Saved for the rainiest of days.
Sep. 3rd, 2011 04:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clo_againIt's been torrential rain all day. Mist is now drifting in to hide the trees across from my window and I'm finding things to do in a lazy non-productive way. Like remaking Softer Worlds and in particular this one-
-which reminded me of a fic I started writing back at the glorious start of the year when Murray and Novak seemed determined to publicly out themselves as a couple, where Novak's a vampire (and a tennis player) and Murray was still his best friend (until he wasn't). It was going to be loosely-tied together scenes from The Life of Novak Djokovic, Vampire, until Murray wouldn't go away and I realised his side of the scenario would be more interesting anyway.
I like the idea of Novak as a vampire and how it works with things like his pickiness with food, the way he had trouble with heat for a long time and of course Murray would know, because a twelve-year old vampire!Novak would never be able to keep something like that secret.
I never finished (are you surprised?) - honestly I never even finished the first scene, or the second where Murray found a baby vampire Novak crying the locker rooms of a tournament they played when they were twelve because he was too young to deal well with sunlight - but I still liked the very beginning and since it's a lazy rainy Saturday, I fixed a few of the more awkward sentences in what I had written and thought I'd post it. It's 2317 words by OpenOffice's word count but they've always been more optimistic than accurate for me.
Don't expect this to ever be finished, or potentially to even get more scenes (although I've always wanted to write the Australia one referenced in this, because Novak looked terrible in that 2010 match against Tsonga and there's so much to do with that) but because I'm bored and it's raining and maybe posting something will actually make me write something, anything:
Feb 2010, Surrey, England
The first time Andy Murray opens his door to find Novak dripping blood all over his front step, the first thing that trips out his mouth is: “Oh fucking hell Novak, you have the worst sense of timing.”
After a pause he adds “Ever,”. Sometimes (most times), Novak demands extra emphasis.
In response, Novak flashes him a smile with lips that look like they've recently been split, pink, raw skin beneath the dark crust of dried blood. Blood on his teeth too, down his chin, soaking the front of his white t-shirt beneath his tattered jacket; Andy has to tighten his grip on the door until his hand hurts to keep himself from reaching out.
It's fine he tells himself, fierce with anger that he's letting himself worry when he should know better, does know better,you've seen him worse.
Except, that's a lie because Novak looks like something off fucking Casualty and for all that he's trying to grin, he's standing with an awkward hunch of shoulders that makes Andy's back ache in sympathy. Makes his chest ache too with something entirely different, that he thought he'd got past when it came to Novak and he won't let himself admit that that's a lie too.
“Andy.” Novak sounds like someone's ripped his throat out recently, which would at least explain the wreck of his t-shirt. “I am sorry to show up so uninvited but I had no one else to ask. Please.” His grin wavers at the edges, just for a second; any other time, Andy would've suspected it was a good act – Novak the consummate actor, except Andy's been able to see through the cracks since they were twelve - but he can see the exhaustion in the furrows around Novak's eyes. There's the fading remnants of a bruise beneath the left one that must've really hurt.
So instead of slamming the door like he should, he steps back with a sigh and a wave of his hand behind him, tacit permission that he knows he'll regret. He can hardly leave Novak bleeding all over his driveway though. “Upstairs,” he says warningly, not flinching as he meets Novak's eyes that catch the electric light from the hall in a catlike-shine. “My mum and Kim are in the lounge, and that's one conversation I don't want to have tonight.”
Novak lifts an eyebrow, something faintly sardonic crossing his expression. “Kim?”
“Oh for fuckssake, don't start,” Andy snaps, sharper than he meant to and wishes he could take it back when Novak's smile twists down at the corners. “Look I mean- would you hurry up? Before someone sees you pulling your Dracula act on my driveway.”
The Serb just looks at him, expressionless now but if anything he hunches in on himself a little more, unmoving. Andy wonders how soon before his mum comes to see what's keeping him, if that's what Novak wants and panic razor-edges his voice when he snaps, “Come on Novak-”
Novak's eyes flicker shut and for the briefest moment, he looks so unhappy that Andy has his mouth open on a knee-jerk apology, words lost in the sudden tightness in his throat. Sure, Novak hadn't called after Australia to say thank you; sure, Andy'd spent the week after that night in the locker room struggling with the conviction that the next time his mobile rang, it'd be Marian with the worst news imaginable but that was hardly Novak's fault. He'd had no reason to think that Andy would be worried.
