesting."

"Perhaps if Dracula arrived."

Observe the honest curiosity of someone who died years before Bram Stoker was even born. "Dracula?"

"A book," says Susan, immediately heading to the appropriate shelves. "You simply must read it."

He trails behind, intrigued. "That good?"

"Oh, it's lovely. You've heard of vampires, yes?"

"A bit, yes. Interesting tales, certainly."

"Dracula is a vampire story."

"Ah! I see why it would be relevant to the topic, in that case."

"Here," she says, pulling it off the shelf and handing it to him. "Do let me know your thoughts."

He takes it. "I will. I'm amassing quite the reading list."

"Oh?"

"The two you've given me, of course. I've also picked up Notre-Dame de Paris to read, and a few other books that caught my eye on top of that."

"Then it's good we've got such abundant free time here. Dracula is a fast read."

"The abundant free time is certainly a draw. I'll be happy to use some of it on this."

"What sort of books do you typically like?"

"I'm fond of the classics, of course. Aside from that, just whatever sparks my interest at the time. I like to know a little about a lot."

"Such as?"

"Napoleon's entry into Russia was portended by a great comet, and was such a horrific failure that he clearly should have waited for a different portent."

"I meant, what sort of things have sparked your interest recently?"

He shrugs. "Heraldry, for one."

"Heraldry!"

"And the colors thereof."

"Whatever for?"

"I was helping Galahad with a project and then decided to read more just for curiosity's sake."

"I see."

"Things like that, basically. Not enough learning to be dangerous, though."

"No?" She gives him a piercing look. "And how much learning would you argue is dangerous?"

A diffident shrug. "Well, I'll be sure not to--" start any ill-advised revolutions... "not to stuff mind so full that my brain starts leaking out my ears. It's a valid concern. One never knows."

A flash of what amounts to, on Susan Pevensie, an incredulous expression fades quickly into a more knowing one. "I've heard of such cases," she says. "Terrible stuff."

That shift in expression says very clearly that he did not play that off nearly as well as he might have wished, but he continues anyway. "A terrible fate indeed."

"They say it stains your neck terribly."

"Oh, certainly can't have that. Impossible to remove, brain stains."

"I've heard the same."

He nods. "I will keep a slight reserve of ignorance for safety's sake, then."

"Best of luck with that."

"Thank you for the well-wishes."

"They're pragmatic, you know," says Susan. "The well-wishes. If your brain started melting out of your ears, then I should think, hm." She purses her lips and gives him an assessing look, running through her mental list of suspected assignations. "At least a good third of the men here might go utterly useless. And then who could I bully into auditioning for the play? And besides, the lecture series would go absolutely tits-up." She tsks, shaking her head. "No, it's best you remain intact."

"The lecture series I'll grant you, especially as it will also benefit from my ignorance reserve, but a third is surely an exaggeration." He thinks it over. "A quarter at best."

"Only a quarter?" Susan asks, feigning shock to cover up the actual mild surprise she feels at that. For a brief, bright moment, she misses holding court in the pubs and parties of London; misses going home with a different man every night and then never speaking to them again. It was exciting, it made her feel powerful and desired and - later - outside of herself, and sometimes it gave her such wonderfully knotty problems to unpick. But that's not what Grantaire is doing, is it? From what she's observed, apart from her, he's pursued relationships with all of the people she's picked up on.

"I know, I know, dreadfully disappointing."

"You really can do better."

"I'll have to work on that," he says with a laugh. "Only so much time in the day, though."

"You ought to aim for half."

"Half? That's quite a lofty goal."

Susan raises an eyebrow at him. "Are you saying you can't do it?"

"It's simply that it's one thing to set goals for yourself, but this is certainly a case where several people's opinions are just as much if not more important."

Edited 2024-05-22 01:11 (UTC)

Is it? Perhaps. "I suppose that's the difference between sex and relationships," she ventures.

"Well, even there I would much rather not do so with someone who would rather not themselves."

"Naturally not."

"Naturally." He shrugs. "And so, in short, time will tell. I'm far too lucky to want to be greedy."

"That's very respectable of you, Grantaire," sighs Susan, who has often been greedy.

He wrinkles his nose. "Not the dread shackle of respectability."

Edited 2024-05-22 04:25 (UTC)

She raises an eyebrow at him. "If the shoe fits.... Don't worry. I shall keep your secret."

"I can't thank you enough for your discretion."

"You're quite welcome."

"I would hate to see my reputation in shambles."

"Never fear. I shall tell everyone that you're jolly louche."

"Perfect. Your wisdom is unmatched."

"Oh, do please spread that as my reputation in trade."

"I wouldn't dream of doing otherwise."

"Jolly good."

He grins. "It's a pact, then. We'll be the guardians of one another's reputations."

"Lovely," says Susan, only the faintest wry tinge to her voice. "Pleasure doing business with you as always, Grantaire."

"As always," he echoes. "Just let me know when I'll be called upon to lecture."

"Oh..." says Susan. "Perhaps we might plan on the start of the next month?"

He waves a hand. "Yes, that's fine. If it ends up changing, that's fine too. At least I definitely don't need much notice."

"Very good," says Susan, warmly, and she gives him a solemn nod. "Enjoy your bees, Grantaire."

"Enjoy your soul biota. I'll see you later."

Galahad is coming in as she's going out, since his own stash of romances is getting low, and he narrowly avoids a collision. "Hello."

"Oh! Galahad," says Susan, peering at him over her pile of books. She wedges herself against the door, holding it open for him. "Hello."

"Thank you." He pauses. "Do you need help?" Her arms are probably stronger than his now, considering the archery, but he doesn't think not to offer.

Susan has it handled, but it is rather unwieldy if she's to avoid running into anyone in the halls. Another set of arms would be helpful. "Only if you're not busy."

Galahad shakes his head. His task isn't urgent.

"Then I should be grateful for your help," says Susan. "Perhaps if you take the top half of the stack?"

Carefully, he selects the top five books. It isn't precisely half, but he's still learning the limits to his strength and he doesn't want to have to call a halt. "What are you reading about?"

Brightly - Galahad is a budding scientist; surely he'll grasp the joy of a new research spiral - Susan says, "Dirt, generally speaking. Specifically soil biota, which are the organisms which live within the dirt."

"Like worms?" Galahad asks, immediately curious. He's never considered dirt as a habitat before, or what might be teeming below the surface, but now that he has he has a hundred questions.

"Yes," enthusiastically, "worms and all manner of other creatures, from ones you can see to ones so small they're invisible to the naked eye."

