To nie jest żadne sensowne AU, bo wplotłam dwie OC (które są bezwstydnym wklejaniem siebie w akcję, marysuizm poziom 150), postać z serialu i prawdziwą osobę w świat zapożyczony z jeszcze innego serialu. Tak więc mamy Wallanderowego Magnusa Martinssona, Chrisa Hemswortha w (niewyjawionym jeszcze) świecie z Supernatural.
Napisałam ten tekst jakieś półtora roku temu, bo tak mnie naszło. Mniej więcej w tym samym czasie moja anglistka powiedziała nam o konkursie Day by Day szkoły językowej Glossa, polegającym na napisaniu fragmentu z pamiętnika po angielsku, więc stwierdziłam - nada się; powykrawałam najbardziej slashowe kawałki (głównie dlatego, że organizator narzucił limit długości 9000 znaków, który zdrowo przekroczyłam w oryginalnej wersji - chętnie bym zostawiła większe elementy homoromansu), zmieniłam kilka imion i wysłałam. Konsekwencją była pierwsza nagroda, co tylko dowodzi, że albo w konkursie uczestniczyli sami grafomani, albo jury miało kiepski gust.
Magnus
14/03
The overwhelming, all-consuming grief starts to wear off. Only this hollow within my chest remains, with nothing to fill it.
I throw myself into work. As winter finally becomes but a memory, crime seems to blossom and work is plentiful at the police station. Even Kurt, who hardly notices anything over the investigation at hand and his own brooding, points out that I spend there more time than ever, and this triggers Lisa into suggesting I take a few days off. I refuse. She scowls, but says nothing. It is Ann-Britt who waits until we are alone in the room and talks me into seeing a shrink. I still don’t know why I agreed to it, yet here I am, following the first advice I heard at the meeting. Keep a diary. It will help you deal with your thoughts. Because it’s the thoughts that haunt me.
The thoughts are Julia’s smile, eyes, the smell of her. It is cliché in a bad film style, that I only remember such details, that they keep me awake at night unless I work hard enough all day to knock myself unconscious the moment I reach my bed. My life has basically become a routine of get up-drink coffee-work-coffee-work-fall asleep. No room for thinking. Remembering. I neglect the flat, which keeps too many memories. I should sell it. Move out. Forget that I am alone. But once I actually take to doing anything about my life, I momentarily spiral into emotional breakdown like a goddamn unstable teenager with issues. So I live from task to task, distracting myself. I fear the moment one investigation ends and there isn’t one to focus on immediately, without break.
15/03
I run out of coffee.
Magnus
16/03
The invitation from Margaret was unexpected and I still don’t know what made me accept it. It could be the easy air about her and the way she didn’t hesitate to open the door wide for someone she hardly knew, or that she didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that her clothing was scruffy and her short hair askew. Somehow it didn’t occur to me that it was probably rude on her part until she pointed it out, somewhere during the easy banter between her and the other girl, Blair. It was odd, talking to others not because I had to, but because I could and actually wanted to. Even though they were practically strangers to me, they managed to make me feel comfortable around them, domestic even, yet nothing like usual family which would only bring back the thoughts. They inquired about my work as a detective, which made me elaborate more than I had in a long time – even if it was rather stiff and awkward, it took my mind off its usual tracks, ripping the veil of numbness from me and making me listen to what they were saying instead of zone out as usual.
As they were telling me about Margaret’s gender and social studies she had chosen over law or medicine her family had insisted on and about Blair, who all on her own was a fascinating figure, having come from Russia to study forensic medicine and whose name is in fact completely different, but she refused to share it, I nearly missed the moment I should leave to be on time at the station. Only in the car I realized that I came the closest to enjoying myself ever since Julia’s problems began.
The taste of almond-flavoured coffee lingered long after I arrived at the station and for the first time in months I didn’t feel the need to constantly fuel myself with the atrocious beverage from the station’s vending machine.