“You have to invite me.” Novak says, shaping the words carefully around the ruin of his mouth. “I have never been here.”
“Oh.” Andy swallows, waits until he thinks he can speak without his voice shaking. “Sorry. Novak Djokovic,” and his voice cracks anyway on the k, syllables unfamiliar after so long, “I invite you into my house. On the condition that you promise not to scare the shit out of my mum,” he adds to break the tension and Novak's grinning again as he slips inside, limping slightly as he brushes past Andy on the way towards the stairs.
“Only if she will promise not to scare the shit out of me either.”
“Oh shut up.” Andy's startled by the sudden flush of warmth when Novak grins back over his shoulder, surprised into a half-smile in return that feels unfamiliar on his face after the last few miserable weeks. He waits just long enough to see the Serb start stiffly up the stairs before he takes a breath and goes to make some excuse to his mum and fuck it, Kim.
Sometimes, he has to wonder if Novak plans to fuck up his life or if it's a natural talent.
It takes fifteen minutes and twice that number of apologies to get Kim out the door, towing both Maggie and a vague air of bewilderment behind her. His mum is anything but vague in her annoyance; the instant the front door closes behind Kim (shit, he really hopes Novak had the sense not to trail blood too obviously over over the paving) she launches into a diatribe on sons who lead their ex-girlfriends on with talk of reconciliation and then kick them out the house with nothing like a reason, and she's mid-detailing all the ways she isn't going to fix this for him when his evasive shuffling backwards between yes mum, okay's reaches the hall and he's out.
One last yell of “Don't you dare go slithering off Andrew Murray; I want an explanation!” catches him as he puts a foot on the first stair.
“Night mum!” he calls back, because he's had years of handling Judy when she's on the warpath and he knows she's the type to plan strategy rather than chase a losing argument. He'll get it in the neck from her in the morning but he'll have tonight to deal with the Djokovic-shaped inconvenience hiding in his room before the inevitably awkward explanations (lies) over breakfast.
Novak should be gone by then. Fuck, he hopes Novak's gone by then; it's difficult enough to bullshit his mum with the best of excuses, nevermind trying to explain blowing off informal relationship counselling with his on-again-off-again girlfriend for the sake of a childhood crush. Who shouldn't even be in the country, especially not bleeding all over Andy's bedroom and he's going to be having words with Novak about this weird stalking thing that was supposed to stop.
Actually he reflects as he climbs the stairs as quietly as he can, socks sinking into the plush carpet he's barely worn in, I never told her about the crush thing and that'd make explaining easier – Novak turned up, had to help, he's a friend, it was an emergency, all perfectly plausible lies – except like he knows all his mum's ways and means to win arguments, he knows all the ways she never misses anything; he'd had the usual thirteen-year old subtlety level of a rampaging elephant and there's no way she didn't notice the way he and Novak used to do everything but make out in public.
Starting every other sentence with “Novak says...” for six months when he was twelve probably didn't help either. God, he'd give a lot to get a do-over on the stupider parts of his childhood.
Long time since they were both that young though, and all he's got at twenty-two is an ex-girlfriend and an ex-best friend who looks like someone, or more likely several someones, tested how many times they could hit him with a baseball bat. Bet that's one thing Federer hasn't got he thinks, but it sucks as an attempt to cheer himself up and he curses as he trips on the top stair in the semi-darkness, hand slammed against the wall for balance with thud that his mum probably heard in the guest room across the house, never mind Novak in just the next room. Shit.
Dumb to try sneaking up on him anyway; he's never managed it in over a decade but there's a tiny knot of worry in his chest over the thought that Novak might be gone before Andy so much as gets to his room. Maybe a t-shirt missing from his drawer in return for a bloody rag in the bin, or nothing there at all except a feeling like a now-familiar prickle up Andy's spine when he touches an impression he's never quite sure he'd made in the duvet of a hotel bed, or found the t-shirt he sleeps in folded neatly instead of tossed carelessly on the pillow.
He'd asked Novak to leave him alone and the Serb had, in every way that Andy could see; the rest could be simple paranoia. Or maybe he's looking for signs that aren't there because he's missing something he hadn't appreciated until he'd thrown it away.