"Like germs?"

"Bacteria, certainly," says Susan, with all the authority of a woman who skimmed several paragraphs while making her selections. "So - yes, I suppose just like germs. Have you got an interest in germs?"

"Magnus told me about them. I'm interested in everything."

"Everything!" Susan gives Galahad rather an approving look. "Have you got things you're more interested in than other things? Besides-" what had it been? "-tasting things and trying new clothes, of course."

"I'm interested in everything animals do." He hesitates. "My friend Percival loved animals."

"Did he!" This squares with Susan's limited memory of his role in the stories she'd read to Edmund. "Do you know, I've spoken with Qi Yan about trying to sort out some ethology research here, if you'd like to be involved as well."

Galahad hesitates again. The easy answer is yes, but he's not sure whether he'll have time now that he's studying with Lan Wangji as much as possible; every morning he meets Lan Wangji by seven to begin training, and his free time is spent now meditating, and lifting rocks. Since he and Magnus¹ found the scabbard, he's been wearing his new sword always, and it's belted around his waist now, over his favorite embroidered overalls.

¹This hasn't happened yet, but it will.

Susan shan't rush him - it's clear Galahad is a thoughtful sort, who gives full consideration to his choices - but she does add, "Obviously we can't do immediately. There are other tasks that take priority. I am hoping, though, that more animals emerge with the turn of the season."

"I hope so too." He permits himself, for a few moments, to imagine turning rocks with Susan, looking at what's beneath and cataloging it, understanding it. He would be happy, he thinks, to do something that would have made Percival so happy. It feels like Grantaire's sketchbook of his friends, a way to honor the lost.

"I know nothing about soil or its biota," Susan admits then. "But I felt rather helpless, during Dark. I mightn't be as good at growing things as your Claudius or your friend Magnus, but I believe I could learn some other useful things."

"I believe you could too."

"Thank you," pleased. She starts making her way up the stairs, shifting the books to one arm so that she can rest her other hand on the banister.

Galahad follows her, something he feels very comfortable doing. He likes Susan's practicality and straightforwardness; it's easy to know what she means, because she says it, and her questions all make sense to him. He's checked his watch, and he has at least an hour before he should go bake with Laertes for the café.

"Was your friend Percival's favorite animal the unicorn?" Susan asks - she's dredged up the memory of their earlier conversations about him by now, and this seems a less fraught question than one about Camelot or the Grail.

"It wasn't his favorite. He loved all animals. They loved him."

"My sister was like that, too."

"Will you tell me about her?"

"Certainly," says Susan, after the briefest moment of reflection - she gets the sense that, if she weren't willing, Galahad wouldn't push, and this makes her more inclined to say yes. "What would you like to know?"

"What was she like with animals? Why did they like her? Was she quiet?"

"Oh, not at all. Lucy was very reactive. She'd gasp, she'd coo - but she was careful with them nonetheless. She'd treat everything like it was new and precious and exciting and magical." Susan pauses. "In Narnia, most of the animals spoke, and they were charmed by her. By the time we returned to England, she'd acquired more gravity, and I suppose then she took enough care for the dumb beasts to feel comfortable with her, as well. --That's their official designation in Narnia, you know; any animal that wasn't a Talking Beast was a Dumb Beast."

Galahad frowns just a little. Dumb beast is just an accurate description for a non-talking animal, but something in it seems disdainful. "Percival says animals can't always tell you aren't going to hurt them, even when you're being as gentle as you can be. He says it's all right if not every animal understands what you intend. But they all liked him anyway."

"In ethological practice, we remain at a remove from the animals," says Susan. "So as to reduce the risk that we shall affect their behaviors while we're observing them." She does still, in truth, believe that she's better at a distance. In archery, in this, and - yes, still in many social interactions. "Lucy was the one with the knack for getting close to them."

That makes sense. Galahad nods. "What would you like to study here?"

"The assortment of animals here is so jolly queer, I haven't the first idea where I might get started."

"Yes. I think they are from different places, but I don't know whether they are from different worlds."

"What I find most curious is the proportions," says Susan, as they reach the top of the stairs and start off down the hall toward her room. "There are plenty of little deer, but nothing I'd characterize as a 'herd.' There are flocks of birds I'd imagine to be more solitary, and singular animals I'd expect to come in packs. It's really quite queer."

"Is it because there's no enough land for families? Or is it something else?"

"I'm not sure," Susan admits. "I can't imagine we haven't got the space for at least smaller groupings. ...I do wonder how they arrive here. Is it the same as with... us?"

"If we surveyed them, we would know when new ones come. If there was a pattern, we might see it," he says, understanding.

"Yes," Susan agrees. "Do you know, I can't believe that hadn't occurred to me till now."

"Magnus could help with that too," he says. "He talks to them."

"Can he! Isn't that convenient," says Susan. "Imagine telling my old ethology professors that." When she'd been studying, of course, she'd forgotten the Talking Beasts of Narnia were more than figments of childhood storytelling. "That would be very useful for a census. Less useful, perhaps, for studying behavior. All creatures tend to change their actions when they sense they're being observed, you know."

That certainly makes sense. "Those are different kinds of experiment," not quite a question.

"Precisely," with warmth, as they reach the door to her room. She hesitates with her hand on the knob. "Do you fancy a cup of tea?"

"Yes, please."

During Dark, Susan had relocated one of the electric kettles to her room, for the afternoons that felt too oppressive to go see just how few supplies were left in the cafe or kitchens or her favorite parlor. It's still there, with resupplied tea. She's found a small icebox to keep milk, too, and some small snacks.

The last time Galahad came by her room, Lancelot had a pair of shoes by the door and a few items of clothes in the closet. Now, there's much more of his stuff, neatly organized and interspersed with her things. There's a second reading chair by the window, and a few more mugs on the sideboard.

She deposits her armful of books on the desk and gestures for Galahad to do the same. As she bustles over to flip the kettle on, she says, "You may sit wherever is most comfortable." In addition to the bed and the reading chairs, there's a couch in a little alcove, and two dining chairs at the little table by the sideboard.

Galahad chooses one of the dining chairs and settles into it to watch her. He can tell that the room is, like his and Claudius', a room that contains two people now, and there's something pleasant about that, even besides the knowledge that Lancelot has settled into this place and made a home here, just as Galahad has.

Susan bustles around for a moment, gathering mugs and teabags and setting them next to the kettle so they'll be ready when the water is, and then she takes the seat across from Galahad. "Do you know what a microscope is?"

"Yes. Claudius has one. He showed me how to use it."