I meet Blair as I enter my flat in the evening. I am invited for another breakfast tomorrow. I don’t know if I should go.
I want to.
17/03
I sleep in and barge into our office an hour late, having given up breakfast and doubtlessly pulling on socks from two different pairs.
Magnus
19/03
There is a package containing several toast sandwiches with cottage cheese that tastes far too good to be store-bought and some sort of salad containing rice, onion, pepper, and a dozen other ingredients I am not sure I could name in a sauce that seems to be girls’ own invention. On top of that there’s the same almond coffee in a thermos cup and a note, reading Gone for the weekend, see you Monday morning, and in another handwriting below, don’t let y’self starve while we’re away – Blair x Margie.
It is surprising that I feel disappointed against reason, and I realize that over the two meals and one packed breakfast thy had no reason to care to prepare, I grew attached to the two happy-go-lucky students living above me, embarked on a mission to restore me to life.
Even more surprising is how I realize that a week ago I didn’t have it in me to think about the future other than realizing that I was painfully, overwhelmingly alone after Julia’s death. Were it not for Margaret and Blair’s presence, I wouldn’t dare plan anything even as simple as what to do during weekend if I’m not summoned to the station.
20/03
I take a long walk in the evening and as I am coming home, I see an old Beetle bus that may or may not have been used for hunting dinosaurs, if I were to go by the state of its brightly painted, but rusty body. It pulls to a stop in front of our building and a blonde hulk of a man leaves the driver’s seat to help Blair and Margaret take their bags upstairs – they aren’t big or overly heavy, yet as I close the distance between us, I hear him insist cheerfully. Although his appearance is one of a dumbass bully, with the shoulder-long hair and beard and rolled-up sleeves of flannel shirt, I instantly like the man. Girls introduce him as Chris during dinner they nearly force the both of us to join and despite his overbearing golden retriever cheerfulness and complete lack of respect for personal space, I am not immediately repelled. We talk as the girls prepare food and I am startled by the amount of it until I see the man’s appetite, about which Margie makes jokes and Chris laughs loudly. The sun has long set and we drink almond coffee, then stay up late sharing stories from holidays and journeys.
It feels good to be among friends. This is what I hope I can call them; what I want to share with them along with meals.
Napisałam ten tekst jakieś półtora roku temu, bo tak mnie naszło. Mniej więcej w tym samym czasie moja anglistka powiedziała nam o konkursie Day by Day szkoły językowej Glossa, polegającym na napisaniu fragmentu z pamiętnika po angielsku, więc stwierdziłam - nada się; powykrawałam najbardziej slashowe kawałki (głównie dlatego, że organizator narzucił limit długości 9000 znaków, który zdrowo przekroczyłam w oryginalnej wersji - chętnie bym zostawiła większe elementy homoromansu), zmieniłam kilka imion i wysłałam. Konsekwencją była pierwsza nagroda, co tylko dowodzi, że albo w konkursie uczestniczyli sami grafomani, albo jury miało kiepski gust.
Magnus
14/03
The overwhelming, all-consuming grief starts to wear off. Only this hollow within my chest remains, with nothing to fill it.
I throw myself into work. As winter finally becomes but a memory, crime seems to blossom and work is plentiful at the police station. Even Kurt, who hardly notices anything over the investigation at hand and his own brooding, points out that I spend there more time than ever, and this triggers Lisa into suggesting I take a few days off. I refuse. She scowls, but says nothing. It is Ann-Britt who waits until we are alone in the room and talks me into seeing a shrink. I still don’t know why I agreed to it, yet here I am, following the first advice I heard at the meeting. Keep a diary. It will help you deal with your thoughts. Because it’s the thoughts that haunt me.