Or maybe he just knows all too well that Novak never gives up something that he's set his heart on having.
There's a crack of light under his bedroom door when he turns the corner though, and he lets himself hope that it's a sign that Novak's still there without letting himself acknowledge that he wants it, so badly that he has to brace a hand on the wall for balance just outside. The paint is oddly damp beneath his hand and when he lifts it to see, his fingertips are stained dark in the dim light. Novak must've paused beside the door, maybe stumbled, which is enough to have Andy frowning; Novak doesn't stumble without a reason.
The anxiety in his chest clenches to something not-quite-panic and he's pushing into his bedroom as fast as he can get the door wide, eyes searching across the familiar bed, wardrobe, chair, to find any sign of Novak and his breath hitches when on first glance, it looks empty. Only the sound of trickling water has him looking at the ensuite door, standing slightly ajar with a bloody t-shirt discarded in a heap on the cream carpet next to a pair of muddy trainers and he walks towards the bathroom on legs that don't feel quite steady.
He tells himself it's not relief, but for all that he can lie to his mum when he has to, it's a lot harder to believe his own bullshit. You're pathetic, Andrew Murray he tells himself and opens the door.
Novak is standing shirtless in front of the sink, a deep, white square of ceramic that came with the suite Andy picked at random from a catalogue; it's half full of water that's already stained a dark, rusty red. Novak's rinsing a washcloth in it as Andy pauses by the door, formerly-white cotton now an off-shade of brown. I'll need a new one, Andy catches himself thinking inanely as he stares at the red trickling between Novak's tanned fingers. He isn't sure if he means the washcloth or the sink.
“Sorry for mess,” Novak says without turning around. With the semi-clean cloth, he starts wiping smears of blood from his chest; his face in the bathroom mirror is already clean, teeth gleaming white when he flashes a smile at Andy's reflection in the mirror. Maybe Andy'll need a new toothbrush too. “I clean before I go.”
“Don't worry about it,” Andy says, though the thought of cleaning Novak's blood up himself makes his stomach roll. That is, assuming it is Novak's blood. “What happened?”
“Fucking... babies, I guess you say.” Novak's mouth curls briefly into a moue of disdain. “New made. All excitable, think they know everything. They learn their lesson.”
Andy watches him wipe at the trickles of red-stained water for a minute, eyes following the dip of cloth and fingers below the waistband of ruined jeans before he realises what he's doing, drags his gaze up and finds Novak watching him back in the mirror. Nothing like a smile on his face, just wide guileless eyes behind their frame of dark lashes and for a second, Andy can't make himself look away.
“Arsehole,” he says finally, raspy through a dry mouth and screws his eyes shut to block out the hypnotic pull. The darkness isn't comforting at all. “You know that's cheating.”
There's a splash, as if Novak's dropped the cloth into the sink. A moment of silence, nothing like the sound of bare feet over tiles but warmth prickles over Andy's bare arms where they're folded against his chest, hairs rising with the ghost-sensation of touch and he knows that, if he opens his eyes, he'll see Novak right there.
“I do not cheat with you Andy,” Novak says, the words worn soft with repetition. He must be a bare inch away, Andy's entire body aching towards the solid heat of him but he keeps his back pressed to the doorframe hard enough to bruise. “Ever.”
He's too close, heat of his breath brushing over Andy's cheek, shivering like a caress across his folded arms. The memory of the time he asked why real vampires weren't cold flashes vivid through Andy's mind; sprawled together in a tangle of legs and kisses across rumpled hotel sheets, Novak's kiss had grazed the words from his lips with the bare hint of teeth behind it, a promise but never a threat.
“You give us warmth,” he'd whispered, sounding too lazily amused for Andy to know if it was true.
He'd thought it might be. Novak never flinched from telling him bloody truths about being a vampire. Probably, Andy suspects, because he has no one else to listen.
Voice rough with the effort of trying to melt backwards through the wall, he says “This feels like cheating to me,”
...
~
In other news re. my last post I caved and bought The Quiet War (the book that Gardens of the Sun follows on from. A few pages in and Sri Hong-Owen (not yet a lady captain) has shown up in the background but I'm hopful that she's going to be more major very soon.
Interestingly, the other books by Paul McAuley list in the front of this one is in the proper order, with Gardens of the Sun last after The Quiet War. I don't even know what goes on in your heads Gollancz.