"Oh! Splendid. We've got one here, then?" Susan hadn't spotted any during her regular inventory searches of the Mansion and its grounds, but then again, she doesn't make a habit of looking into spaces claimed by individuals. She'd just been assured of her own ability to make the mansion generate the things she requires, now that it's not Dark anymore. "I was thinking we might look at some dirt once it warms up."

"He doesn't mind when I borrow it. It's in our room."

"Very good," says Susan, not bothering to blunt her pleasure at this news. The kettle is boiling, and she rises again to pour the water into the mugs. "Do you take milk or sugar?"

"Sugar, please." He looks to see what form her sugar takes; he has different preferences for loose or lump.

Susan puts a splash of milk in her mug and then, in a careful balancing act, carries both over, along with a little dish of loose sugar and a packet of Jaffa cakes.

Galahad, with his usual studious precision, adds three spoonfuls of sugar to his cup of tea, and takes two of the Jaffa cakes.

Susan takes two spoonfuls of sugar, one of the cakes to start, and says, "I got so caught up in our conversation I do believe I forgot to ask how you've been."

He touches the sword at his hip. "I'm beginning over."

"Beginning over?"

"It was a test, and I failed. God has no more use for me."

Susan frowns, leaning forward. If she stopped to think of what she knew of Galahad's story, she might put two and two together more quickly, but she's been remarkably successful at putting old legends out of her mind when talking to their sources, and all she sees before her is a young man she cares for - rather a lot, as it turns out - saying words that would be devastating from Edmund or Lucy. "Are you all right?"

A long silence follows, before Galahad finally says, "I feel-- discarded."

Susan is a tactile woman; without thinking, she reaches to grasp Galahad's hand. His story is coming back to her now, overlaid with the things he's specifically told her during their conversations, and she can make some assumptions about what must have happened. "I've felt--" not precisely the same way "--similarly," she say, quietly.

"I'm not sorry. But I'm angry." He doesn't pull his hands away. He likes being touched.

"Yes," Susan agrees. "I'm often furious."

"I told you I was angry before. I'm angrier now."

Susan gives him one of her sharp, piercing looks. "You hadn't truly been discarded before, had you? But you are now?"

"Before-- I wasn't myself when I broke my vows. I thought it must have still counted, but I was wrong. This time He stripped me of the power He had given me." A silence. "He knew I would. That's why He sent the visions. He was trying to turn me back."

"He oughtn't have the right," says Susan, fiercely. "Oh, I get that He's God, but it's jolly cruel."

"I am a cup He fashioned, and I have cracked open and He cannot use me."

"Sex and love aren't destructive," Susan says, unintentionally stern. "They're productive and good. God oughtn't act like a jealous lover." She remembers, then, the conversation she'd had with Claudius about this sort of thing so many months ago. Ought she say to Galahad what she said to Claudius? It's rather crude, after all.

Galahad tilts his head. It doesn't seem as though she's done.

Susan stirs her sugar into her tea slowly, and decides as she does that she hasn't got any good reason to be circumspect. "I told your Claudius once that God often acts like a man who doesn't properly know how to use his, ah. Uninspiring prick," she confesses.

"I don't know what that's like," with a faint wryness.

"Then I'm very pleased for you," says Susan, breaking her Jaffa cake neatly in half.

"Is it that bad?"

"How God has treated us, or a man who doesn't know how to use his uninspiring prick?"

"I know about the first one."

Too true. Susan gives him a soft look, squeezes his hand and then releases it, and says, "In that case, it's very nearly as dreadful." This is only partially a joke.

Gravely, "I'll try to avoid it."

Susan twists around to retrieve a little dish from the sideboard for the tea bags. "I expect you're in good hands with your Claudius," she says, as she turns back around and starts fishing her bag out of her mug.

He gives her a faintly curious look. "You don't know." But of course that's not really a surprise; Claudius likes to say that he prefers younger men and older women. Galahad isn't good at telling how old people are, but he's fairly sure Susan is more his age than Claudius'. Still, sex is a language for Claudius, and it sometimes takes Galahad by surprise that he hasn't tried to speak it with everyone.

"No," she agrees. "Ought I?" She hasn't got any interest in Claudius, not like that, but she's curious about Galahad's reaction.

"He likes to learn about people that way. He says it's a way of talking to people."

"I suppose he's not wrong about that," Susan says. It's not why she has such a long list of ex-lovers, but she can see the value in such an approach.

"What do you think about sex?"

"Well, I rather like it," says Susan, mostly as a placeholder to buy herself some time to sort through her thoughts.

Galahad waits, and eats his Jaffa cake.

"I suppose I think it's many things," Susan says then. Even with all the vagaries of their relationship, she can't possibly tell Lancelot's son that for her, the specifics of her partners have rarely been a consideration. "I like to feel good, and I like to be good at things. I'm quite good at sex and it's generally jolly pleasurable. Sometimes it affords me a measure of power, in ways I can't otherwise reliably hold. I believe perhaps it might also be a way of getting to know yourself, as well." She pauses there and tests her tea.

She is, he thinks, very like Claudius. Even if Claudius hasn't said these exact words to him, he recognizes some of them -- he feels what's familiar. He likes that he can tell. He nods. "I understand."

Susan leans forward and props her chin on her wrist. "What do you think about it?"

A slight tilt of his head. "I like pleasure. Of all kinds."

"So sex, naturally," says Susan. "And -" she dredges her memory. "New foods and clothes?"

"And music, and frivolous books," he agrees. "And games. I wasn't allowed any of those things before."

Edited 2024-05-17 20:31 (UTC)

"What sort of music do you like?" Susan asks, perking up.

Very seriously, "I like everything. I like sounds. I like opera and hymns and the Grateful Dead and Ella Fitzgerald and Rema. I've been making lists of my favorite records."

"I'm not familiar with some of those," Susan admits. "I do like Ella Fitzgerald... I say. You haven't happened to come across any Harry Roy records, have you?"

Galahad closes his eyes, calling up record sleeves. "Harry Roy and his Bat Club Boys," he says, after a moment.

"Truly?" A foreign expression crosses Susan's face: genuine excitement. It's been a long, long time since that's happened.

"It was a few months ago. I think I can find it again."

"I'd appreciate it. Ever so much."

"What other things to do you like?"

"Oh, big band music. Things you can dance to. Things that are a little raunchy. Nat Gonella, for example. I've heard some American and French records I like, too. Glenn Miller, Harry James... for vocalists I've enjoyed Edith Piaf and Frank Sinatra."