The thoughts are Julia’s smile, eyes, the smell of her. It is cliché in a bad film style, that I only remember such details, that they keep me awake at night unless I work hard enough all day to knock myself unconscious the moment I reach my bed. My life has basically become a routine of get up-drink coffee-work-coffee-work-fall asleep. No room for thinking. Remembering. I neglect the flat, which keeps too many memories. I should sell it. Move out. Forget that I am alone. But once I actually take to doing anything about my life, I momentarily spiral into emotional breakdown like a goddamn unstable teenager with issues. So I live from task to task, distracting myself. I fear the moment one investigation ends and there isn’t one to focus on immediately, without break.
15/03
I run out of coffee.
Margaret
16/03
As per usual when we had no lectures scheduled for morning, Blair decided a luxurious breakfast of pancakes, toasts, and basically everything edible in the fridge is in order, especially since our student funds could afford more gourmet products (if by gourmet you mean more chocolate, exotic fruits and machine-brewed coffee rather than the cheapest that is in store) after both of us had found jobs at local cinema.
And, as per usual, it was me who got up to prepare said breakfast.
And, just to spite my prodigal Russian flatmate, I started with taking a shower that was sure to leave little hot water in the boiler. Wearing random pieces of clothing from the heap on bathroom floor, I was setting the coffee machine just as there was a knock at the door.
The sight of our downstairs neighbour was startling. I haven’t seen the man in nearly four months – he became such a recluse after he lost his wife and child during her delivery – and compared to what he used to be, I was greeting living dead on my doorstep. His face, with prominent cheekbones and bright green-blue eyes, was pale, drained of colour, all the more shocking with the stark contrast between it and the dark circles under his eyes. His once cheerfully chaotic mess of blonde curls now was just unkempt in a way that made my hand itch to ruffle it and bring some of that past energy to it. He looked well over thirty where a bright twenty-seven old had once been. Despite his height – he had good ten inches over me – it seemed as if he was looking up at me when he asked if we had any spare instant coffee he could borrow.
It was that look of a stray kitten, too proud to beg for help but barely fending for itself, rather than pity that made me lie about our small emergency supply of instants and invite him to join us for full breakfast. Before I could start feeling bad for it, however, he hesitantly entered – was it because of the smell of the coffee or something else entirely, I didn’t care. The man really seemed to be in dire need of some cheering up, and if cheering up meant feeding him whatever goodness I was able to whip up at eight o’clock, then I shall do just that.
- Who’s that? – asked Blair, emerging from our bedroom, one eye barely open, hand rubbing the other. I couldn’t help but snort at the sight of her hair, wild from the bed.
- Brush your hair, sleepyhead, we’re having a guest.
- Magnus. – She greeted him with a half-hearted wave of her hand and a sleepy smile and headed for the bathroom. – Make yourself at home, I’ll join you in a few.
It took two cups of coffee and a fresh toast for Magnus to open up and chat with us semi-normally. It seemed as if he hadn’t spoken out loud just for the sake of it for ages and now wasn’t sure if he liked it, but as he was leaving for work, there was a hint of something that was not happiness yet in his previously dull eyes, but brought a tiniest spark of life to his entire form.
Magnus
16/03
The invitation from Margaret was unexpected and I still don’t know what made me accept it. It could be the easy air about her and the way she didn’t hesitate to open the door wide for someone she hardly knew, or that she didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that her clothing was scruffy and her short hair askew. Somehow it didn’t occur to me that it was probably rude on her part until she pointed it out, somewhere during the easy banter between her and the other girl, Blair. It was odd, talking to others not because I had to, but because I could and actually wanted to. Even though they were practically strangers to me, they managed to make me feel comfortable around them, domestic even, yet nothing like usual family which would only bring back the thoughts. They inquired about my work as a detective, which made me elaborate more than I had in a long time – even if it was rather stiff and awkward, it took my mind off its usual tracks, ripping the veil of numbness from me and making me listen to what they were saying instead of zone out as usual.