I have many, many things I should be doing before Doctor Who later. I must not read all evening instead. Really.
Mmmmm.
-which reminded me of a fic I started writing back at the glorious start of the year when Murray and Novak seemed determined to publicly out themselves as a couple, where Novak's a vampire (and a tennis player) and Murray was still his best friend (until he wasn't). It was going to be loosely-tied together scenes from The Life of Novak Djokovic, Vampire, until Murray wouldn't go away and I realised his side of the scenario would be more interesting anyway.
I like the idea of Novak as a vampire and how it works with things like his pickiness with food, the way he had trouble with heat for a long time and of course Murray would know, because a twelve-year old vampire!Novak would never be able to keep something like that secret.
I never finished (are you surprised?) - honestly I never even finished the first scene, or the second where Murray found a baby vampire Novak crying the locker rooms of a tournament they played when they were twelve because he was too young to deal well with sunlight - but I still liked the very beginning and since it's a lazy rainy Saturday, I fixed a few of the more awkward sentences in what I had written and thought I'd post it. It's 2317 words by OpenOffice's word count but they've always been more optimistic than accurate for me.
Don't expect this to ever be finished, or potentially to even get more scenes (although I've always wanted to write the Australia one referenced in this, because Novak looked terrible in that 2010 match against Tsonga and there's so much to do with that) but because I'm bored and it's raining and maybe posting something will actually make me write something, anything:
Feb 2010, Surrey, England
The first time Andy Murray opens his door to find Novak dripping blood all over his front step, the first thing that trips out his mouth is: “Oh fucking hell Novak, you have the worst sense of timing.”
After a pause he adds “Ever,”. Sometimes (most times), Novak demands extra emphasis.
In response, Novak flashes him a smile with lips that look like they've recently been split, pink, raw skin beneath the dark crust of dried blood. Blood on his teeth too, down his chin, soaking the front of his white t-shirt beneath his tattered jacket; Andy has to tighten his grip on the door until his hand hurts to keep himself from reaching out.
It's fine he tells himself, fierce with anger that he's letting himself worry when he should know better, does know better,you've seen him worse.
Except, that's a lie because Novak looks like something off fucking Casualty and for all that he's trying to grin, he's standing with an awkward hunch of shoulders that makes Andy's back ache in sympathy. Makes his chest ache too with something entirely different, that he thought he'd got past when it came to Novak and he won't let himself admit that that's a lie too.
“Andy.” Novak sounds like someone's ripped his throat out recently, which would at least explain the wreck of his t-shirt. “I am sorry to show up so uninvited but I had no one else to ask. Please.” His grin wavers at the edges, just for a second; any other time, Andy would've suspected it was a good act – Novak the consummate actor, except Andy's been able to see through the cracks since they were twelve - but he can see the exhaustion in the furrows around Novak's eyes. There's the fading remnants of a bruise beneath the left one that must've really hurt.
So instead of slamming the door like he should, he steps back with a sigh and a wave of his hand behind him, tacit permission that he knows he'll regret. He can hardly leave Novak bleeding all over his driveway though. “Upstairs,” he says warningly, not flinching as he meets Novak's eyes that catch the electric light from the hall in a catlike-shine. “My mum and Kim are in the lounge, and that's one conversation I don't want to have tonight.”
Novak lifts an eyebrow, something faintly sardonic crossing his expression. “Kim?”
“Oh for fuckssake, don't start,” Andy snaps, sharper than he meant to and wishes he could take it back when Novak's smile twists down at the corners. “Look I mean- would you hurry up? Before someone sees you pulling your Dracula act on my driveway.”
The Serb just looks at him, expressionless now but if anything he hunches in on himself a little more, unmoving. Andy wonders how soon before his mum comes to see what's keeping him, if that's what Novak wants and panic razor-edges his voice when he snaps, “Come on Novak-”
Novak's eyes flicker shut and for the briefest moment, he looks so unhappy that Andy has his mouth open on a knee-jerk apology, words lost in the sudden tightness in his throat. Sure, Novak hadn't called after Australia to say thank you; sure, Andy'd spent the week after that night in the locker room struggling with the conviction that the next time his mobile rang, it'd be Marian with the worst news imaginable but that was hardly Novak's fault. He'd had no reason to think that Andy would be worried.