"Claudius likes Glenn Miller too. He likes jazz."

"Does he! That's lovely," says Susan. "I suppose I've got opportunity here to try things I've not yet heard. What are some of your favorite records?"

"The Cole Porter Songbook. The Firebird Suite. Tom Waits' Orphans. The Divine Catastrophe. Fox Confessor Brings the Flood. The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan." Galahad finishes the Jaffa cake. "I don't like choosing favorites. Those are all albums I like."

"You don't like choosing favorites?"

"No. There are different reasons I like them. It's like choosing my favorite food. I could choose my favorite cake, or my favorite soup, but food is-- too broad."

Susan can respect that; she nods, satisfied, and takes a sip of tea.

The way Susan always seems to immediately grasp his explanations is immensely satisfying to Galahad, who so much hates being misunderstood. He starts on the second Jaffa cake.

"Are there any you'd recommend I start with?"

"Little Violet," promptly.

"Little Violet?"

"The name of the singer." He finishes the second Jaffa cake. "Would you like to go now?"

Oh! Now? Susan certainly can't fault Galahad's orientation to tasks. "As soon as I finish my tea?" There are two, maybe three sips left.

"Yes." A touch apologetic, "It's easier to show you."

"Of course it is," she says, with a firm nod, and savors a sip of her tea, regarding him thoughtfully as she does. "Do you know," she says, after a spell. "I rather appreciate your tendency to suit action to word."

Edited 2024-05-20 01:06 (UTC)

"Thank you," Galahad says, in his usual serious way. It is something he's good at, although he hasn't quite worked out why other people aren't (except Claudius; Galahad knows that when Claudius says he will do something and then struggles to do it, there's a reason, and if he pays attention he can often find out what it is).

She finishes her tea. "I think we ought to be friends, don't you?"

"I would like that."

"Jolly good," says Susan, pleased. She chases the tea with the last bite of her Jaffa cake and then pushes her mug aside. "Right. I'm ready when you are."

Galahad rises to his feet and carefully brushes crumbs off the front of his overalls and into his palm. "I'm ready."

Susan rises, too, taking just a moment to nip into the bathroom and deposit the mugs on the sink counter to be washed later. "Lead the way."

At one point, the record player was in a room of its own, and records seemed to appear there, like water-loving plants springing up around the edge of a pond, but since Claudius moved it to their room Galahad has noticed more and more records populating on their own shelves. Following the water, perhaps. The original room has the bulk of the records still, however, and so he takes Susan there. There are boxes and boxes of them on low tables, perfect for browsing; Galahad has been going through them slowly, taking his time. He can remember all the covers after only looking at them once or twice, the way he can with text, and he quickly finds the box of jazz and swing that Claudius tends to favor and pulls out Code Red.

Susan had mentally categorized this room as belonging to someone, and therefore its contents are new to her. "My goodness," she says, staring around it. "There's so many of them!"

Before he began training with Lan Wangji, he spent a great deal of his free time here, deciding what records he wanted to try. He nods. "I've listened to a hundred and sixty-seven. So far."

"Have you got documentation of your thoughts?"

"I keep notes."

Susan would expect nothing less from a bright young man like Galahad. "Very good," she says, approvingly, and then a strange look crosses her face. "I wonder what's become of all the notes I left in London."

"From your studies?"

"Yes, but - I also kept an extensive diary."

He doesn't know whether she's perturbed at losing her chronicle or concerned that someone might find it in her absence -- probably she didn't keep it in cipher as Claudius does. He waits and listens as he sorts through records.

It's neither, actually - Susan is wondering whether the people she's left behind are worried about her. It's not a concern she had in Narnia, not even once. And isn't that queer! Her siblings were with her, yes, but their parents and the old professor were all left behind, and it was as if they just... forgot.

Perhaps Susan's natural tendency is to forget, then. Forgetting to worry about her family when she was in Narnia; forgetting Narnia when she was in England. She'd forgotten to worry about Ingrid and Miriam, too, for months and months. Perhaps it's that she remembered at all that's queer, now. Except now she's had experience being the one left behind, hasn't she?

It won't do to ruminate on this now, though. She's got better things to do with her time. "It's no matter," she says, and shrugs it off briskly.

Galahad says nothing to that -- it does matter, or she wouldn't have thought of it, or spent so long thinking of it, but he doesn't know that he wants to point that out right now. It's just something to remember. Still, he continues not to speak. He's found that sometimes if he waits long enough people decide they want to keep talking.

Susan has put the threat of having an emotion firmly behind her. "Is the turntable in your room, then?"

"Yes. Would you like to come up?"

"I would."

Galahad can no longer carry entire boxes of records effortlessly, so he chooses three or four he wants to listen to and then starts for the door.

Susan casts about for a conversational topic as they walk. "What other sorts of things do you keep notes on?"

"Tastes. I like rating things. Magnus and Shen Yuan taught me about it."

Galahad truly is an exceptional young man. Susan ought to rate tastes, too. "What have you rated most recently?"

"Being drunk."

Edited 2024-05-24 17:54 (UTC)

"Oh!" She fixes him with an expectant look. "And how did you find that?"

"Grantaire shared his wine with me. It wasn't bad, but it was-- disorderly. Hard to think."

"Yes, that's the typical effect," Susan nods. "It can... accentuate choices. Enable both bad and good ones. It removes your inhibitions, you know. Amplify your moods."

"You've tried it, then. Did you like it?"

"More than once," Susan says. "I was quite the party girl in London."

He waits, to see whether she'll answer his question.

"I like it sometimes," she decides. "It felt rather more desperate than fun for some months. I believe it might be growing fun again."

"Claudius said it can be a kind of chemical restraint. For sex."

"A restraint? In what manner?"

"Because a person who is drunk is not in command of himself, and may be teased or spoiled to better effect."

"Ah." Susan nods. "I tend to think of that as unrestrained, myself. I think that can be rather fun." See: recent experiences, such as with Lancelot after Bacchus's party, or with Janet in the rug-room. "The important thing, I think, is that you start with a good mood." After all, maudlin choices can accelerate quickly. See: other experiences that hardly bear mention or thought any more.

"Does it make you more sad, if you are sad already?" He drank defiantly, and he remembers being defiant, speaking heresies and complaining about Saint Augustine.

"Not necessarily," says Susan, in that fastidiously precise way of hers. "I have drunk as a distraction from grief. But I believe, perhaps, that there is always a chance of getting caught up in your own head, rather than released from it, when you are drunk, and if you're sad you shall become devastatingly sad."