As they were telling me about Margaret’s gender and social studies she had chosen over law or medicine her family had insisted on and about Blair, who all on her own was a fascinating figure, having come from Russia to study forensic medicine and whose name is in fact completely different, but she refused to share it, I nearly missed the moment I should leave to be on time at the station. Only in the car I realized that I came the closest to enjoying myself ever since Julia’s problems began.
The taste of almond-flavoured coffee lingered long after I arrived at the station and for the first time in months I didn’t feel the need to constantly fuel myself with the atrocious beverage from the station’s vending machine.
I meet Blair as I enter my flat in the evening. I am invited for another breakfast tomorrow. I don’t know if I should go.
I want to.
17/03
I sleep in and barge into our office an hour late, having given up breakfast and doubtlessly pulling on socks from two different pairs.
Margaret
18/03
Magnus doesn’t look any better when Blair opens the door in the evening, but there is something not unlike a smile on his face. With an apology for not coming the previous day, he offers something that smells suspiciously of lasagne from under tin foil, and we are immediately bribed into forgiving anything, and no, it is not because of the look on his face that makes me think of kittens again.
God help me, but the man can cook.
We eat and talk about everything and nothing, and the tension from his shoulders dissipates, and if he’s not laughing with us and the weariness remains there in the wrinkles around his eyes, it is still a giant leap from the indifferent mourning before.
19/03
There is a package containing several toast sandwiches with cottage cheese that tastes far too good to be store-bought and some sort of salad containing rice, onion, pepper, and a dozen other ingredients I am not sure I could name in a sauce that seems to be girls’ own invention. On top of that there’s the same almond coffee in a thermos cup and a note, reading Gone for the weekend, see you Monday morning, and in another handwriting below, don’t let y’self starve while we’re away – Blair x Margie.
It is surprising that I feel disappointed against reason, and I realize that over the two meals and one packed breakfast thy had no reason to care to prepare, I grew attached to the two happy-go-lucky students living above me, embarked on a mission to restore me to life.
Even more surprising is how I realize that a week ago I didn’t have it in me to think about the future other than realizing that I was painfully, overwhelmingly alone after Julia’s death. Were it not for Margaret and Blair’s presence, I wouldn’t dare plan anything even as simple as what to do during weekend if I’m not summoned to the station.
20/03
I take a long walk in the evening and as I am coming home, I see an old Beetle bus that may or may not have been used for hunting dinosaurs, if I were to go by the state of its brightly painted, but rusty body. It pulls to a stop in front of our building and a blonde hulk of a man leaves the driver’s seat to help Blair and Margaret take their bags upstairs – they aren’t big or overly heavy, yet as I close the distance between us, I hear him insist cheerfully. Although his appearance is one of a dumbass bully, with the shoulder-long hair and beard and rolled-up sleeves of flannel shirt, I instantly like the man. Girls introduce him as Chris during dinner they nearly force the both of us to join and despite his overbearing golden retriever cheerfulness and complete lack of respect for personal space, I am not immediately repelled. We talk as the girls prepare food and I am startled by the amount of it until I see the man’s appetite, about which Margie makes jokes and Chris laughs loudly. The sun has long set and we drink almond coffee, then stay up late sharing stories from holidays and journeys.
It feels good to be among friends. This is what I hope I can call them; what I want to share with them along with meals.
Margaret
17/05
The last thing I would expect is Magnus, so withdrawn and quiet, getting along with our golden retriever Chris so well.
And by so well I mean Chris moving in with Magnus. We only benefit from it, since they both cook like gods of cuisine and their kitchen challenges result in abundance of sinfully delicious food, which has us repeatedly tell them to open a restaurant. They laugh at the idea, and to hear Magnus finally laugh is pure joy, and at some point Blair nudges me and looks pointedly at Chris, whose eyes are glued to Magnus’ mouth in unabashed admiration. The knowing glance we give each other right after that reminds me why we are the (worst) perfect flatmates.
From that moment on, we take advantage of our free entry to Magnus’ – their – flat more carefully.
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