“You have to invite me.” Novak says, shaping the words carefully around the ruin of his mouth. “I have never been here.”
“Oh.” Andy swallows, waits until he thinks he can speak without his voice shaking. “Sorry. Novak Djokovic,” and his voice cracks anyway on the k, syllables unfamiliar after so long, “I invite you into my house. On the condition that you promise not to scare the shit out of my mum,” he adds to break the tension and Novak's grinning again as he slips inside, limping slightly as he brushes past Andy on the way towards the stairs.
“Only if she will promise not to scare the shit out of me either.”
“Oh shut up.” Andy's startled by the sudden flush of warmth when Novak grins back over his shoulder, surprised into a half-smile in return that feels unfamiliar on his face after the last few miserable weeks. He waits just long enough to see the Serb start stiffly up the stairs before he takes a breath and goes to make some excuse to his mum and fuck it, Kim.
Sometimes, he has to wonder if Novak plans to fuck up his life or if it's a natural talent.
It takes fifteen minutes and twice that number of apologies to get Kim out the door, towing both Maggie and a vague air of bewilderment behind her. His mum is anything but vague in her annoyance; the instant the front door closes behind Kim (shit, he really hopes Novak had the sense not to trail blood too obviously over over the paving) she launches into a diatribe on sons who lead their ex-girlfriends on with talk of reconciliation and then kick them out the house with nothing like a reason, and she's mid-detailing all the ways she isn't going to fix this for him when his evasive shuffling backwards between yes mum, okay's reaches the hall and he's out.
One last yell of “Don't you dare go slithering off Andrew Murray; I want an explanation!” catches him as he puts a foot on the first stair.
“Night mum!” he calls back, because he's had years of handling Judy when she's on the warpath and he knows she's the type to plan strategy rather than chase a losing argument. He'll get it in the neck from her in the morning but he'll have tonight to deal with the Djokovic-shaped inconvenience hiding in his room before the inevitably awkward explanations (lies) over breakfast.
Novak should be gone by then. Fuck, he hopes Novak's gone by then; it's difficult enough to bullshit his mum with the best of excuses, nevermind trying to explain blowing off informal relationship counselling with his on-again-off-again girlfriend for the sake of a childhood crush. Who shouldn't even be in the country, especially not bleeding all over Andy's bedroom and he's going to be having words with Novak about this weird stalking thing that was supposed to stop.
Actually he reflects as he climbs the stairs as quietly as he can, socks sinking into the plush carpet he's barely worn in, I never told her about the crush thing and that'd make explaining easier – Novak turned up, had to help, he's a friend, it was an emergency, all perfectly plausible lies – except like he knows all his mum's ways and means to win arguments, he knows all the ways she never misses anything; he'd had the usual thirteen-year old subtlety level of a rampaging elephant and there's no way she didn't notice the way he and Novak used to do everything but make out in public.
Starting every other sentence with “Novak says...” for six months when he was twelve probably didn't help either. God, he'd give a lot to get a do-over on the stupider parts of his childhood.
Long time since they were both that young though, and all he's got at twenty-two is an ex-girlfriend and an ex-best friend who looks like someone, or more likely several someones, tested how many times they could hit him with a baseball bat. Bet that's one thing Federer hasn't got he thinks, but it sucks as an attempt to cheer himself up and he curses as he trips on the top stair in the semi-darkness, hand slammed against the wall for balance with thud that his mum probably heard in the guest room across the house, never mind Novak in just the next room. Shit.
Dumb to try sneaking up on him anyway; he's never managed it in over a decade but there's a tiny knot of worry in his chest over the thought that Novak might be gone before Andy so much as gets to his room. Maybe a t-shirt missing from his drawer in return for a bloody rag in the bin, or nothing there at all except a feeling like a now-familiar prickle up Andy's spine when he touches an impression he's never quite sure he'd made in the duvet of a hotel bed, or found the t-shirt he sleeps in folded neatly instead of tossed carelessly on the pillow.
He'd asked Novak to leave him alone and the Serb had, in every way that Andy could see; the rest could be simple paranoia. Or maybe he's looking for signs that aren't there because he's missing something he hadn't appreciated until he'd thrown it away.
Or maybe he just knows all too well that Novak never gives up something that he's set his heart on having.