That's very good information to have. Sometimes Galahad is devastatingly sad for no reason at all, and it's useful to know that a game of drinking for Claudius would be ill-advised under those circumstances. He nods. "Thank you."

At this juncture, they arrive at Galahad and Claudius' room, and Galahad opens the door. The room is tidy but lived-in, with Claudius' things on the desk and vanity, Galahad's stack of books on his nightstand, and the record player on its own little table next to the kotatsu.

Susan appreciates the tidiness, as she takes in the details of the room - she has, of course, stopped by before, but this is the first time she's spent longer than a moment or two inside of it. "What sort of table is that?" she asks, as she takes in the one that seems to have a blanket instead of legs.

"I don't know what it's called, but it's warm. Claudius brought it back." Claudius didn't say it was a gift for Galahad -- it was probably as much for Claudius himself -- but the long winter, hard in so many other ways, has been uncomfortable and sometimes painful for his hands and feet, and when he sits at the cozy table he imagines that Claudius was thinking of him.

"It looks lovely." Susan hesitates a moment. "Where ought I sit?"

"You may sit there, if you would like to try it."

Susan would like to try it! She sits carefully, glancing to Galahad to ensure she's got it right.

He nods and switches on the kotatsu; at once warmth begins to radiate out from the heating element affixed to the bottom of the table. It is lovely. Meanwhile, Galahad begins setting up the Little Violet record on the record player.

"How marvelous," Susan breathes. She doesn't often get terribly cold but this is awfully cozy.

Galahad's hands flutter for a moment, signing warm, good -- he loves the kotatsu. As the music begins, he joins Susan, tucking his cold feet under it.

There are things Susan would like to ask Galahad - for example, ought she learn sign language? - but she'd also like to give the music he wants to show her her full attention. She leans in, focusing.

He sits quietly, equally attentive to the album -- Code Red -- as the brassy, jazzy sounds of swing flow from the record player. Music is a seemingly-endless source of novelty, new sounds and words he almost feels as flavors, as if every new kind of instrument or pitch of voice is something he can capture on his tongue.

Susan listens to music in the same way she does many things: with a great deal of focus and deliberateness. Now she closes her eyes, taking in the instrumentation and the words, tasting the way they feel together. It's good. She likes it. Her lip curls.

He'd chosen it because it reminds him of Claudius as well as Susan, the ways in which they overlap, and his attention shifts to her, interested.

The first song thoroughly captivates Susan, full of the sort of innuendos that are laced through some of her own favorites, and she loses herself to the sounds of it. During the second, her brow furrows, and she reaches to stop the record player at its end so that she and Galahad can speak without interrupting her experience of any subsequent songs. "I don't believe I understand that one," she admits. "I mean, I understand the central conceit, but I don't follow the film metaphor."

"What part of it?" Galahad asks, quite seriously -- Claudius has told him some things about movies, so there's a chance he'll understand.

"Color and sound haven't got anything to do with each other. I'm as old as sound in film, you know. Color came later." She pauses, and think back on what she said, and a smile flickers across her face. "I mean, I was born the same year they started filming with sound. I suppose that's less of a useful frame of reference here. 'Black and white' doesn't necessarily imply 'silent,' and just because they hadn't any sound doesn't mean they hadn't any dialogue. There were intertitles, you know. Filmed cards with the dialogue written on them."

"So it's imprecise."

"Rather, yes."

Galahad also dislikes imprecision. He nods.

Point made, Susan starts the record again, now on the third track.

He listens with her, savoring the warmth of the kotatsu on his feet and hands (which are folded neatly in his lap), the sound of the music, the faint smell of Claudius' favorite perfume. He loves these rooms, which feel more like home than anywhere ever has. He belongs here, in this life.

Susan settles into the sound of the scratch of the record, the little mechanical whirr underneath it, and the sound coming out of the machine. It's a little more stripped-down than the music she gravitated toward in London, and it's clear music has shifted somewhat since her time, but she likes it very much. There are songs she likes better, but none that she specifically dislikes.

She is, she finds, smiling faintly.

Galahad can't read her, any better than he can read anyone who isn't Claudius, but he trusts her to be someone who'll just tell him if she's bored or thinks he should make a cup of tea, and that soothes any anxiety he might feel. When the record ends he looks over at her.

"I quite liked that," says Susan, ruminatively, looking back at Galahad. "I admit, I prefer the songs with the, ah. Double entendres."

"I thought you would."

Her lips twist in a faint wry smile. "What do you like about it?"

"It reminds me of Claudius. And I'm trying to learn to tell different instruments apart. I'm not very good at it yet, but I can tell some of the ones in these songs."

"Oh? What have you sorted out so far?"

"There is a piano in many of them. And a trumpet. Drums. The others I don't know yet. I have to learn the instruments, too."

"I'm afraid I've always been fairly rubbish at distinguishing instruments," Susan admits. "I've got a miserable ear in that regard. The closest I've come to playing any sort of instrument was with my old horn."

"What kind of horn?"

"Oh, some sort of old hunting horn. It sounded like a cross between a bugle and a conch. It was magical, you know. Father Christmas gave it to me. If one blew it, help would arrive posthaste." She's quiet for a moment, remembering - so much of the past year for her is murky now, but these memories are as clear as day. When she hadn't been Queen Susan the Gentle, she'd been Queen Susan of the Horn¹. "'And when you put this horn to your lips and blow it, then, wherever you are, I think help of some kind will come to you,' that's what he said. They used it to bring us back to Narnia once, when it was in crisis."

¹Her typist has taken this in a different direction altogether².
²Susan has no way of knowing this, but per an Easter egg in her intro post, the horn also brought her here!

Edited 2024-06-16 04:19 (UTC)

"Tell me about Narnia," with interest. This isn't something she's spoken of before. "Is it your land?"

Susan supposes she has only mentioned it in the context of the dagger she drew from his experiment. "It was," she says. "It was another world. We got there the first time through a wardrobe, of all things - it didn't have a back, it just kept going and going, past the coats and into a wintery forest. We had to liberate it from the White Witch, and then we ruled it for fifteen years, my brothers and sister and I."

Galahad has so many questions he almost wishes he had a notebook like Shen Yuan's to write them down in, to be sure he forgets none of them. He starts with: "Was it magic?"

"Oh yes. Very. Both literally and metaphorically, I believe."

"Metaphorically?"