There's a crack of light under his bedroom door when he turns the corner though, and he lets himself hope that it's a sign that Novak's still there without letting himself acknowledge that he wants it, so badly that he has to brace a hand on the wall for balance just outside. The paint is oddly damp beneath his hand and when he lifts it to see, his fingertips are stained dark in the dim light. Novak must've paused beside the door, maybe stumbled, which is enough to have Andy frowning; Novak doesn't stumble without a reason.
The anxiety in his chest clenches to something not-quite-panic and he's pushing into his bedroom as fast as he can get the door wide, eyes searching across the familiar bed, wardrobe, chair, to find any sign of Novak and his breath hitches when on first glance, it looks empty. Only the sound of trickling water has him looking at the ensuite door, standing slightly ajar with a bloody t-shirt discarded in a heap on the cream carpet next to a pair of muddy trainers and he walks towards the bathroom on legs that don't feel quite steady.
He tells himself it's not relief, but for all that he can lie to his mum when he has to, it's a lot harder to believe his own bullshit. You're pathetic, Andrew Murray he tells himself and opens the door.
Novak is standing shirtless in front of the sink, a deep, white square of ceramic that came with the suite Andy picked at random from a catalogue; it's half full of water that's already stained a dark, rusty red. Novak's rinsing a washcloth in it as Andy pauses by the door, formerly-white cotton now an off-shade of brown. I'll need a new one, Andy catches himself thinking inanely as he stares at the red trickling between Novak's tanned fingers. He isn't sure if he means the washcloth or the sink.
“Sorry for mess,” Novak says without turning around. With the semi-clean cloth, he starts wiping smears of blood from his chest; his face in the bathroom mirror is already clean, teeth gleaming white when he flashes a smile at Andy's reflection in the mirror. Maybe Andy'll need a new toothbrush too. “I clean before I go.”
“Don't worry about it,” Andy says, though the thought of cleaning Novak's blood up himself makes his stomach roll. That is, assuming it is Novak's blood. “What happened?”
“Fucking... babies, I guess you say.” Novak's mouth curls briefly into a moue of disdain. “New made. All excitable, think they know everything. They learn their lesson.”
Andy watches him wipe at the trickles of red-stained water for a minute, eyes following the dip of cloth and fingers below the waistband of ruined jeans before he realises what he's doing, drags his gaze up and finds Novak watching him back in the mirror. Nothing like a smile on his face, just wide guileless eyes behind their frame of dark lashes and for a second, Andy can't make himself look away.
“Arsehole,” he says finally, raspy through a dry mouth and screws his eyes shut to block out the hypnotic pull. The darkness isn't comforting at all. “You know that's cheating.”
There's a splash, as if Novak's dropped the cloth into the sink. A moment of silence, nothing like the sound of bare feet over tiles but warmth prickles over Andy's bare arms where they're folded against his chest, hairs rising with the ghost-sensation of touch and he knows that, if he opens his eyes, he'll see Novak right there.
“I do not cheat with you Andy,” Novak says, the words worn soft with repetition. He must be a bare inch away, Andy's entire body aching towards the solid heat of him but he keeps his back pressed to the doorframe hard enough to bruise. “Ever.”
He's too close, heat of his breath brushing over Andy's cheek, shivering like a caress across his folded arms. The memory of the time he asked why real vampires weren't cold flashes vivid through Andy's mind; sprawled together in a tangle of legs and kisses across rumpled hotel sheets, Novak's kiss had grazed the words from his lips with the bare hint of teeth behind it, a promise but never a threat.
“You give us warmth,” he'd whispered, sounding too lazily amused for Andy to know if it was true.
He'd thought it might be. Novak never flinched from telling him bloody truths about being a vampire. Probably, Andy suspects, because he has no one else to listen.
Voice rough with the effort of trying to melt backwards through the wall, he says “This feels like cheating to me,”
...
~
In other news re. my last post I caved and bought The Quiet War (the book that Gardens of the Sun follows on from. A few pages in and Sri Hong-Owen (not yet a lady captain) has shown up in the background but I'm hopful that she's going to be more major very soon.
Interestingly, the other books by Paul McAuley list in the front of this one is in the proper order, with Gardens of the Sun last after The Quiet War. I don't even know what goes on in your heads Gollancz.
I have many, many things I should be doing before Doctor Who later. I must not read all evening instead. Really.
Mmmmm.
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Date: 2011-09-04 07:22 am (UTC)