"It was so wondrous, it would've felt magical even if it wasn't," Susan says. Her brow furrows lightly. "That sounds remarkably imprecise, doesn't it? I mean, there were elements of magic and myth everywhere you looked. But the magic was all there because of Aslan - the great Lion. And no one used magic, except Aslan and the Witch. Even Father Christmas and the river gods and Bacchus only had power because of Aslan. I suppose it's most accurate to say that magic was present, and part of the land itself, but actual workings of magic were vanishingly rare during our reign. So we didn't see it every day, except for where it was just part of the landscape. But compared to England..." She trails off. "I'm afraid I'm not making any sense."

"Like here," Galahad says, simply.

"In many ways, yes. I would say - this place is queer and magical and unexpected. Shifting. Narnia was queer and magical, but predictable. Really the greatest similarity was - we left Narnia, you know, fifteen years into our reign. Not on purpose. We were called back a year later, in our time, and fund that over one thousand years had passed in Narnia. So the streams we'd played in had become canyons; our castle was in ruins and the peninsula it sat upon had become an island. Logical changes, but ones for which we were unprepared."

Edited 2024-06-17 18:13 (UTC)

He waits -- it feels like she's telling a story, one that she hasn't finished.

"The changes here are faster and less predictable."

He thinks of the sheds and how they found Drosera, and nods. "Is that why you spoke to Drosera when you first met her?"

"Because of Narnia? Yes."

"Did you grow up in Narnia and become a child again when you went back to your world?"

Susan looks at him, surprised. "Yes," she says. "I was thirteen when we first arrived in Narnia. I was twenty-seven when we stumbled back through the wardrobe. Only a few minutes had passed, and we were all the same age we'd been when we left."

"What did it feel like?"

"To leave?"

"To be a child again. Did you remember? Was it hard?"

"It took some time. It helped that we were living with someone who understood. It was harder when we went back to living with our parents."

"Who were you with?"

"An old professor. I learned later that he'd been as well. He was actually there when Aslan created Narnia."

"At the beginning of the world?"

"Yes." A faint look of regret crosses Susan's face. "I ought to have asked Lucy for more details when she was here."

"About what?"

"About what the professor saw and did, when he was a boy watching Narnia come into being. She's had the opportunity to speak with him about it in," the slightest suggestion of an eye-roll, "Heaven."

"Would she have cared to ask?" since he is equally an unimpressed about heaven.

"I don't know," Susan sighs, and admits, "That's why I didn't ask."

Galahad nods.

"It's queer," Susan says then, "that he should be at the beginning of Narnia, and at its end. He died with the rest of them, you know."

"Did it mean something?"

Susan is not a woman who often admits to not knowing something, but with Galahad it seems less fraught. "I don't know," she says, yet again. "What do you think?"

Galahad considers everything she's told him about God and about heaven and about Narnia, and finally says, "I think God wants the things He has chosen for Himself."

Susan presses her lips together. "Yes," she decides. "I suppose you're right."

"Is Aslan God?"

Susan nods. "I believe he is."

"I'm glad you didn't go back," Galahad says. He's said this before, or something like it, but it feels important he should say it again. He's glad that Susan doesn't belong to God. He's glad she she's here instead, wanting things, being angry, listening to music with him.

She looks at him, startled; a smile creeps over her face. "Thank you," she says. "I rather am, too." A pause, then: "Are you glad to be here?" Rather than, obviously, with God.

"Yes. I'm happy."

"Good," says Susan, fiercely. Then she nods at the other records he'd brought with them. "What else have you got there?"

He hands her two records; one is Harry Roy (The Dance Band Years), as she'd mentioned earlier, and the other is Good Together by Lake Street Dive.

"Have you listened to the Harry Roy yet?"

"No. I'd only seen it before once."

Susan blinks. "Only once?"

He tilts his head slightly. "Yes."

"And you remembered it?"

"I always remember words."

"Fascinating," Susan says, twisting to look at him straight-on. "All words? Truly?"

He nods slowly. "Is that unusual?"

"Perhaps," says Susan, thoughtfully. She glances around the room and then nods at one of the books on the bedside table. "Would you be able to recite a passage from that without looking at it?"

It's one of the romance novels he's been reading, The Queer Principles of Kit Webb. He nods. If he closes his eyes, he can bring the pages and their crisp type up inside of his mind.

Edited 2024-06-23 02:10 (UTC)

Susan's scientific side is getting engaged. "If I were to choose a page from the book, would you be able to tell me what's on that page?"

"Yes."

Susan opens the book at random. "Sixty-three."

The crisp black print appears in front of Galahad's eyes, the way the scripture does, under the title printed in its block letters. He recites, "Kit leaned back against the damp stone of the nearest wall. The Duke of fucking Clare. It was that name, that man, and every man like him, who had led Kit to become what he had been."

"My word," Susan breathes. "That's marvelous."

"It isn't usual, then."

"No, I've not seen anything like it," Susan says. "I'm well envious, though. I should like to remember things that clearly."

"I can only do it with things that are written. I don't remember speech so well."

"Anything written? Letters, novels, scientific articles?"

"Yes. Anything written. Not pictures."

"That sounds tremendously convenient," says Susan, thinking of the dozens of times she'd sometimes pour over a textbook to try and fully commit it to her understanding prior to an exam. Imagine if she could instead have pulled direct quotes from her memory!

"I learned my catechism very quickly," Galahad says, with a flash of that occasional wryness.

Susan huffs a half-laugh. "I imagine so!"

He considers, rubbing the band of his watch. "It must be something that is part of me, and not a power from God, or I would have lost it too."

"Yes," with a soft look. "I would think so."

"Good."

"I'm sure most things are yours and not God's," she says, which is equally based on her observations of the many things that consistently recommend Galahad as a thoughtful, talented young man with a keen eye for detail, science, and fashion, and on her distaste for what God might have to offer.

Galahad looks at her for a moment, and then softens with pleasure at what he obviously sees as a compliment. "Thank you," he says.

Susan looks back at Galahad for a long moment, then nods to herself, then says, "Do you know, when I was in Narnia, I was rather good at archery. I won any number of contests. And then when we went back, I'd forgotten quite a bit -- it had been an age since I'd shot seriously. But it was like there was something in the air, there, and - Aslan ensured Father Christmas gave me a bow and quiver that allowed me to pick it up immediately." She's quiet for another moment. "I forgot about Narnia for nearly nine years, and didn't practice once. I haven't got a magic bow any more." A fierce flash of a smile. "I'm nearly as good as I used to be."

"You've been practicing."

"I have," proudly.

He nods, pleased for her. She's good at this because she's worked for it. She should be proud.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

Galahad nods.

"Do you know that Lancelot and Gideon train together?" Susan asks. This isn't the secret, of course; it's a prelude to it.

"No."

"They do," Susan says, and her eyes sparkle as she adds, "Gideon bested him once. I should have liked to see that."

"He didn't mind?" a touch surprised.

"No, of course not," says Susan; this is a matter of course for her. "He was impressed by her, ah, ingenuity." She leans forward. "In any case, the secret is that I've found rubber arrows with soft tips. I believe I might... surprise them during training one day."

His eyes widen minutely as he realizes what she means. The Lancelot he knew... would have been dangerous in the face of such a game. But this Lancelot is capable of being playful, it seems, and losing without flying into a rage.

It's not a surprise, exactly. Lancelot has been so much softer-spoken and gentler, and the fact that Susan loves him and Claudius has chosen to forgive him are both things that certainly couldn't have happened if he were anything like the Lancelot Galahad knew in Camelot. It's just a jarring remind of how far those differences go.

"I've told Janet as well," Susan continues. "But I believe I should like to thoroughly surprise Lancelot and Gideon, at the outset."

"I think you will."

"Oh, splendid."

Galahad is quiet for a little while, considering, and then says, "Thank you."

"Whatever for?"

"I enjoy our time together."

Edited 2024-07-01 12:01 (UTC)

She smiles at him, one of her practiced ones, but the sentiment behind it is genuine. "As do I."

"I would like to continue."

Susan is visibly pleased to hear it. They've established they're friends, but she's always appreciated solicitation of specific plans, and now that she's trying specifically to rebuild the social skills she'd let atrophy after the accident, this request feels like a small success. "As would I."

"May I bring you insects to look at?"

"Oh!" Susan has never been an entomologist, but it isn't as if there's much ethological work to be done here, and she does now have all those books on soil biota. "I should like that very much."

"I would like to take pictures of them, or draw them, and keep track of what we find. So we know what countries they're from, or whether they're new, and what they feed on. It would help Claudius in the garden. And it would be interesting."

"I thoroughly agree."

"Good."

"I ought to get more books," Susan says, thoughtfully. "We might establish a way of approaching taxonomical questions so that we can sort them more easily as we find them."

"Explain," he says, sounding uncannily like Lan Wangji, although he leans forward curiously.

"Do you know of taxonomy?"

"Very little. Claudius is more interested in evolution."

"Taxonomy has a great deal to do with evolution," says Susan, with surprise. "In ethology we are taught to consider phylogeny of entire taxa when sorting out why certain behaviors or physical features exist. For example--" she casts about. Her knowledge is much more squarely in the realm of animal life than plant. "Primates. I had a professor who studied the rhesus macaque, you know. They're Old World monkeys, which had a behavioral and evolutionary split with New World monkeys long before they split with apes. If we had a variety of troops of primates here," she says, with a little sigh - monkeys were never her passion animal, but she does so miss the opportunities she got to work with them now, "then we might start to distinguish between them by observing: which are more arboreal and which are more terrestrial; if they've got tails and if so, how those tails are used; whether they seem to have padded buttocks; their primary methods of communication; and the structures of their hands. This would allow us to more easily pinpoint their classification and cross-reference them with books."

"They're names," he says, understanding, "that tell you where something goes. What kind of thing it is. Like a library classification system."

"Just so. I assume your Claudius uses scientific names for plants? They refer to the plants' taxonomy." She pauses. "I haven't got a strong understanding, yet, of the systems used for insects. But we might review what's known, so we know what features ought to be focused on first when we're trying to sort out what's here."

"Yes. I know the ones he says often, and also the ones Mothwing uses for medicine. I would like to look at the insects."

"And so we shall," with a level of enthusiasm she doesn't often reach.

Where there's a library, there's a mediocre angel¹ wandering his way in with his head rather typically in the clouds. He brightens a bit when he sees Susan -- it's been quite some time, aside from across various large social gatherings, but he does recall that he found her accent comforting. "Ms. Pevensie!"

¹One with a rude narrator, apparently.

Why must mediocre angels happen to magnificent women? "Hello," she says, pitch-perfectly polite.

"Aziraphale," he supplies helpfully, in case she's forgotten or some such. "How have you been getting on?"

"Oh, just fine, thank you," she says, still politely. "And you?"

"Much improved, with that wretched month behind us," admits Aziraphale. "It was noble of you to administer the liquor. What are you reading?"

"It had to be done," says Susan, who doesn't think much of an angel who didn't help during a time of need. It should go without saying that she's still perfectly pleasant and polite, of course, and will continue to do so unless otherwise noted. She holds up the stack of books so that he might read the spines.

"How... specific," he says, but in tones of genuine interest, "but I suppose spring is, hopefully, coming. I was quite curtailed, you know." He's circling back now to the first thing she said. "Couldn't do a useful miracle for the life of me."

"No?"

"No," says Aziraphale, with no small amount of ruefulness. "Crowley was better off than me -- he could still create food. Not good food, but food."

"My goodness!" Susan says, picture-perfect in her light, empathic regret. What a useless little man. "And you couldn't produce anything? How harrowing."

"Dreadfully," he says, oblivious to her distaste but in the cheerful way that means he knows it was harrowing only by the standards of a relatively spoiled earth-dwelling angel. "I don't need to eat, but I like to. And I'd have liked to provide greater nutritional variety around here, but that was just as likely to blow up in my face as to feed anyone. Literally. I'm quite glad Dionysus was around."

"Blow up! Truly?"

"It won't now," Aziraphale assures her. "If there's something you'd like or need, I can help again." See? Model of an angelic citizen. Surely no one would argue that point.

"But that was a risk?"

"Oh, yes," he says, sanguine about it. "I tried to call several things into existence before I caught on entirely. Crowley had to help me put out the sparkler I got instead of a reading lamp."

"The attempts at food also produced sparklers?"

"It was different each time. Like the work of a creative prankster."

"But all deadly?"

"Are sparklers deadly?" He asks this with genuine concern. Are humans all right? Must they keep inventing ways to hurt themselves?

"Are not explosions typically deadly? You did say they might blow up."

"Surely explosions, like most things, exist on a scale." Aziraphale is having a perfectly enjoyable time arguing pedantically; this is what he and Crowley do to flirt, after all.

Susan, however, is not. Oh sure, she might be an avowed pedant, but she only enjoys it in others rarely. "Then if there was no risk to the conjuring, why did you not conjure?"

"Why, because I didn't imagine anyone was in terrible need of LEGO, or nearly undrinkable discontinued Canadian soda pop, or any of the other utterly useless things to which my miracles were reduced."

That rather sounds like throwing in the towel instead of making your best efforts despite setbacks, but then again, Susan supposes one mustn't hold an angel to human standards. He really is such a useless angel though, isn't he? "That does sound rather frustrating," she says, kindly. It's not a test, as she has no interest in giving yet another pitiful excuse for a divine entity a chance to change her opinion of him. Rather, it's that - pitiful excuse for a divine entity or no - she thinks it would be rather foolish to anger him.

The chances of Aziraphale doing anything dangerous to Susan beyond irritating her or boring her are vanishingly tiny, but of course he doesn't know to refute any thoughts to the contrary. "Quite," he agrees. "Theoretically, I'm meant to sit back and observe and merely sway humans toward goodness rather than involving myself directly, but it's difficult to imagine anyone feeling swayed to religious ecstasies by high fructose corn syrup."

"Oh, perhaps not," she allows.

"All that is to say that if you're in need of something palatable, I can once again provide." There is also no chance that the Almighty wanted him to utilize miracles for the purposes of introducing humans to sushi, but if any food can induce humans to religious ecstasy, surely sushi is that food?

Susan pauses. "For instance?

"Charcuterie," he suggests, then immediately warms up to the question and continues: "Sashimi, as Crowley well knows. Lamb chops. Oysters, if those are to your taste."

"A veritable feast," says Susan. "Can you do jellied eel?"

"That classic London dish! Young lady, of course I can." Promptly, Aziraphale produces a tidy little shallow bowl of said jellied eels. If Susan was merely being rhetorical, he'll eat them himself.

All right: in this specific instance alone, Susan is impressed. "It's been ever so long since I've had jellied eel," she breathes.

For a bit of surely-misdirected whimsy, Aziraphale pretends to be plucking a spoon from his breast pocket. He passes it to Susan along with the bowl. "Vinegar, my dear?"

Susan spares him one lightly-suspicious look - she's wary of self-avowed powerful beings who manifest food out of thin air, for several reasons - and then sighs. She has been craving jellied eel rather a lot lately. "Oh, very well."

Aziraphale smiles. Ever so helpfully, he takes the stack of books from her, trading it for the bowl and spoon, and then produces a bottle of malt vinegar to top it all off. "Do let me know how it is."

"Oh, I shall." Susan hesitates. "They're not bespelled, are they?"

"No," says Aziraphale with surprise. "I'm not sure I'd even know how to bespell a jellied eel. I'm an angel, not a witch."

"Hmm," says Susan. Balancing the plate carefully, she adds a little vinegar and then gives the eel a cautious taste. Her eyes fly up to the angel's.

Aziraphale smiles again, right back at her. "Well?"

"Oh, I have rather missed this," says Susan, and takes a larger bite.

"It's all yours. Have as much as you like."

"So how have you been, Aziraphale?" Never let it be said that Susan Pevensie isn't deeply polite!

She is so deeply polite that she's asking after him for a second time! Such a kind young lady, whose opinion of him is surely just as positive as his of her. Aziraphale's smile persists. "Well, I believe my struggle to organize the library may be an eternal and Sisyphean one, but there are worse fates."

"And how are you going about that?"

"Quite futilely, I'm sure. I've spent months trying to arrange it as though it were my own bookshop. When I turn my back, it rearranges itself happily."

"Have you got a system, though? For the steps you're taking when you're arranging it. Or are you just moving books about individually?"

"Not individually," he supplies, remaining eminently helpful. "Typically in stacks. Rather like this one." He hefts the pile of Susan's books, which he's now holding, demonstratively.

Susan marvels, privately, at just how persistently this angel redefines uselessness. Perhaps that's his utility? Setting the lowest bar? "And you carry these stacks around and place books onto shelves?"

"Here and there." He laughs. "It's become obvious that it's rather pointless, so I've abandoned any hope of permanent change. It's only somewhat soothing to bustle about as if I were in my own shop every now and then. Besides," he adds brightly, "the shelves in our bedroom are much more obedient."

Susan is a strong woman; she barely manages not to roll her eyes. "That's because you're doing it wrong."

"Oh?" Aziraphale cocks his head at her, just a bit. "I'm rather set in my ways. Do tell."

Oughtn't an angel have tested approaches to making the world respond to him in the way that he prefers? Susan had this sorted out almost immediately! "You must remove every single book from a given shelf first, if you don't want them to rearrange on you. Even if you'd like to maintain some of the books already there."

"Fascinating," says Aziraphale. He means it genuinely. "How very arbitrary of the house."

"I imagine it's a form of taking and ceding ownership."

"You've done a good deal of experimenting, clearly," he notes. "Have you got theories about the nature of this place?"

"I'm still gathering data."

Cheerfully, Aziraphale continues anyway. "Crowley's certain it's sentient. He's also certain it has it out for him specifically, which I consider rather less likely."

"I disagree," says Susan. "Though I suppose he told you about that paper we found."

"He did," says Aziraphale, with the confidence of someone who presumes that Crowley will tell him everything relevant at all times. After all, Crowley is happy enough to tell him everything irrelevant, such as the plot of some horrifying moving picture or other. "You don't consider that evidence in favour of sentience?"

"Rather the opposite. There was neither sense nor intelligence behind it."

"Surely it's possible to be sentient and possess neither sense nor intelligence," Aziraphale suggests.

Such as in the case of certain angels, perhaps? "Perhaps," Susan allows.

"Now, do enjoy your eel without me nattering on." Aziraphale's still holding her books for her, after all.

Oh, lovely. Susan shall. She eats another bite.

Lovely indeed! Aziraphale's perfectly content to wait, as time isn't of particular meaning to him. He shuffles the stack of books so that he can snatch the topmost book and begin rifling through it with his other hand. Despite appearances, he obviously isn't having any trouble holding a moderately heavy pile of objects at length.

Susan finishes the eel more quickly than she'd like. "Thank you," she says, politely.

"You're most welcome," says Aziraphale with sincere warmth. "Do let me know if there's something else you'd like in the future."

Susan has every intention of finding alternate sources for the things she craves, but it doesn't hurt to keep the offer in her back pocket. Still fastidiously polite, she says, "I shall, thank you."

"Trade you back?" Aziraphale proffers her stack of books.

"Yes," says Susan. She passes over the plate and holds her hands out for the books.

Promptly, Aziraphale vanishes the dish anyway; subsequently, he returns the books to Susan's arms. "Enjoy your reading," he says with another smile. With that, he's off to haunt the stacks once again. He will be doing nothing whatsoever productive there.

# [closed post]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject