#character: adam blacklock

[theartistknownaslymond]

Whumptober 2022 day 27

Muffled Screams | Stumbling | Magical Exhaustion

Gotta give credit to @stripedroseandsketchpads​ again because after I went in hard on day 1, she suggested the follow-up pain with Richard, Good shout at always, Kay! <3

CW: drink, drugs, so many cigarettes being smoked (Jerott calm down!). Canon-typical Dumbarton warnings: alludes to SA, dub-con, age difference, violence towards hotel furnishings and one another. Sibling disappointment.

Richard’s accent wanders a bit but it’s deliberate, I think you’d hear it more when he gets emotional.

---

It wasn't quite the standard of comfort Richard was accustomed to, but he nevertheless had a solid night's sleep in the Dumbarton hotel room. In fact, he'd have had more of it if he'd been permitted, but he found the concierge knocking persistently on his door when the morning was still cool and the summer sun low.

The man was apologetic when Richard answered - but resolutely firm. Doubtless the disturbance concerned money.

"Yes?"

"Mr Crawford MP, sir," he wrung his hands and smiled obsequiously.

"The title is unnecessary, thank you," Richard said through his palm as he rubbed his face. It was one way of making a point without resorting to blackmail, he supposed.

"I am sorry to disturb ye, sir. However, I have a question concerning the gentlemen you were drinking with last night?"

Of course. Richard snorted at the description gentlemen.

He recalled the sight that had greeted him when he'd entered the hotel bar: a witches coven convening under clouds of smoke and noxious smells; the air thick with vicious language and cursing, intense with their plotting; the table littered with vessels of poison and unpleasant bits of animal (well, pork scratchings).

For once, Richard's little brother had not been acting the ringleader. That role been reserved for the man Richard was there to see, one Jock Thompson - a deeply unsavoury character whom local rumour named as the source of a pirate radio station which was becoming a thorn in the side of some of Richard's constituents. And right now, as if to simply compound the everyday, prosaic headache that was Richard's political work, Thompson appeared to be in cahoots with his brother.

Francis had met Thompson in New York, in his mob days - and Richard figured that there was therefore no way Thompson would have escaped the attentions of certain international agencies. With this in mind, Richard had resolved to talk to Tom Erskine, his friendly MI6 spook, in order to learn more about the rogue and about what, exactly, Thompson had been involved in Stateside.

But last night he had let Francis take the lead on dealing with the fast-talking Clydesbank huckster. Francis had been on his most charming form when Richard had arrived - smoking, unusually, and smiling, which also left Richard suspicious. There were even empty glasses in front of him, and a not-yet-empty one in his hand. Nevertheless, he had been in control of himself, silver-tongued, cryptic where he needed to be and direct when going in for the kills. He'd been the very model of responsibility and leadership, in fact - though in all honesty, Richard didn't know what they were talking about most of the time. Serial numbers and brand names were batted back and forth, drop-off locations suggested, quality of gear and modifications already in place ascertained and judged.

To one side of his brother sat the quiet keyboard player Richard had guessed was a junkie by his unhealthily skeletal frame. He rolled his cigarettes, neatly, steadfastly, constantly - there was a little collection in front of him, like the act of rolling was as comforting as smoking them. Occasionally, he leaned over and muttered technical specifications to Francis. On the other side, the only sober one at the table, was Francis' hippy friend in his customary pink and red clothing, who was smoking his packet of fags at a furious pace, trying to look disinterested in the negotiations even as his moody gaze kept being drawn back to Francis.

They'd kept going even after Richard had said his own piece to Thompson, finished off a modest portion of mince and skirlie and his pint of heavy and announced his departure around midnight.

Now, looking at the concierge, Richard worried just how late it had got - and how long his brother's composure had lasted.

"Aye," Richard said cautiously. "I did have a pint with them, you're not wrong."

The concierge smiled sympathetically. "Yes. Well, they had significantly more than one each. And the tab was in Mr Thompson's name, ye see and Mr Thompson has left without -"

"Without paying..." Richard finished for him with a groan. "Look, I appreciate that you trust me, but the others were with him for a lot longer - have you tried their rooms?"

"Yes sir. Messrs Blacklock and...uh...Vadan, it says here. Maybe a false name? They've left, too."

"And -" Richard hesitated, thinking of the headlines. The news would out anyway, though, it always bloody did, and Francis' name would be on the hotel register too. "And my brother?" he sighed.

"Left an exceedingly specific request not to be disturbed."

Specific and well-funded, no doubt, Richard thought, though he let his brows shoot up. "Which you obey despite the others thieving from you?"

"Well," the concierge conceded with a shrug. "I just thought I'd try you first, sir. What with ye being, as ye said yerself, trustworthy. A public servant, sir."

Richard nodded in understanding. "Let me go and speak with my brother. Here's my card, I'll come and pay you if he doesn't." Richard retrieved his wallet from the sideboard and handed his bank card to the concierge. He checked the man's expression carefully, ensuring that he wasn't also looking out for a bribe, and then nodded and shut the door.

It didn't take him long to dress - on the weekend, away from his office, away from Westminster, he was presentable in chinos (never red), a long point shirt left a little open without a tie, and a v-necked jumper (always red). He shaved quickly, listening to the beginning of the Today Programme on the wireless and muttering imprecations about the government. Then he pocketed his room key before going in search of Francis' door. As he went, he wondered what on earth could have led to Francis' bandmates leaving without him in the middle of the night. Had they needed to go and make their bargain with Thompson then and there? At least the hippy lad had been sober enough to drive, Richard thought ruefully.

His knock on Francis' door received no reply. He stood outside his room listening for a moment, thought he discerned some faint squeak of a mattress and sighed. Even Dumbarton had groupies, he supposed.

He went to check Blacklock's room and that of the lad in pink - he'd been called Jerott before the commune, Richard thought - just to be certain. No answer came, of course. Richard peered out of one of the large, single-glazed windows in the corridor and ascertained that the minibus they used for touring was gone. How on earth did Francis suppose he'd get back to his country estate? Was he hoping for a lift from Richard?

Richard marched back to his brother's door, knocked again, rattled the handle and even slammed his palm hard on the surface.

He took a step back, shocked, when he heard a muffled scream from behind the door - not Francis' voice, but a girl's.

"Francis! Stop playing Mick Jagger in there, I've got business with you, ye everloving playboy!"

Something banged against the door and there was a sound of scuffling - a woman growling in frustration, a man laughing - then a weighty thud.

Francis spoke from the other side of the wood, and his voice sounded high-pitched and strange, manic and unsteady with glee. "Morning, brother! Don't fret about me. The others are just running an errand and will be back to fetch me shortly," he paused like he was considering something and then stifled a snigger. "If Thompson hasn't paid the tab, would you sort it? We can square up later."

There was another crash as something impacted on the door near where Lymond's voice had been. Richard flinched away reflexively and glowered at the glossy white paint on the surface. "Aye, Francis. Aye sure - if ye survive yer guest," he grumbled drily. "Have the boys gone off wi' yer purse?"

Francis said nothing. Richard listened to the silence with nausea rising at his throat. The smell of breakfast was starting to waft through the hotel and it turned his stomach with its offer of domestic comfort, a poor filter over the dissolute things going on in that room.

Then he could hear a female voice, young and shrill, but rising in pitch until it was cut off by a resounding slap. The sound of it made Richard's teeth ache, like he could feel it in his own cheek. He rattled the metal handle again, wishing he couldn't hear the cruelty in his brother's voice through the door. Francis had never spoken like that to anyone, not in Richard's presence.

"Francis!" Richard barked again, hoping to remind him of himself. What the fuck had happened? He hadn't even seemed drunk last night.

At last there was the rattle of a key on the other side of the door, and Richard steeled himself.

Standing in the other side of it was a horror even he couldn't have anticipated: the sweet little sister of Francis' hippy associate Graham Reid Malett. Sixteen and thrilled to get her first taste of opportunity in the world. As pure as Eidelweiss from the Swiss mountains she'd descended from, as accomplished as a finishing school girl ought to be, as talented and passionate a musician as her generation had seen - that was how Richard had known her.

Francis, evidently, had chosen to trample that delicate mountain flower beneath the relentless marching boot of his ambition.

She stood there wrapped in a tartan throw that had been dragged from the bed, naked but for the itchy wool and the fresh injuries she bore. Her cheek was red from Francis' palm, her neck was bruised by his teeth and - Christ, Richard noted with horror - there was blood on her fingertips.

Francis, wearing only a flannel gown provided by the hotel, gestured in introduction to her, gave a little bow and turned away from Richard to walk through the wreckage with his bare feet, to pick up an open champagne bottle and swill back the remnants.

Richard stared at Joleta and her tear-stained cheeks. The tracks of mascara were blue on her skin and her face and eyes were puffy from the night she'd spent. Her pupils didn't look right to Richard either, like she was, or had been, high. He shook his head, his mouth crumpling in confusion and upset, and extended comforting arms to her, offering to catch her and hold her.

Joleta just let her bottom lip jut out miserably and said with a sob, "There's no helping it. I tried."

Tears spilled over her eyelids again and she took one stumbling step and then dropped to the carpet too quickly for Richard to do anything.

He bent over her weeping body and looked up at Francis' back, his mouth agape in distress.

"Hush, hush," he told the girl, looking down again, trying to put her woe before his numb fury. He sought to tidy her hair away from her sticky face and scooped up her body, blanket and all, with an ease that made him sway, his heart heavier than her wee frame was.

He lay the girl down on the ruined bed, leaving her in her delirium on a bare mattress patterned with gold and blue paisley. Her shining hair fanned out and mingled with the pattern on the fabric, her aquamarine eyes were a dull reflection of the satin below her.

Richard shut the door to the room and leaned heavily on it, feeling shock tangle inside him and drag on all his faculties. What could he say? The floor was covered with glass and the detritus that remained of the room's decor. There was cocaine on the sideboard, the stink of weed in the air, and who knew what else a thorough search would turn up.

"So this is it, Francis? The noble purpose of your music? The reason Tom did all that he did to help you out of your legal woes? The reason Gideon died and Chris was left too damaged to play her own damned material? This is the...output of a man who wants to position himself as a saviour of the arts and a patron of the unloved?"

Francis didn't turn. The back of his shining blond hair was dark with sweat, coiled and dirty-looking at the nape of his neck.

"I'd sooner have found you dead," Richard said softly. He was thinking of their little sister, who had disappeared when she was the age of the girl lying motionless on the bed. Who had taken a cocktail of drugs she'd only had access to through Francis, and stepped out into the abyss of the night, suffering from a fatal disappointment in life - in the brother that should have been taking care of her.

Richard stared at Francis' back as he let out a strained laugh, and he thought he understood now how Eloise must have felt.

#whumptober2022 #whumptober #band au: disorderly knights #every day i write the book #character: francis crawford #character: richard crawford #character: jock thompson #character: joleta reid malett #character: adam blacklock #character: jerott blyth

[thecrenellations]

"How many souls on this earth call you Francis?"

In 60 years of the Lymond Chronicles, I'd bet that many others have compiled this exact thing, but here is a list of who calls Lymond by his first name! Marthe draws our attention to the question near the end of Pawn in Frankincense, but it's clear throughout the series how deliberately Dunnett chooses what to call the characters in narration and dialogue - the choice can reflect who Francis Crawford (for example) is to others as well as to himself, at any moment. I love it, and Meaningful Naming is a feature of most of my favorite stories.

Characters are listed with the book in which they first call him Francis in dialogue. Italics indicate they call him that when he isn't present. If they directly Francis him later, they’ve been added to the list for that book, too.

I've also noted to whom he's just Francis in the narration - it's always someone who thinks of him like that, and it always makes me feel a lot.

If you notice something I left out, or if you know where to find similar analysis, let me know! Let us all be scholars of Francis.

Lists below! Plus some thoughts and quantitative stuff. (many, many spoilers)

The Game of Kings

Sybilla Semple (see, I have to decide what to call all of these characters, too!)

Margaret Lennox

Christian Stewart (to Sybilla, and I'm sure she called him Francis in their childhood)

Richard Crawford 

Francis in narration from the POV of: Richard

Queens’ Play

Tom Erskine

Jenny Fleming

Margaret Erskine

Martine

Oonagh O’Dwyer

Phelim O’LiamRoe

Francis in narration from the POV of: Richard

The Disorderly Knights

Will Scott

Kate Somerville 

Graham Reid Malett

Adam Blacklock

Janet Beaton

Jerott Blyth (I'm also sure Jerott called him Francis in the old days, but he doesn't return to it until the scene with Evangelista Donati at Midculter)

Francis in narration from the POV of: Richard, Tom, Kate, Sybilla

Pawn in Frankincense

Jerott Blyth

Dame de Doubtance 

Marthe

Francis in narration from the POV of: Jerott

The Ringed Castle

Alec Guthrie

the Abbess/Sybilla's sister

Francis in narration from the POV of: Richard

Checkmate

Philippa Somerville

Marguerite de St. Andre

Catherine d’Albon (to Philippa)

Nicholas Applegarth (also to Philippa)

Adam Blacklock

Danny Hislop

Francis in narration from the POV of: Jerott, Philippa, Richard, Sybilla, Adam

Observations

Aaaaah!

Richard's monopoly on the narration Francises in the first two books kills me, I love it. The first, of course, is "God, Francis had screamed."

As a reader, I started calling him Francis, sometimes, somewhere in the middle of Queen's Play and stopped overthinking it by the beginning of the next book.

I didn't count, but I'd bet that Jerott says and thinks it the most. He's there more than probable runners-up Gabriel (shut up, Gabriel) and Richard (ily Richard) are, and Philippa goes on her own ... journey before thinking of him that way and allowing herself to think of him that way.

Adam is unique for making the list in his first book, specifically not calling Lymond Francis in The Ringed Castle, and then putting himself back on the list through address and narration in Checkmate. But that's The Ringed Castle for you 😬. And their entire relationship - there's a chapter or so in which Adam's narration calls him de Sevigny.

Who even calls him Francis in RC? Just Alec, Richard, and Margaret, I think. ("Do you call her Slata or Baba?" Thank you, Philippa.)

I would teach myself tarocco and play for at least a few hours to learn when Will started calling him Francis. Also the Erskines! They're all so genuinely close in the years after Game of Kings.

Notable Absences

Güzel - well, that feels meaningful. They were together for years. If she did, we didn't see, and I would also believe that she didn't.

Archie - will he ever? Who can say. Either way, he's the best. Also, see here.

Mariotta - I bet she does, after the first book, we just haven't been there.

Fergie, probably?

Piero Strozzi - Francesco? My petit François? I don't remember any Francises, though!

Ivan (and others?) - I'm not counting Frangike, either

Robin Stewart - I mean, I'm sure he would have if he'd known his boyfriend's real name before ... all of that went down.

Diccon Chancellor - probably not? I'd also put this down to the Ringed Castle state of mind. As meaningful as their friendship was, it makes sense for the book to continue to distance the reader, at the very least, in that way.

Does Francis call himself Francis?

No.

He doesn't, really! He's never that from his own point of view, but we do see him sign a few letters with his first name. These are to:

Kate (Pawn in Frankincense)

Catherine d'Albon (Checkmate)

Philippa (Checkmate)

All of this is not to say that “Francis” represents who he truly is; it certainly shows intimacy and usually vulnerability, but I feel that Lymond and Francis Crawford can be just as definitive when deployed, and that Lymond has a certain neutrality. There's also something really interesting that happens when the characters are stripped of names and become just "he" or "she," from their own perspective or others.

And then we get things like "Mistress Philippa's decorative husband," which really deserve their own list.

"How many souls on this earth call you Francis? Three? Or perhaps four?"

18 of the 25 Francis-ers on my list are living at the end of the series, and when Marthe, who is not one of them, asks that question at the end of PiF, it's 12 (out of 18 total).

18 out of 25 is a 72% survival rate! Great!

2 of the 18 are pretty awful (Margaret Lennox and the Abbess)

4 of the 18 live in France, which he's currently exiled from

1 of the 18 lives in Ireland, but I think they should still hang out!

2 of the 18 may be departing for Malta, apparently

7 of the 18 are people he probably sees or keeps in touch with regularly, 9 if I count Janet Beaton and Margaret Erskine, because I like them and they're not very far away.

As much as I wish that many of the others hadn't died, I think he's doing pretty well.

#FRANCIS CRAWFORD #lymond #lymond chronicles #checkmate #dorothy dunnett #dear lord this got long #but i had fun #and it's mostly just lists #thank you marthe for that quote #something i

[aspocko]

adam blacklock!!!!!!!!! what a guy!!! what a character!!!! hes so good

#the lymond chronicles #he just showed up in my DK reread and im SO HAPPY he's here

[notasapleasure]

Soap, soup and salvation (Lymond fic, the Band AU)

Setting: The Band AU, Checkmate, Spring 1989 Characters: Adam Blacklock, Danny Hislop, Jerott Blyth, Kate Somerville. Relationships: Danny & Adam & Jerott, Adam/Kate, if you want it, the Jerott/Danny is there and waiting Rating: G (like...I don’t think there’s even much swearing in this one? It’s very wholesome) Wordcount: 6,166

Summary: Adam Blacklock never learned to cook, but he wants to impress - and to bring comfort to - the widow Kate Somerville. While Francis Crawford's band records an album in Paris, it seems the perfect opportunity to get lessons from Danny Hislop. Adam's first lesson is chicken soup: comfort food staple and Jewish cure-all.

A character study, essentially, with background on Danny and Adam in the AU and mild hints at broader angst concerning Francis and also Jerott. On the whole extremely fluffy though.

Notes (more at the end): From a prompt by @erinaceina-blog​ for Jewish characters cooking together. HUGE thanks to Katherine for the advice and tips and recipes <3 Usual disclaimer that Hamal = Kuzúm. Also: I am not Jewish, non-binary, disabled or of Pakistani heritage. I have tried to be entirely respectful and avoid harmful stereotypes - if you think anything is amiss I welcome constructive criticism and questions, particularly if you know of particular resources you think I should be using. If any 'he/hims' crept in for Danny I can but apologise and ask that you kindly point them out :)

[Also on Ao3 if you prefer]

-

All ill-fated sorts Who sleep on doorways and in alleyways Take a stumble to the corner There's heavenly music played No more taking recreation With your dark defeated friend They who seek the consolation of the bottle Never win Soap, soup and salvation Tired hearts sing in jubilation [Lone Justice - Soap, Soup and Salvation, 1985]

"Kneidlach," Danny Hislop sighed. "Are in certain ways like gender. People think there are two simple offerings: floaters or sinkers. But in actual fact there is a whole world of options. You bring yourself to the mix, and you pick and choose the elements that speak to you."

Adam Blacklock rubbed his sleep-starved face patiently. "Danny. It's too early for this. What gender of dumpling do I want?"

"N-no, wait," Adam corrected himself. "What kind?"

Danny's pale, plump lips curled with satisfaction and the keyboardist - whose gender was as mysterious to Adam as the intricacies of Jewish home cooking - plucked a jar of schmaltz from the supermarket shelf. "Accept no substitutes," instructed Danny, placing the chicken fat into the basket. "We should be making our own but I don't want you in my flat overnight, I have other guests to entertain." Danny flipped their fine hair back from their freckled forehead and glided ahead of Adam towards the next aisle.

Adam stifled a yawn. It was ten in the morning, but it seemed a personal affront to have to be awake before midday. He made himself shuffle afterwards, grateful for Danny's expertise even if it was a struggle to show it. It was humbling, Adam had realised, to find oneself over thirty and incapable in the kitchen: not least when one was hoping to attract the attentions of a kindly, capable, wonderful single mother. Adam emphatically did not want to give the impression that it was Kate Somerville's domestic faculties that drew him to her, not when he saw how hard she worked to lift others up, how she worried about those she loved, and how no one else ever sat her down and treated her to a home-cooked meal and an evening off.

When he was back at his parents' home - a little pocket of Georgia nestled among grey Dundee terraces - Adam was used to the finest meals his ancestors had to offer. His mother took the task of feeding him seriously, because no matter what she did he remained rake-thin and struck through with an aspect of hungry misery. It was an aesthetic completed by the new pink scar across his features and the polio-damaged leg he limped on, although anyone who knew Adam at all found him to be a content and genial person beneath the veneer of gothic melancholy.

Nevertheless, his mother's cloying affection - born out of enduring concern for her sickly child - meant that Adam had never successfully learned the secrets of the Jewish kitchen. That was why he needed Danny's lessons: cast out of the family home at a young and feral age, Danny had learned how to really cook, and had gathered their Bubbe's recipes through a broad-minded great-uncle. Danny said that once one could cook, one never wanted for a place to stay, and had agreed to teach Adam the basics of their shared cultural heritage.

Yet much of what Danny termed essential Jewish cooking left Adam baffled - and much of what Adam expected to purchase was met with equal confusion by Danny. Danny's estranged parents and extended family were Ashkenazim through and through (bar a single, Dunedian, Presbyterian grandparent called Hislop), while Adam - born Adam Baluashvili in the Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic - had grown up with a mishmash of influences that remained decidedly Gruzini in their leanings. This being the case, a fifteen-minute argument about kishke at the deli counter dissolved into the kind of one-upmanship that could only be settled by a flurry of impulse buys.

Laden with chicken, flour, fat, herbs and vegetables; with latkes, halva and blood-red squares of cotignac; pickled walnuts, lavash and chebureki, and bickering companionably about the merits of pomegranate seeds in cooking, they returned to Danny's garret lodgings on La Rue Pavée and made their way ponderously up the creaking wooden steps.

Danny beckoned down at Adam with a free hand and Adam sighed and handed the shopping he'd been carrying up to his friend.

"You had to choose the at-attic rooms, didn't you?" Adam gasped, his stammer heightened by the ache in his leg and his shortness of breath.

"Well how was I to know you'd want to treat me as your own personal Delia Smith?"

Adam grunted, steadying his bad leg with one hand and gripping the flaking bannister with the other. "We could have used my flat."

"I've seen that sorry excuse for a kitchen. No thank you," Danny sniffed. Then they paused and looked down at Adam. "Are you ok though?"

Steadying his breathing, Adam managed to look up with a smile. "Y-yeah. I bet - I bet the views are worth it."

Danny grinned. "They are pretty good."

The little garret was bright as an artist's studio, white-washed and tidy, decorated with a tasteful minimalism that served to highlight Danny's own flamboyance. The band had been recording in Paris for a matter of weeks, but Danny had personalised the space with ruthless speed: navy blue rag-rugs formed paths across the white floorboards and gauzy grey pashminas divided the sleeping area from the sitting room of the tiny flat.

The views from the floor-to-ceiling windows were as promised: at the end of the street was the elegant, pale face of the Agoudas Hakehilos Synagogue, and beyond it the arching top of l'Église Saint-Gervais peeked up above a hazy stretch of lead-blue rooftops. Away to the south-east loured the towering, Baroque columns of Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis, uncharacteristically dark beneath the low sky. With a little imagination, from among the distant greys of tower blocks, one might even glimpse the cathedral on the river. Citywide, the views were dotted with fresh sprigs of green, and white window frames glowed when scudding clouds moved aside.

Adam smiled. "I'm going to have to come back and paint that."

Around him, Danny flitted between the kitchen and sitting areas in acid-wash jeans and a blouse that, had he been pressed to describe it, Adam would have said was designed to evoke the idea of unicorn vomit. Even for the brief shopping trip, Danny had managed to apply their customary vibrant make-up: mint green and pink clouds of eye-shadow had been chosen to match the blouse, and tacky plastic stars glittered and swung from Danny's earrings with every toss of their chin or extravagant gesture.

"Sit, sit," Danny ushered Adam into one of the woodworm-pocked chairs at the little kitchen table. "You can take notes for the first steps. I'll make tea."

Adam dutifully sat and rummaged in a pocket of his jacket for the notebook he used for song-writing. At the front were scraps of lyrics shared by Lymond with the band, sketches and scrawled suggestions of melodies, and questions Adam intended to put to bandmates when they became relevant. At the back of little pad, written in bold, cursive letters, were the words 'Flaw Valleys - landline' and an English telephone number that Adam had already memorised. He smiled at the promise of what Danny was teaching him and turned the page to write out the recipe title.

Danny fussed and arranged the ingredients, clattered the kettle and teapot around, got out a collection of thin, chipped plates, and furnished the tiny table with their deli purchases and a pot of Wissotzky.

Turning back to the kitchen, Danny retrieved a garish pink pinny that Adam recognised from a Moscow flea market. Danny tied an impeccable bow in the small of their neat back and checked that Adam was attentive.

"Chicken in pot," Danny demonstrated. "You're going to have to buy a pot," they added flatly as Adam scribbled. "Add water to cover..." Danny continued to describe the steps as Adam wrote them down, until the stock came to a rolling boil and Adam joined Danny at the counter to chop vegetables.

The little flat filled with the savoury smell of chicken and the tall windows misted up, smudging the bright spring light. Adam prepared the carrots, celery, onion and herbs while Danny skimmed the froth and scum from the boiling pot and hummed Frère Jacques. Within a handful of minutes, the vegetables had been submerged in the clear broth, the lid was on the pot, and they were back at the table, sitting down to raspberry tea and fresh deli treats. Danny added a homemade paté and a jar of rollmops to the spread and hung the pink pinny up.

"And then we leave it for a couple of hours? That wasn't so hard," Adam mused.

"You're making the dumplings, mon ami," Danny said warningly and pointed towards the pinny. "Chef's apron, too."

Adam sighed. With Danny it was best to argue only as and when it was necessary. For now, he was hungry from the smells of the broth and the morning's unaccustomed activity.

Danny saw Adam's gaze rove over the food and grinned.

"Okay, first round: lavash with chicken liver paté and pickled walnuts, versus latkes and rollmops. I'll give you a free victory on the chebureki, they smell delectable," Danny moved with swift, precise gestures to share out the savouries and tutted as Adam fished a walnut direct from the jar with his long fingers.

Gesturing with a wedge of lavash, Adam surveyed what was before him. "It's not fair smothering this in your home-made paté, Danny. It should be served with badrijani nigvzit."

Danny stared, dead-pan, at Adam and waited for an elaboration.

"Aubergine and spinach dip."

"Does it involve walnuts?"

"Y-yes, but - "

"Why does all your food involve walnuts?" Danny wailed, a look of playful satisfaction adorning their features behind the lavash they held.

"You like walnuts," Adam rose to the provocation.

Danny's lips twisted in a smirk, and they tore a strip of lavash off to scoop up a dollop of fragrant paté. "I like your Mam's walnuts."

"Shut up, Danny, that doesn't even mean anything."

Danny chewed and grinned. "Your Mam loves me. I'm going to get all her recipes, just you watch."

"Good, maybe then you'll t-teach them to me - she won't," Adam snorted, pouring the tea into the two battered cup-a-soup mugs.

"Oh, we'll make a Barefoot Contessa of you yet, young master Blacklock. And all I ask in return..."

"Ahh, here it comes."

"All I ask in return, is that you help me figure out the sound for the new track his lordship dropped on us."

Adam rolled his grey eyes. "Oh, not that..." He helped himself to another pickle and met Danny's candid stare. Adam shook his head and glared, while Danny simply raised exquisitely painted brows in response. "How do you make a song about en-environmental des-destruction into a radio-friendly pop-rock hit?"

Danny shrugged. "The question of the hour! What does poisonous incinerator waste sound like, Adam?"

Balancing a rollmop on his latke, Adam sighed. After devouring the potato pancake in two enormous bites, he leafed through his notebook and pulled out a folded A4 photocopy. "Haiti Says Philadelphia Garbage Was Dumped By Ship On Its Beach," he read out. "It's disgusting, of course, but does he think that even he can get k-kids dancing to a song about the Khian Sea disaster?"

Danny, tucking into the beef chebureki with glee, flipped their wispy ginger curls back again. "Ours is not to reason why..."

Adam re-read the article Lymond had photocopied for the band members. He re-read the lyrics copied tidily on the back of the paper in Lymond's regular, controlled hand: they spoke from the point of view of the cargo ship, drifting, wandering around the ocean in search of a place to unburden itself, mournful that it would mean spreading the pain it carried to a new and untouched land. It was a sad and angry song, which was fitting, but Adam found it opaque even by Lymond's standards. Perhaps, Adam thought, the lyrics only seemed angry when you knew what Lymond's anger could be like: cold and distant, reigned in and resigned. Most of their audience would probably just hear another ballad.

He nibbled his own half of chebureki thoughtfully. "Do you have the K-Korg here?"

"It's in the studio. I've only got the Emulator."

Adam pulled a thoughtful face and scratched at the scar on his chin. "That may be better. Do you have samples from the Black Sea?"

Danny, licking herring juice and vinegar from fingers that ended in garish pink nail polish, made a sound like a character in a Carry On film. "Seagulls, Maeve? Wind and waves?"

"Exactly," Adam grinned wickedly.

The two of them tidied the table and poured out the last of the tea before decamping to the living space: a cramped area tucked beneath a steeply sloped ceiling, lit by more enormous, curtain-free windows. Danny crumpled onto a battered couch, whose great age was barely concealed by the huge, faded flag of the Azerbaijan SSR that was draped over it. Danny picked up a shoebox and rifled through the floppy discs inside it, searching for the coastal samples.

Adam pulled up one of the kitchen chairs so that he did not find himself stuck forever on the monstrously low item of furniture that Danny was settled on. He helped himself to Danny's acoustic guitar and checked the tuning, strumming some chords speculatively – but he was not sure what he was looking for until he heard what Danny's samples sounded like.

Danny laid the synthesiser across the knees of their acid-washed jeans and after a pause, they had it programmed so that they could switch between various atmospheric scales. With a few adjustments some hauntingly weird sounds could be created, and Danny and Adam's eyes met with cheerful mischief as the keening, electronically twisted cry of a gull rang out when Danny dropped a finger onto the keys.

Time passed too quickly with this new inspiration, and Adam had to peel Danny from the couch in order to continue the lesson in the kitchen. Pleased by the morning's sound experiments, Adam consented cheerfully enough to the inevitable, and bowed his bouffant head of hair so that Danny could drop the pink apron over him and tie it tight around his black t-shirt.

He blitzed matzo crackers in the food processor - "You'll need to get one of those, too," Danny quipped.

"I could just buy the meal from the store," smirked Adam.

Aghast, one elegant freckled hand to the centre of their chest, Danny inhaled. "Don't you dare." Then they waved the hand and peered at Adam's work. "It's fine, you can do that. But you want it really fine, blitz it some more..."

Adam pressed the switch on the processor again and saw Danny staring thoughtfully at it.

"Stop! Hang on, hang on. I'll be back, just wait."

Adam rolled his eyes. "Danny, you're not thinking..." But Danny was already gone, digging in the bottom of a wonky chest of drawers and pulling out a mic and extension cable with neatly tied wiring. Half tripping over the cables in their effort to unreel them and get to Adam before Adam lost patience and started to blitz the matzo meal again, Danny scrambled like a journalist in the front row. Adam held his own hands up and shook his head, promising not to touch anything until Danny was there, mic in hand, synthesiser balanced on a chair, business end of the mic angled towards the food processor.

Danny ejected the Black Sea disc and put a blank in and then nodded at Adam, one finger poised over the record button.

The food processor whined, the matzo meal rattled and hissed like a gritty tornado inside it and Danny's smile broadened as Adam mimed and bopped to the sound. They recorded the bubbling stock next and a screaming, boiling kettle; cutlery on glass and metal, knives whipping through the stems of herbs and dishes knocking together in a full sink. Engrossed, they paid no attention to the steps outside the flat, nor to the hand that pushed the open door inwards.

"Am I early?" Jerott Blyth asked when he was certain Danny had switched the recording off and was not about to pounce on any other unsuspecting utensils.

With unruffled insouciance, Danny turned, not bothering to hide their delight. Adam looked up with bemused apology and nodded at Jerott, who stood, arms folded, leaning against the door, a resigned expression on his dark face.

"Ma tronche de céleri! Ma figure de poulpe! Mon petit, petit chou," Danny exclaimed, spreading their arms wide and gliding forwards.

"Va te faire cuire le cul, Danny." Jerott did not move as Danny approached.

Danny cackled. "Si je fait ça, tu ne pourrais pas supporter ma chaleur..." The ugly fabric of Danny's blouse wrapped around Jerott's stiff form, encircling him in floaty sleeves and vine-strong arms, while Jerott lifted his chin away from impact with Danny's sharp shoulder and failed to repress the smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

Danny leaned their face against Jerott's cable-knit jumper and leather jacket and sighed. "Je t'aime, doudou."

Jerott rolled his eyes and did not unfold his arms, but allowed Danny to snuggle against him. "Je sais, puce."

Danny gave the impression they might have stayed there all day, if only Jerott had not sneezed with a violence that nearly shook Danny free on its own. The sneezing fit continued as Danny stepped back and Jerott took out a tissue - while, at a safe distance, Adam seized the opportunity to finish mixing the ingredients for the matzo balls.

"You see, that's why he's in such a foul mood with me," Danny explained dreamily to Adam as Jerott continued to sniffle and splutter. "Poor thing's infected. And your soup is going to cure him."

Adam, whose own French was limited to a very average O-level grade, still understood enough about Danny and Jerott's interactions to translate friendly insults when he heard them. He shook his head and tolerated it as Danny reached up to push his fringe back from his eyes while he mixed the dough. "Infected with what?"

Danny eyed Jerott with a wicked look in those clear blue eyes. "It doesn't matter, Maeve: Jewish penicillin is a cure-all."

Jerott was peering dubiously into the stock pot. He used the cuff of a sleeve to cover his hand and rattled the glass lid to see past the condensation. "I can't smell a thing," he said thickly. "How is this supposed to help?"

"Through the magic of love and you not being a little bitch - sit down and stay out of the way. There are artists at work." Danny shoved Jerott aside and instructed Adam to put the dough in the fridge and gather plates and bowls for straining the broth.

Jerott took the seat he was ordered into and stifled a cough behind his hand. He shivered and did not remove his jacket, but toyed awkwardly with a plastic Bic lighter, tapping it against the chipped veneer of the table. He watched Adam and Danny bustle, each carefully stepping around the chair with the synthesiser on it. "What on earth were you recording?"

Adam, forgetting he was clad in a pink apron and large floral oven gloves, threw his hands up. "The Khian Sea song. We were looking for inspiration."

Beneath the table, Jerott's knee bounced compulsively. He frowned at Adam and then at Danny and the synthesiser and again at Adam until Adam lowered his padded hands and shrugged.

"What does poisonous incinerator waste sound like?" Adam repeated Danny's earlier question.

Jerott covered another hacking cough that exacerbated his own perplexed expression. "Chicken soup, apparently?"

"Chicken soup and seagulls," Danny agreed. "Do you want anything, Jerott? Snacks, tea, water, wine?"

"I take it I can't smoke in here?"

"Snacks, tea, water, wine," Danny repeated.

Jerott sighed. "Oh, whatever. It's all wasted on me with this cold."

"Oh, don't, you'll make me take pity on you," Danny said dramatically, and retrieved three cloudy old wineglasses from a cupboard behind Adam's shoulder. Danny poured three half-measures of a pale and weak white wine and handed then out.

With Danny's help, Adam fished the chicken and the vegetables out of the broth, strained the liquid and set aside that which would be needed later from that which would not. While they worked, Jerott reached for the ukulele that hung on the wall by the doorway by a tatty piece of string and began to strum a melancholy ballad that Danny knew the French lyrics to.

Adam was part-way through rolling the chilled dough into a vast collection of dumplings, when a thought occurred to him through Danny's singing and the plucking of the ukulele. "Jerott, do you know that Bobby Darin song? Somewhere, beyond the sea..."

Jerott raised a dark brow and adjusted his fingering to strum the opening chords, light and soft on the short strings.

Danny eyed Adam with admiration. "You sly dog. We can use it as the intro - no, outro?"

"It's got the key changes," Jerott demonstrated, barring the fret and moving his hand up the neck of the instrument. "Open with one key, play the outro in another? Switch it 'round?" He tried to hum along as he played but had to give up and succumb to a coughing fit that was only eased by a swig of the thin wine Danny had served.

"You know..." Adam smiled as Danny fretted impatiently about, searching for a pen to write the chords down with. "We'll get it all planned out, just perfect, the w-whole track ready to go - and in the studio he'll tell us he's written another ten verses, or changed what it's about, or doesn't want to include it anymore..."

Jerott tried to laugh through his cough and Danny let out a howl of despair and shook Adam by the shoulders. "Don't say that, Maeve! We won't let him! Or...we'll just have to release it ourselves as an instrumental. The world is just crying out for a new genre: seagull synth. Kitchen kitsch. Bobby Darin covers played on a stove-top."

"No, I've definitely seen those alongside the Tijuana Beatles vinyl at the market in Montmartre," Jerott shook his head. Danny and Adam shuddered.

Leaving the dumplings to cook in a pot of stock, with the chicken broth strained and waiting, the meat shredded and prepared, they took themselves and the synthesiser back into the sitting area. Jerott sprawled on the low couch with his eyes closed, head back against its misshapen cushions, and Danny sat next to him, an admiring smile playing on their soft lips.

"I'm starving," Jerott grumbled. "Are you following a British 'boil it to shit' recipe?"

Danny punched him in the arm. "Manners. We're feeding you the best cure in the world, and the British have nothing to do with it. Though in case anything does go wrong, actually, Adam is feeding you."

"Yeah, but until you host us in return you can't complain, Jerott. Or I might poison yours deliberately," Adam arranged himself on the chair by the window and folded his arms.

Jerott made a miserable sound. "Can't where I'm staying."

Danny and Adam exchanged a glance and Adam grimaced.

"Doesn't your Mam live in Paris, Jerott?" With calculated self-consciousness, Danny brightened, leaning one elbow on the back of the sofa to gaze at Jerott's profile.

"Danny, stop trying to seduce people's Mums," Adam rolled his eyes.

With a grin, Danny shrugged. "Mams love me! Except for my own, of course. Her loss."

Jerott cracked one eye open and sniffed self-piteously. "I'm not inflicting you on my mother, nor her on you. You'll get your five course Pakistani feast when we've finished with this album."

"Oh!" Jerott started, sitting up a little and rummaging in a pocket of his leather jacket. "I did bring these though." He passed a crumpled plastic bag to Danny, who accepted the offering with reserved curiosity and peered inside.

"Chandrakala." Jerott explained. "They're vegan ones - coconut and raisins I think, from dixième. And some macarons. When in Paris..."

"Ooh, tiny, adorable dessert pasties? Maeve, sounds delicious! I'll add them to the desserts..."

Danny shimmied away to the kitchen and returned with the bottle of wine and a jug of water. The three of them chatted and finished the wine as the dumplings continued to cook, and at Adam's prompting Danny remembered to transfer the song notes from the ink-smudged back of their hand to Adam's notebook.

At the little table in the steam-filled kitchen, they tried not to bump elbows and knees as they leaned over their soup bowls. Jerott even removed his jacket and inhaled the humid air appreciatively, conceding that he could, at last, smell something - and that it smelled delicious.

Danny repeated the pronouncement they had made earlier on the matzo balls, enthusing about the consistency and texture of Adam's achievement. "Of course, our dear leader learned to cook his in New York, so they float - I thought I'd won him 'round in Russia, but you know how hard it is to get praise from the maestro..."

"Anything is forgivable, but taking the incorrect approach to dumplings..." Jerott said wryly over a spoonful of broth.

"See, he does understand!" Danny beamed at Adam, who munched proudly on one of the satisfyingly chewy creations.

"And what do you think, Adam? Will your lonely widow be bowled over by your culinary skills?"

Adam smiled shyly at his bowl. "Maybe not quite yet. But I can make a start, now."

Jerott looked at Adam with a piercing, thirsty expression. "What's this?"

Danny covered their mouth in exaggerated embarrassment. "Whoops," they said, and stood up on the pretence of getting a refill of soup.

"Isn't it enough to want to learn to cook because you're thirty-two and it's about time you learned?" Adam sighed and rolled his eyes, but Jerott's interest did not waver. "And, yes, okay, also so I can offer to cook next time Kate is over here."

"Philippa Somerville's mother?" Jerott's eyes were wide.

"Her name is Kate," Adam said snippily, finishing his soup.

It was Jerott's turn to exchange a look with Danny, and Danny smirked shamelessly while ladling more soup out into everyone's bowls.

Jerott smiled. "That's really sweet, Adam. She's known Francis for so long it will be a novelty to find a man who's capable of acting like a gentleman."

Danny snorted and clattered the ladle against the pot. Adam glared.

"What-what's that meant to mean?"

Jerott shrugged and looked about vaguely. "Nothing! Just that you're a gentleman."

"K-Kate and Francis aren't an item. Never have been," said Adam, sitting up rigidly and staring Jerott down.

Danny glanced at each of their expressions and relished the strange tension at the table.

"Are you sure?" Jerott frowned. "What about at St Mary's-"

"Nope," Adam shook his head. He settled his thin arms on the edge of the table in front of him and Danny leaned forwards, elbows joining Adam’s on the table, settling in for a ringside view of the finishing blow Adam was clearly about to deliver. "You thought everyone at Saint Mary's was sleeping with everyone else, just because you weren't getting any."

Jerott's jaw dropped and his eyebrows shot up. Adam scooped an entire dumpling into his mouth and finished his soup in defiant silence.

"Well that was savage," Danny sucked the remaining herbs and grease from their spoon. "Adam, you realise you have clean up when you commit murder in my kitchen?"

Jerott blinked and opened his mouth again to object while Adam matched his gaze innocently. After a moment, incredulous, Jerott asked: "So, Francis isn't in love with Kate Somerville?"

"Where did you get that idea from?" Danny sipped their wine and eyed Jerott dubiously.

Jerott shrugged and finally looked down at his plate. "Sorry man," he muttered at Adam. "I thought Philippa said something like that when they were round at the summerhouse in Brittany." His cheeks had reddened and he finally concentrated on his soup, ignoring the knowing look that Danny and Adam exchanged yet again. They finished the course in silence.

Danny stood and gathered the empty bowls before laying a hand on Jerott's black hair, which Jerott shook off with a habitual scowl. "Well stop making me feel sorry for you, piteous thing," Danny tutted.

"I don't need your pity, I'm fine," Jerott sniffed, folded his arms and glowered, then unfolded them and picked at a chip in the table lacquer.

"You have a hotel room now?" Adam studied him.

Jerott bit his lip like he was desperate for a cigarette and focussed with hope on the platter loaded with chandrakala, macarons, halva and cotignac that Danny lowered before them. "Yeah."

"Don't go back to that flat," Danny said warningly. "Leave her be."

Jerott grunted and busied himself at the task of devouring the sweets Danny had set out.

Adam shook his head and delicately lifted a slice of pistachio halva from the plate. His voice turned steely and defensive on Jerott's behalf. "She should go and stay in the summerhouse. It's not like she needs to be in Paris right now!"

His mouth full of cotignac, Jerott said nothing but rolled his eyes.

"Really," Adam muttered. "What's her game?"

Danny languidly pulled a flaking half-moon of a chandrakala in half. "Pity isn't absolution, Adam. I'll feed you, doudou, and you can use my kitchen, but stay away from that woman. She's better off without you."

Jerott picked a crumbly chunk of halva apart to get at a pistachio and gave Adam a grateful half-smile, but he addressed Danny. "It's ok, there's nothing to take me back there. Let her have it all."

Danny tilted their head. "Hmm, we can probably work towards something more amicable than that."

Adopting a breezy tone and shaking their head so the star-covered earrings shivered and sparkled, Danny flipped their hand through the air to dismiss the awkward mood. "Ok, Jerott, which is the better dessert? Help us decide.".

"You chose the c-cotignac and the halva," Adam looked up in complaint.

Danny waved another dismissive hand. "Well you got two savoury options."

"You served the lavash with liver paté!"

"We couldn't get any of the dips you wanted and you don't know how to make them!"

Jerott stared at each of them in turn as though one of the three of them had finally cracked and he wasn't sure which it was. His plate was empty and so was his wine glass. "I thought they were both nice."

"Ah-ha!" Danny smirked at Adam, who shooed his fingers at the emptiness of Danny's triumph.

"I still prefer macarons," Jerott shrugged, picking up one of the latter from the serving dish. "Something about eating something I'm too lazy to make for myself. But the soup was really good, Adam. I could actually taste it."

Danny stood and gazed down at Jerott with disdain. "I don't know what I expected. Goyishe Apikoros. You'll just have to eat some more, until we've changed your mind."

Adam sucked the crumbs of halva from his fingers thoughtfully. "I don't know, I'm enjoying the illusion that the soup has actually cured him. Maybe we should leave before he starts coughing again, Danny."

"Adam." Danny bristled. "It has cured him."

With vindictive glee, Danny returned laden with all the remaining sweets. Three plates were piled high with delicacies, a bottle of schnapps was laid on the table, and talk drifted to less important subjects.

When, several hours later, Adam obligingly hoovered up the last remaining crumbs of sugar from the cotignac plate, Jerott snored softly on the ancient couch and Danny sang softly over the washing up, it was as peaceful, as content an atmosphere as Adam recalled from Shabbat afternoons at home. He let out a long breath and knocked the last of his schnapps back, its fire racing to combat the full feeling in his stomach.

The flat was cooling as the afternoon wore on beneath a clear sky. Outside the window the city was the same soft pastel colour as the macarons Jerott had brought. "Didn't you say you had other people coming ‘round?" Adam leaned back in his chair to eye Danny, his head upside down and thick hair flopping wildly.

Danny smirked over one shoulder of the pink pinny. "I said at night, Adam. Let him sleep - I'll make sure he's gone before the Marais crowd come up and offend his delicate sensibilities."

Adam stretched and slowly got to his feet, massaging his hip. He took his notebook out again and flicked through the music they'd made that day and the recipe he had learned.

"You should go and call her," Danny watched Adam, their wiry, compact body twisted away from the sink.

Adam laughed nervously and felt his cheeks grow warm. "Oh, n-no. I haven't seen Philippa much this week." He raked a hand through his hair and his gaze lingered on the phone number. "I said I'd call if I had any news about her or Lymond. Neither of them tells Kate anything these days."

Danny made a sound that demonstrated how unconvincing Adam's words were. "I think if I were stuck at home childminding the kid of a fifteen-year-old drug addict because the kid's adoptive parents were too busy playing some high profile game of 'will-they-won't-they' in the French tabloids, I would want to talk to someone about something else, now and again."

Adam's fingers traced the words Flaw Valleys and he thought of Kate Somerville's smiling brown eyes, her ringing, easy laughter and the gentle way time had run its hands through her dark hair, gilding her with silver. "Yeah, maybe," he conceded.

"Then quit smiling like a goof in my flat and go call her!"

Shrugging on his jacket and tucking the notebook away, Adam thanked Danny as he near-bounded out of the door. He paused, swinging on the hinge with a huge grin. "Same time next week?"

"Aye, aye," Danny waved a hand up from the sink. "You'll be making your own kugel from scratch before you know it."

Adam left, hobbling downstairs with speed and intent. He travelled on the Métro in a well-fed, dreamy daze and fell upon the phone booth outside his apartment building like it was a lover.

"Hello?" Kate's voice sounded crackly down the line, but its warmth reached Adam's body instantly.

"Hi. It's Adam - t-there's nothing wrong! They're fine! I just thought. I thought you might want to talk. That is. If you're free," he winced at his own gabbling and dropped his forehead, hard, against the plastic phone box. "Sorry," he mumbled.

The sound of her laughter and the sound of her breath mingled in a burst like static, like a whisper in his ear. "Adam!" He heard a sound in the background like a teaspoon clinking on a mug. The line hissed again and he imagined her cradling the receiver between her soft, round cheek and her shoulder. "This is a really lovely surprise. Especially so, if you say there's no news this week," Kate chuckled ruefully.

Adam's face was starting to feel stiff from the grin he wore. It was a chilly night and he nuzzled his way into a corner of the booth, his hands in his armpits and the plastic receiver cold on his hot skin. "No, none. I just. I guess I thought maybe you'd want someone to talk to. About your week, or. Or whatever."

"Oh yes," Kate's voice fell into that mocking seriousness that made her eyes sparkle when she spoke. "Hamal is sick to death of me telling him about which chickens laid the biggest eggs and which of the dogs rolled in the smelliest patch of mud."

Adam giggled. "But that's terribly important business. I hope he takes it seriously?"

"Absolutely not. Today he flicked mashed potato in my hair and threw broccoli on the collie." When Adam's laughter faded out, breathless, his ribs aching with joy, she added: "Tell me, Adam, you must have been having a more interesting time in Paris. What was your day like?"

"I, ah," Adam looked down bashfully rather than meeting his own eyes in the reflection in the phone booth plastic. "I made chicken soup. With matzo dumplings."

He thought he heard the sound of Kate sipping her tea, then she sighed like she was letting long-held strains slip from her shoulders. "That sounds wonderful."

"I'd like to cook it for you. Sometime," Adam stood up in shock at letting the admission out and caught the receiver as it slipped from his shoulder. He had replaced it against his burning ear - if he had not quite recovered his composure - in time to hear the end of Kate's reply.

"...I'd like that very much."

-

Notes: 

-The recipe, with sinking kneidlach, that I was using as a reference, thanks to Erinaceina -I'm not sure what Georgian Jewish cuisine would be available in Parisian markets in the '80s. I put lavash and chebureki in so Adam had something to recommend alongside Danny's tastes. -Delia Smith and the Barefoot Contessa would have been known celebrity chefs in the 1980s -The Khian Sea disaster -Danny and Jerott's French is insults and terms of endearment all mixed up. Danny calls him a stick of celery and octopus-face, then Danny's little cabbage. Jerott tells Danny to go cook their ass. Danny explains that if they did that, Jerott wouldn't be able to handle the heat. Danny calls Jerott a teddy bear and says they love him, Jerott calls Danny a flea and says he knows. -Tijuana Beatles is a real thing and you can probably find one in any charity shop vinyl collection -Character in a 'Carry On' film -Le Marais, the 4e arrondissement, where Danny's flat is, is both the Jewish quarter and the gay quarter -Jerott's been shopping in the 10e arrondissement, which is where the Pakistani community set up in the '70s [for Jerott's family history I can but direct you to 'Music is a made-up thing like myth' the prequel I really need to get back to working on...basically he has a Hindu Pakistani grandparent and his mother is from the Levant, details tbd] -Danny calls Jerott a 'Goyishe Apikoros', which is Yiddish for 'non-Jewish Epicurean/cynic'. I think it can be a pun in the context of food? That's the intention, anyway. -All the food is real, look it up and get as hungry as writing this made me...

#the band au #long post for ts #my fic #my writing #character study #adam blacklock #danny hislop #jerott blyth #kate somerville

[drinkthehalo]

Macro perspective on each Lymond book

I've been listening to the Lymond Chronicles audiobooks, which has given me a different perspective than reading them. With audiobooks, you’re less inclined to stop and dive into the details, to look up an interesting word or obscure historical fact; instead you get swept along with the larger arc of the book.

So, I thought it would be interesting to look at what each book is about from a macro perspective.

Spoilers for the entire series follow.

The Game of Kings

In genre, it's a mystery told in a historical adventure style; it asks the question "Who is Lymond?" and gives us a ton of contradictory clues, then finally reveals the truth - in a psychological sense by stripping away Lymond's defense mechanisms and revealing the human being underneath, as he breaks down in the dell, "the guard was down... every fluent line and practised shade of Lymond's face betrayed him explicitly"; and in a narrative sense via the trial, which examines each "clue" we received throughout the story and tells us what it really meant.

Thematically, it's mainly about "serving honesty in a crooked way" - that morality isn’t simple and that sometimes you need to break the rules to do the right thing.  Nearly all Lymond’s acts are apparently bad things done for a goal that is actually good. We see the theme also in Will Scott (who learns that the world is more complicated than the "moral philosophy" he learned in school) and the various characters who help Lymond, breaking the rules of society by aiding a wanted outlaw (Christian, Sybilla, the Somerviles). 

It is also about the balance of looking out for self vs the obligation to the greater society - Lymond is not completely selfless (after all, he is back in Scotland to clear his own name), but when forced to choose, he always chooses the greater good above his own goals. He is contrasted with Richard, whose great mistake is to put his obligations to Scotland at risk in pursuit of his personal vengeance, and Margaret Lennox, who is purely and grotesquely out only for herself.

The historical context is part of this theme, as we see the various border families playing both sides between England and Scotland, with the heroes being those who ultimately stand up for Scotland, even as we understand that some have no choice but to profess one thing while doing another.

Queens Play

In genre, it's a spy novel; thematically, it's about what Lymond will do with the rest of his life. The question is asked explicitly several times (most obviously, "You have all your life still before you." / "The popular question is, for what?") It's important that Lymond loses his title at the start of this book; he has to figure out who he will be without it.

The main characters all represent possible paths Lymond could take -

O'Liam Roe, who sits back and laughs at the world with detachment, while abdicating all responsibility to use his mind and position to change the world for the better.

Robin Stewart, who loses himself in bitterness about the ways the world has been unfair to him, and in fixating on how he deserved better, fails to take any action to improve himself.

Oonagh, who works passionately to change the world for the better, but whose ideals have become corrupted because she has attached herself to a leader who is more out for himself than for their cause.

And of course Thady Boy and Vervassal, two extremes of himself that Lymond tries on, and (by the end of the series) must learn to reconcile.

The recurring imagery of the first half is the carnival, the masks, the music, the parties, and our hero in danger of losing himself amidst the debauchery. In the second half the imagery every time Lymond appears is of ice, the ultra-controlled, hyper-competent version of Lymond at risk of losing himself by denying his artistic soul. (There’s a wonderful essay here that explores these motifs.)

In the end, Lymond comes to the conclusion that he must not withdraw into detachment or bitterness, that he must find a way to make a positive difference in the world, but that he also must not attach himself to a powerful figure who may be more out for themselves than for Scotland (ie, his refusal to attach himself to Marie de Guise). This sets up the creation of his mercenary army in the next books, as a way he can exercise independent influence in the world.

The Disorderly Knights

This book couldn't be more relevant to the world today. It's a portrait of cynical hypocrisy in pursuit of power; it lays out step by step the tactics of propaganda and manipulation used by despots to build up themselves and tear down their rivals: pretend to be pious, accuse of others of your own crimes, tear down straw men instead of engaging in real debate. It tells us to "look at his hands"; what matters is what a leader actually does, not what he professes to believe.

It shows us how leaders use charisma to manipulate, and, in showing the battle between Gabriel and Lymond for Jerott's loyalty, shows how Lymond takes the harder and more ethical path, by refusing to use his charisma to seduce (a lesson learned from his experience with Robin Stewart) and instead guiding Jerott to come to his own conclusions by means of rational thought instead of hero worship.

At every level the novel advocates for tolerance and internationalism, and against petty sectarianism, as Lymond questions whether the Knights of St John are really any better than the Turks, and as he tries to get the Scottish border families to abandon their feuds in favor of the greater good of the country.

In terms of genre, it’s a pure adventure novel. I never get bored of the masterful action sequences with the battles in Malta and Tripoli, and the extraordinary duel at St Giles in the end. (Also in terms of thematic imagery, there is some crazy S&M shit going on in this book, with Gabriel and Joleta's sadism and Lymond's self-sacrificial masochism.)

I love Disorderly Knights so much. It is nearly perfect - well structured, thematically coherent, witty, fun, breathtaking, and heartbreaking.

Pawn in Frankincense

In genre, this is a quest novel. In several places it explicitly parallels The Odyssey.

In theme, it explores -

Do the ends justify the means? How much sacrifice is too much? Lymond gives up his fortune, his body, and his health; Philippa gives up her freedom and her future; we are asked often consider, which goal is more important, stopping Gabriel or saving the child? We even see this theme in Marthe's subplot, as she gives up the treasure, her dream to "be a person," to save her companions. Perhaps the most telling moment is right after Lymond kills Gabriel; despite all his claims that Gabriel’s death mattered more than the fate of the child, he’s already forgotten it, instead playing over and over in his mind the death of Khaireddin. If you do what is intellectually right but it destroys your soul, was it really right?

The other big theme is “nature vs nurture.” What is the impact of upbringing on how people turn out? In its comparisons of Kuzum vs Khaireddin, and Lymond vs Marthe, it seems to fall firmly on the side of nurture.

It’s also a kaleidoscope of views on love, with its Pilgrims of Love and their poetry, and the contrasting images of selfless, sacrificial love (Philippa and Evangelista for Kuzum, Salablanca for Lymond, Lymond for Khaireddin, perhaps Marthe for Lymond as she helps him in the end) with possessive, needy “love” (Marthe for Guzel, Jerott for Marthe or Lymond, arguably even the Aga for Lymond).

This novel is also a tragedy. Its imagery and the historical background complement the themes by creating an atmosphere lush, beautiful, labyrinthine, overwhelming, and suffocating.

The Ringed Castle

I have to confess this is my least favorite, in large part because I find the historical sequences (in Russia and in Mary Tudor's court in England) go on way too long and have only tangential relationships to the themes and characters.

It seems to be primarily about self-delusion as a response to trauma.  Lymond spends the entire novel trying to be someone he isn't, in a place he doesn't belong, because he is too damaged to face reality. (His physical blindness as a manifestation of his psychological blindness; the sequences at John Dee's, surrounded by mirrors, forcing him to see himself.) 

Lymond convinces himself he can build a wall around his heart to block out all human connection, that he can be a “machine,” but despite his best efforts, he cares for Adam Blacklock and develops a true friendship with Diccon Chancellor. And of course, by far the most important moment is after the Hall of Revels, when Lymond's heart unfreezes and he suddenly sees one thing VERY clearly. (And then tries, desperately, to escape it.)

The only reason I can think of that the book lingers so long on Mary Tudor (so boring omg) is the parallel with Lymond, her false pregnancies as a manifestation of her desire to see the world as she wants it to be, and her failure to see reality as it is. Ivan of Russia also is a parallel: delusional, unable to trust, and dangerous. Their failures, and the failure of Lymond's Russia adventure and relationship with Guzel, tell us that you cannot hide from reality forever.

The book spends so long painting the backdrop of 16th century Russia that it makes me think that Dunnett got too caught up in her research and needed a stronger editor, although there is also a parallel with Lymond in the idea of Russia as a traumatized nation struggling to establish itself, and of course, Lymond subsuming his need to deal with his own issues into a goal of building a nation.

It's also about exploration, about the intellectual wonder of discovering that there is more to the world, as we learn about Diccon Chancellor and the Muscovy Company. It’s wonderful imagery, but I struggle to how this fits coherently into the overall theme of the novel, and am curious how others reconcile it.

I like the idea of this book more than the reality. If you’re going to do to your hero what Dunnett did to Lymond in “Pawn,” there has to be consequences. But hundreds of pages of our hero in such a frozen state is difficult to read.

That said, the Hall of Revels is one of the best things in the series, and I’ll always love this book for that.

Checkmate

Checkmate is about reconciliation of self and recovery from trauma, as Lymond is forced (kicking and screaming) to accept who is and what he's done, and to allow himself to love and be loved. Philippa is his guide, as she discovers the secrets of his birth, understands his childhood, hears his tales of all the terrible things he's done, and loves him anyway. As far as genre, this is definitely a romance.

There are villains in this book (Leonard Bailey, Margaret Lennox, Austin Grey) but they're all fairly weak; the true antagonist is Lymond himself. From the beginning, he could have everything he needs to be happy (he's married to the woman he loves, and she loves him back!); his true struggle is to stop running from it (by escaping to Russia or committing suicide) and to break through his own psychological barriers enough to allow himself to accept it.

The primary parallel is with Jerott and Marthe, who also have happiness almost in their grasp, but never manage to achieve it.

The heritage plot looms large and is (IMO) tedious; it's so melodramatic that it takes some mental gymnastics to get it to make thematic sense to me. It ultimately comes down to Lymond's identity crisis and childhood trauma. His “father” rejected and abused him, so he based his identity on his relationship to his mother, but his suspicion that he is a bastard means he lives in terror that he doesn’t really belong in his family and that, if his mother isn’t perfect, he is rotten. (I love him but, my god, it is juvenile. The only way I can reconcile it is that his fear about the circumstances of his birth is really just a stand-in for his self-hatred caused by his traumas.) He also continues to struggle with his envy that Richard was born into a position with power and influence that Lymond has spent the past six books struggling to obtain, and that Lymond’s terrible traumas (starting with the galleys) would not have happened if he had been the heir. The discovery that he actually IS the legitimate heir is what finally snaps him out of it, since his reaction is to want to protect Richard, and this also reconciles him to Sybilla since protecting Richard was her goal too.

There are some other parts of this book that I struggle to reconcile (Lymond's inability to live if he can't have sex with Philippa; the way the focus on heritage seems to undercut the nature vs nurture themes; that no one but Jerott is bothered by Marthe's death, which undercuts some of the most moving moments in "Pawn”; and I mostly just pretend the predestination and telepathy stuff didn’t happen). On the other hand, I do sort of love the way this book wholeheartedly embraces the idea that there is no human being on earth who will ever be as melodramatic as Francis Crawford.

In terms of the historical elements, in addition to providing the narrative grounding for the character stuff to play out, it sets up the idea that Scotland has troubles coming up (the religious wars, the betrayal of the de Guises) and that Lymond needs to go home, let go of France and Russia, and focus on Scotland where he belongs. I’m sure there is also some political nuance in the fact that our Scottish hero, after spending so much time and energy in France, ends up with an English wife.

The conclusion in the music room is perfect - it brings us back to the amnesiac Lymond who innocently played music with Christian Stewart, to Thady Boy whose songs made the cynical French court weep, and fills the “void” Lymond described to Jerott where there was no prospect of music. The aspects of himself are finally reconciled and he has a partner to share his life with.

I am curious what others see as the macro / thematic big picture meanings of these books. :)  And if anyone can find the key to make “Ringed Castle” and “Checkmate” make more sense to me...

#lymond #the lymond chronicles

[scotianostra]

21st September 1832 saw the death of Sir Walter Scott.

Walter Scott is synonymous with our history as a nation, his novels are world famous, many made into TV series and films, as well as plays, he collected Scottish folk tales from an early age and his fertile mind interwoven all these stories into his own, his Waverley series of novels ran from 1814 to 1832 and included the infamous Rob Roy, as well as many other characters like Captain John Porteous, who I covered earlier in the month, Scott told his story in The Heart of Midlothian in that series. 

He met Robert Burns when he was only 15 at a house in Edinburgh, where also present were some of the greatest minds of The Scottish Enlightenment including, Adam Smith, Dugald Stewart, Adam Fergusson and James Hutton. Scott was born in Edinburgh, but the Borders Region often claim his as their own, and no wonder. A frail boy, when he was two, he suffered from polio which left him lame. Young Scott spent much of his growing up years in Sandyknowe, near Smailholm Tower, with his paternal grandparents. He was a voracious reader, reading almost everything he laid his hands on, right from history and drama to fairy tales and romance.

At age 7 he returned to Edinburgh for his formal schooling, at the Royal High School of Edinburgh. By this time, he was able to walk but with a pronounced limp. On finishing his schooling he returned to the Borders, to Kelso for six months, studying at the local grammar school. In 1783, he enrolled at the University of Edinburgh to study classics. There he befriended the aforementioned Adam Ferguson and Thomas Blacklock.

In 1786, he apprenticed at his father’s office as a Writer to the Signet. Taking up a career in law, he went back to the university to gain a formal degree in the subject. Completing his studies, he became a lawyer in Edinburgh and was called to the bar in 1792.

In 1798 he began his literary career, his early publications were, not Scots in origin, but translations of German versed ballads by Gottfried August Burger, ‘The Chase’ and ‘William and Helen.' A year later saw a return south when he was appointed Sheriff-Depute of the County of Selkirk. 

In 1800, his first original work, ‘Glenfinals’ and ‘The Eve of St John’, was published. Written in a short narrative style, the poetry brought him much public attention and appreciation. His childhood interest in border ballads finally took the form of three volume poetry collection by the name, ‘Minstrelsy Of the Scottish Border’ which was published in 1802-03. With this collection, he attempted to restore the original compositions but with a touch of romanticism. The collection also gave a glimpse of his long-standing interest in Scottish history.

These were all poetry work, and he continued in that vein for a number of years, making a name for himself with works like, Marmion, The Lady of the Lake, and The Lord of the Isles’.

In 1806, he was promoted as the clerk to the Court of Session in Edinburgh. The appointment was welcomed as it supplemented his income from his writings. 1809 saw him persuade his friend James Ballantyne to establish a publishing house in Edinburgh. However, by 1825, the firm was on the verge of bankruptcy. Most of earnings from his writing thereafter were directed at clearing the debts incurred.

After gaining a celebrity status through his collection of poetry, Scott turned his attention to prose fiction. He attempted to portray the Scottish historical events in an innovative fashion. His first novel Waverly was published anonymously in 1814. It dealt with the subject of the Scottish Rebellion of 1745. It was a runaway success, most people suspected it was Walter Scott's work but his identity was not revealed until 1827. 

You may have read that Scott has gone down in history as the man who invented the Romantic Novel, well this is due to the fact that before his Waverley masterpiece this form of writing was seen as inferior to the verse that was so popular until then. His explorations and interpretations of Scottish history increased his popularity by manifolds, he suggested that the Scottish crown jewels be sought out and was there when they were found in Edinburgh Castle, they have been on display there ever since. 

By 1830s, he suffered from frail health, a condition which worsened further. After his grand tour of Europe, he returned to Scotland in 1832. Shortly afterwards he died on September 21, 1832, at his home in Abbotsford.

Nowadays we remember Walter Scott with his magnificent monument in Princes Street Gardens, and also every day in The Bank of Scotland Banknotes, all of which bear his image, he is noted as the man who saved our currency as there were plans to start phasing out our notes, starting with the £1 and 10/ in 1826, there was outrage, and  Scott using a pseudonym wrote a series of letters to the Edinburgh Weekly Journal, the response being the government backed down and we retain our notes to this day. 

Waverley Station, Edinburgh, Heart of Midlothian football Team and several Monuments were made in his honour.  Glasgow beat Edinburgh to put up the first monument in the middle of George Square in 1837, of course it is not as grand as the one in his hometown, but a decent offering all the same. If ever in New York City look up the Statue in his honour in Central Park, a replica of the one on Edinburgh's monument, it was unveiled in 1872. A bust of Scott is in the Hall of Heroes of the National Wallace Monument at Abbey Craig, and an amazing 12 streets are named are named after Scott's books or characters in Vancouver, Canada. 

Legend has it that after his death his funeral cortege passed, what is now known as Scott's View, five miles from his home of many years Abbotsford, the horses pulling his hearse were his own, and they were so used to pulling over there so the writer could admire the lovely view, they too stopped on their way to Dryburgh Abbey, where he is interred.

#Scotland #scottisih #History #literature

[theartistknownaslymond]

Danny and Adam having fun with Jewish/Yiddish folk (and possibly some Georgian for Adam)?

Playlist 1  -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-  Playlist 2

....this got out of hand.

Playlist 1 is packed full of Jewish protest songs, folk from the Caucasus, and Theremin takes on the classics. Potential TW: it’s been reported that Spotify’s autoplay algorithm has followed this playlist up with Bettina Wegner’s song in memory of those killed in camps during the Shoah. If you want to avoid Spotify triggering you with its helpful suggestions, make sure you switch off Autoplay (link gives a how to).

Playlist 2 is founded on Jewish musicians, but includes other things that are just Vibes for these characters. It’s perhaps a bit easier to listen to if you just want background bops.

I’ll pop a bit of context under the cut, but feel like I’ve probably done enough here. 🤐

FCs are: Billy Mackenzie (from the Dundee band The Associates) and Jonathan Richman, Adam 1 & 2 respectively; actors Freddie Fox and Maya Hawke, Danny 1 & 2, respectively.

For anyone reading this who’s new to the AU, Adam’s family are Jewish emigres from Soviet Georgia, and Danny is a runaway non-binary Rabbi’s child.

By and large, these are ‘period-appropriate’, though I snuck a few mid-’90s things in, notably Tofa’ah (1), because it’s such catchy Jewish pop and, well, you can talk of the ‘long 1980s’ in terms of style, right...? The Divine Comedy (2) is really a QP vibe, but wasn’t released until the early ‘90s, and Neil Hannon’s archness fits Adam and Danny well too.

A lot of the Yiddish folk on 1 has probably been done in a more palatable-to-modern-ears style by people like Daniel Kahn & the Painted Bird, but this playlist proves there were compilations available by the 1980s! The Anon tracks are from a compilation of music of the Caucasian Mountain Jews released in Israel, so not strictly from the Georgian Jewish community in Mtskheta, but the musical style is probably pretty similar, it has enough in common with Georgian folk already.

While Danny has some Yiddish, and both have some Hebrew, I think the music in 1 is mostly stuff that has formed the background to who they are - they can belt out the big songs at family gatherings, are delighted when they find any overlap in what they know, but by and large it’s not what they play. Again, except for Adam at family gatherings, when it’s insisted upon.

Yes, Playlist 2 starts with a Joy Division track. Musically, I think Adam is a big fan, though if he’s playing covers he probably goes out of his way to have a bit of very Jewish patter with Danny first, for the audience’s sake, just to put the music in context (among a number of ‘80s bands, Joy Division made use of N*zi aesthetics, and, well there’s that band name). But I think Adam and Danny are the kind of people who would see some naive kids mucking about with ‘edgy’ imagery like that and go ‘yoink! We’re having your music then!’

Golden Brown (2), not Jewish, but Adam does have that history of drug abuse. There’s a fair bit from French Jewish artists on 2 as well: Barbara, Sapho, Marcel Dadi and Jean-Jacques Goldman, all of which will be Danny favourites (Danny worked in kitchens in Paris at some point while playing woodwind in various jazz cafés). T’Pau is also there for Danny - I was reminded that it’s actually a song about Frankenstein (no, really), and I thought that might resonate with Danny and creating their own identity on leaving home. Aquarium is for Adam though - the band got in trouble at Tbilisi rock festival in the early ‘80s for making lewd moves with their instruments.

#playlists: period-appropriate #character: adam blacklock #character: danny hislop #setting: 1980s #band au: pre-canon

[theartistknownaslymond]

#setting: 1980s #band au: the ringed castle #setting: soviet union #character: danny hislop #character: adam blacklock

[theartistknownaslymond]

Cheek kisses for D/J

The small kitchen table was piled so high with food Danny could barely see Jerott sitting behind it all.

"Are you in hiding, doudou?"

Jerott's dark eyes, wide with trepidation, peered at them over the stacks of bagels and samosas. "Are you in disguise?"

Danny put mock-offended hands on their hips. Hips that were enclosed in a slinky black cotton dress, showing the soft curve of belly and braless, fleabite breasts. The dress was long enough to cover Danny's knees and accessorised with new, floral Docs, tasteful silver jewellery, and maroon dark lipstick. Even the eyeshadow was restrained - by Danny's standards - a pale smoky haze that didn't take away from the pout. A sensible grey mohair cardigan was draped over one arm, but Danny couldn't quite bring themselves to put that on yet.

"Excuse me? I look perfect."

Danny dropped the cardigan with a flourish over the chairback in front of them.

Jerott tried, but he couldn't stop his eyes from dropping to check every line of the dress. He didn't disagree, Danny saw.

Danny loved to see this expression on his face - a bit flushed, a bit lost, a bit smitten. It made Danny's heart race every time.

"You don't need to pretend for her..." Jerott said eventually, chewing his lower lip as he checked Danny's expression, worry still a shadow in his eyes.

Danny smirked and dropped a hand to the back of the chair opposite Jerott's. The fine chains on their arm tumbled elegantly over their shapely wrist. "Pretend what?"

Jerott's eyes narrowed. He was too well practiced in such leading questions now, and sat back, turning his attention to the immaculate, symmetrical tower of cream cheese bagels.

"That you're not a filthy jazz animal with an addiction to pickled herring and cotignac?" Jerott surveyed the spread of food they'd spent all weekend preparing, and all of a sudden Danny could read his wicked intentions plainly.

"Jazz animal!" Danny exclaimed, delighted and committed to not showing it. "Wait - filthy?"

A slinky dress called for a slinky step, and Danny rounded the table, eyes watching Jerott like he was an untrustworthy pet at a buffet table. "Doudou, don't you dare..."

"Hmm?" Jerott raised a hand to flutter his fingers threateningly over the snacks.

"Jerott, I spent an age getting that tower of bagels even, you can't take one now!" A note of alarm entered Danny's voice.

"My mum won't even notice, Danny, don't worry..."

This was his way of distracting himself from his own unease at the first meeting, Danny knew. But stacking the bagels had been Danny's way of dealing with it, and now Jerott was interfering with the carefully curated image Danny wished to present to la formidable Madame Bensaïd.

Jerott grabbed a bagel and Danny lunged to stop him. But half the damned bagel was in his mouth even with Danny's hand on his wrist and Danny yelping out, "I'm the animal?!"

Jerott laughed, tried not to choke, and chewed on the too-large bite with difficulty, leaning away from Danny as Danny loomed over his chair.

That remorseless smirk, the dimple that was at war with the bulging cheek full of bagel turned out to be too tempting a target.

Danny grabbed his jaw and planted the biggest, poutiest kiss that could be achieved on Jerott's face.

Jerott protested around the bagel, feeling the waxy residue that remained on his skin. A near perfect red smear formed an 'o' on his cheek.

Danny folded their arms to look down at their handiwork. "You deserve it."

But Jerott was standing, a new mischief in his eyes that Danny understood too late.

"Oh, no!"

Jerott shoved the other half of the bagel into his mouth as messily as he could. There was cream cheese everywhere and Danny hesitated, transfixed with horror for a second too long.

Jerott grabbed Danny around the waist and smacked his own cheesy kiss on Danny's cheek as Danny gave a shriek of thrilled disgust.

"Quequette! Crotte de bordel!" Danny squirmed in Jerott's hold, dissolving into appalled peals of laughter and pretending to fight as Jerott left more bagely kisses on Danny's cheek and Danny no longer knew whether Jerott was depositing cheese with each touch of his lips or kissing it off Danny's skin.

They only stopped scrambling with one another when a polite cough interrupted them, and Danny opened their eyes to see la formidable herself, Jerott's mysterious mother, standing in the kitchen doorway.

She held her designer handbag before her a little like a shield, her eyes round - they're just like Jerott's! Danny thought hysterically - her outfit as immaculately chic as Danny had predicted it would be.

«I heard shouting, and the door was open,» Kahina gestured behind her.

Jerott's grip on Danny tightened before it loosened. He straightened, holding onto Danny's waist with one hand and using the other to hide his own cough and to wipe the remnants of bagel from his mouth.

"Yemma," he said with a measure of contrition.

Danny was torn between the sight of Kahina - in flowing silk scarf, black blouse, white Chanel trousers, with exquisitely blow-dried and styled black hair - and the messy red mark on Jerott's cheek that he seemed to have forgotten about.

Kahina looked puzzled and concerned, but she smiled. "T'es Danny?"

Danny summoned the fortitude necessary to nod and agree that that was, indeed, who they were.

Kahina's smile remained warm, and she fished in her handbag and handed a tissue to each of them.

«It's good to meet you at last,» she said, composed now as though she were about to be seated at a Michelin restaurant. «I would apologise for my son,» she said, which was the kind of introduction Jerott had promised she would give him, and which made Danny's heart ache a little with protectiveness. «But I see you understand already how to deal with him,» Kahina added. The shy twinkle of fun she said it with left Danny with a stupefied grin and a twinge of emotional whiplash.

Kahina turned to the spread of food and grasped a bagel of her own without preamble, letting out a purr of joy as she raised it to her red lips.

«Ah, my god! You can't get them this good outside Le Marais!»

Clearly she had no interest in the even stacking of the tower either, and Danny let out a laugh of relief and received an equally relieved grin from Jerott. «Well, I did live there for a few years...» Danny said, pulling a chair out for Jerott's mother.

Now she was here and the anticipatory worrying was passed, Danny felt confident that they would get on famously.

#sorry you're going to need to see the dentist after this #FLUFF #tooth rotting fluff #somewhere adam blacklock feels nauseous and he doesn't know why #i was on a kick thinking about kehina so here she is! #character: danny hislop #character: jerott blyth #ship: a twinge of approval #ask me and i will play #every day i write the book #band au: fic #band au: post canon #edit: *kahina #character: kahina bensaïd

[theartistknownaslymond]

Welcome to the pleasuredome!

(it’s a Frankie Goes to Hollywood reference)

Here I post aesthetics, reference, ficspiration, fanart, obnoxious playlists, and occasionally fanfic for my cursed 1980s band AU for the Lymond Chronicles.

I always welcome asks and requests! Wanna hear a playlist? Wanna know which character would listen to your favourite band? Want me to stop already? Just ask me and I will play! (but I won’t stop, sorry. I will add more tags if anyone needs them for blocking though)

Below the cut is a list of all the stuff in the band AU so far! I’ll try and keep it up to date.

Pre-series:

Prequel

Sibylla and her children watch the moon landing together in 1969, art by me.

Young Oonagh, illustrated by K

Jerott’s paternal grandmother, Deepa Anand, illustrated by K, with some backstory

Jerott’s mum, Kahina Bensaïd, illustrated by K, with some (a lot) of backstory, partly relating to Jerott

Music is a made-up thing like myth (posted chronologically on Ao3. Hasn’t updated in a while. Isn’t dead yet!)

Freshly victorious at the 1979 Solway Moss Battle of the Bands, young Francis Crawford, aka Lymond, finds himself stuck in an awful contract and an even worse relationship. Things don’t improve as his first US tour approaches and Lymond struggles to find artistic freedom.

Game of Kings

Eloise Crawford illustrated by K

Isolation (Richard reflects on the loss of his siblings)

Gunpoint (Lymond meets Dragut when he falls in with some mafia types)

Bleeding out (More mafia types)

Les gens ne te touchent pas/il faut faire le premier pas (Pune, India, 1981. Jerott Blyth is learning about himself with the guidance of Graham Reid Malett)

Returning to the UK, Lymond has to navigate rumours both personal and political: what role did he play in his sister's disappearance and just how involved was he with the mob in New York? In the meantime, uncertain of his record contract and his inheritance, he has to make a living: he tours relentlessly with bandmates Turkey Mat (drums), Will Scott (bass) and Christian Stewart (guitar).

Queens' Play

Francis in the style of Munch drawn by me

"Don't move" (Lymond wakes up from an accident to find Christian by his bedside)

Trembling (Philippa Somerville thinks her father has just returned - it turns out to be someone quite different)

Humiliation (Will Scott tries - and fails - to humiliate Lymond)

"Stay with me" (Richard pushes his injured brother too far)

West Germany, 1983: Ireland's Eurovision entry, ex-model Oonagh O'Dwyer, is forced to pull out because of industrial action at the Irish state broadcaster. Her partner, the playwright Cormac O’Connor, convinces her they may as well go to on that holiday to Munich and Berlin anyway. The Artist Formerly Known as Lymond, in a techno-goth outfit with Irish producer O'Liamroe, is on hand to disrupt events and keep an eye on young Mary Fleming, part of the British ensemble. But while he's there who can say no to a few illicit cross-border gigs in the GDR? Western decadence at its most provocative...

Disorderly Knights

Laced drink (Margaret Erskine is on hand to comfort Lymond in the aftermath of a heavy night)

Pinned down (Oonagh searches the wreckage in the aftermath of an illicit gig)

Seeking control over his career, Lymond decides to set up his own recording studio and fill it with hand-picked talent. In researching the kind of set-up he wants, he's pushed to get in touch with master producer Graham 'Gabriel' Reid Mallet, who is now a senior figure in the spiritual movement established by Rajneesh/Osho. As the miner's strikes rage on and police response toughens, the role of music in protest comes into sharper focus than ever.

Pawn in Frankincense

Shackled (Jerott Blyth witnesses the carnage at Orgreave picket line)

"Don't try to fix me." (Adam Blacklock thinks he recognises something about Joleta's behaviour)

Bloodied shirt (Everyone is sleep-deprived and grumpy as they leave Dumbarton in the middle of the night)

Stab wound (Lymond is late to a DJ set and misses an altercation)

Joleta and her favourite things drawn by K

Dragged away (Philippa and Joleta go for a night out in Edinburgh)

Scars (Joleta is curious about Lymond's scars)

Nightmare (Joleta stays over with Mariotta Crawford, trouble ensues)

Recovery and "None of this if your fault." (Philippa waits by her friend's bedside after an overdose). Illustrated by K.

It's your choice babe - so you choose well (Archive warning for rape, E. Gabriel/Jerott)

Oonagh and Joleta drawn by K

Oonagh in Rajneeshee red drawn by K

Abandoned (Oonagh O'Dwyer abandons her life in Europe for the promises of a Nebraskan ashram)

Breathe for two (Oonagh realises she's trapped at Graham Reid Malett's ashram)

It's time to try and break America - second time lucky?/Or will America break Lymond? As a front for a final showdown with Gabriel at his ashram in Nevada it's not exactly subtle, but at least Lymond gets to learn something about his family along the way.

The Ringed Castle

Human shield (Marthe takes Philippa into her first mosh pit)

Delirium (Jerott suffers with a combination of delerium tremens and cyanide poisoning)

Adrenaline (Luckily, there's a telenovela star called Dona Maria there to get him out of jail)

Asphyxiation (still suffering from the poisoning, Jerott wakes up at Baron Morgan's motel)

Secret injury (Gabriel doesn't want Jerott to leave the ashram)

This is it, that's the end of the joke (Jerott is at Graham Reid Malett's mercy immediately after his escape attempt).

Jerott in the style of Munch

The only one keeping me sane. (Marthe takes care of Oonagh at the ashram).

Marthe's t-shirts, illustrated by K

Unconscious (Lymond and a small blond boy sleep off their adventures)

Ransom (Gabriel catches up with them in Vegas)

Hallucination (Archie figures out the cause of Lymond's present malady)

Muffled scream (Philippa and Lymond share a Vegas hotel room)

Tear-stained (Oonagh and her son are going home)

Anemone (Jerott accompanies Francis into rehab; he's in denial about a number of things though)

Marthe and Oonagh, illustrated by K

Más é an ceol bia an ghrá (One night stands in Dublin: Marthe goes to Oonagh's leaving party, Jerott stays in the hotel bar)

1987, glasnost: Lymond and an ambitious group of artists, experimental sound technicians and musicians are invited to tour behind the iron curtain alongside Ukrainian bete noir Baida and his band. The tour is to be filmed by ex-propaganda director Ivan Vasilyevich. Meanwhile Red Wedge tries its hardest to get the people of Britain to vote in a non-Tory government at the general election.

Checkmate

Stitches Adam Blacklock has had a rough night)

Numb (Richard encounters his brother in Dundee)

Embrace (a version of the Languish Locked in L scene)

Philippa's Raspberry Beret drawn by me.

??Profit?? No really I need to write more of the rest before I know what the fall-out here is going to look like. It will probably involve: Nelson Mandela's 70th Birthday Concert, the opening of the Cairo Opera House and the Fall of the Berlin Wall.

Post-Checkmate

Beaten (Jerott Blyth has been behaving badly)

All we need is music, sweet music (After a successful gig in Calais, Jerott longs to be closer to Francis)

Soap, soup and salvation (Danny teaches Adam to cook for Kate)

Coisich, a rùin [come, my love] (a series of scenes in Francis and Philippa's relationship)

Spoilers for overarching plot NO REALLY POST-CM SPOILERS

Don't wake the house (Jerott breaks down on an half-familiar (OC's) shoulder post-Checkmate)

Jerott, Archie, Adam and Kate get ice cream, drawn by me

A love that seems great beyond growth (in need of rest and recovery, Marthe visits Oonagh in her new life)

"Would you just hold still?" and What I love about many waters (Philippa and Joleta go for cocktails. Lymond helps his wife through the hangover)

"Don't look at me like that." and "When you smile..." (domestic, married fluff with Francis and Philippa).

Pushin' palaces to fall (Thompson the pirate causes trouble for the Crawfords. He gets trouble back)

Morosexual (Danny has a tearful admission to make to Jerott)

If this name wasn't on my lips (Danny/Jerott record collection-based fluff)

Explosion (It's a prequel)

Period-appropriate playlists (links to Spotify, sorry)

A Purely Spiritual Love (you may hear this at Graham Reid Malett’s ashram)

In a position of ascendancy... / ...a knife gripped in each hand (inspiration from Danny and Adam’s Jewish background)

Every Cell Charged with Stark Common Sense (young Philippa’s folk influences)

tant que je vive (Francis/Philippa happily ever after)

A twinge of approval (Danny/Jerott happily ever after)

Nothing but the Cathartic (Francis thinks Sibylla and Richard are dead)

Feared before God and the Devil (soundtrack to The Ringed Castle)

Come to Linger (Adam/Kate happily ever after)

Such Hapless Hap (Francis pining over Philippa)

Hard-wrought with Unleashed Storms (an Oonagh O’Dwyer playlist)

Stop your breath (a Joleta Reid Malett playlist)

By Some Alchemy (an Archie Abernethy playlist. DRUMS!)

#pinned post #housekeeping #the lymond chronicles #lymond chronicles #lymond #dorothy dunnett #the band au #1980s au

[theartistknownaslymond]

#AH #characters: adam blacklock #yes he does always look worried and hungry #the fc i have been subconsciously riffing off this whole time and had forgotten #gordon moakes

[notasapleasure]

Pushin’ at the palaces (Lymond chronicles, the Band AU)

Setting: The Band AU, post-canon, c. 1990 Characters: Francis Crawford, Philippa Somerville, Thompson the pirate, Joleta Reid Malett, Kuzúm/Hamal. Relationships: Francis/Philippa, Philippa & Joleta Rating: T (references to the kind of bad things that Thompson does: drugs and drunkenness and strip clubs and such; sexual harassment; fire) Wordcount: 3,925

Summary: Inspired initially by this post, and then it got massively out of hand when @erinaceina-blog​ and I were discussing the kinds of interactions Thompson would have with the Crawfords in post-canon Band AU. Thompson has some news to give Francis, and in his usual way, he wants to make sure he has a good time while demonstrating his usefulness. He didn’t quite reckon with having to deal with Philippa and her guests as well, though.

Notes at the end.

[Also up on Ao3].

-

"I see. I am rarely a fan of uninvited news, but you might as well tell me over the phone."

Francis Crawford, the artist known as Lymond, leaned one wiry arm against the wall above the telephone. His expression was unusually severe and he listened to the other person in heated silence.

"Then bring it to me here. To my eternal regret, you have the address."

He frowned at the notepad by the phone and shifted to hold the receiver against his shoulder, freeing his other hand to doodle angry shapes with a battered pencil. The lead broke under pressure with a crack.

"I rather think not. You've played that card once too often..."

Francis's snort of laughter did not convey anything close to amusement. "As I understand it, that would require you to persuade a group of my friends to join us."

He looked up at his wife, who stood in the kitchen doorway with a mug of tea in her hands, watching owlishly. Francis rolled his clear blue eyes but the peevishness in his expression dissipated at the sight of her and his lips half pulled up into a smirk.

"No, no. Don't do that. Don't - I'll call Adam. Blacklock, yeah. No, he doesn't."

Whatever the other person said it made him sigh and shift restlessly, but his patience for the conversation was at an end now that better company had presented herself.

"No, I'll see you there at nine, no sooner. You'd better bloody well be lucid."

A ghost of a smile ran over Francis's mouth as he met Philippa's eyes. Then he blinked suddenly and it vanished: "Think very carefully before you finish that sentence, Thompson."

His knuckles paled where he gripped the receiver and he shook his head wordlessly at his wife.

"Right, I thought as much. I'll see you at nine. Yeah. Goodbye."

Philippa raised her brows in enquiry. Not many people got so thoroughly and effectively under Francis's skin, but the fixer and wheeler-dealer Thompson's power to irritate had not diminished over the years.

"Do you want moral support, my love?" She asked as he sauntered to her, scowling at his feet.

He was embarrassed about what he had to tell her: she knew from the way he bit the inside of his cheek and looked for distractions, searching her face for the best place to plant his kiss. "It's better if it's Adam this time, Knishka," he said, his hands on her shoulders, his breath soft on the mole above her eyebrow before he laid his lips over it.

Philippa smiled, her eyes closed in peace, and she sighed. "Oh dear. What does Thompson want this time?"

"Someone's been leaking the studio recordings we sent to Berlin. He says he's got hold of a new bootleg with our tracks on it."

Despite the soothing effects of tea and touch and Francis standing so close, Philippa bristled. "And, being Thompson, he refuses to simply deliver it to us, so that we can manage our own affairs?"

Francis nodded. "He's down the West Port in a strip club and won't leave until I join him or they kick him out - says if the latter happens he'll make sure to leave the tape in the club."

"So you're forcing Adam to act as chaperone..." Philippa's mouth curved behind the rim of her mug.

"Yet again, I suppose I am."

-

The cat woke before Philippa. She sat up in darkness, blinking blearily as the animal's warm weight left her legs.

"Oh, Talus..." Philippa mumbled, rubbing her face with the heels of her hands.

Soft paws padded away across the carpeted floor of the bedroom, and, momentarily, a heavier step could be heard on the landing.

Philippa fumbled across the bedside table and squinted at the glow-in-the-dark hands of her watch. She doubted her vision and switched the bedside light on to confirm her reading: it was past two in the morning.

The other side of the bed was cold and empty, the covers only disturbed where her limbs had kicked out and reached for the comforting presence that usually lay there. The glass of water she had left for Francis to drink when he came back from the club was untouched and his clothes did not litter the floor.

The steps that approached the bedroom were slow and heavy, and Philippa could not suppress the trill of fear in her pulse. It was only Talus that kept her calm: the big black cat had settled by the door to groom himself, and he purred a little as he did so, so she told herself sternly that it could only be Francis - and Francis it was.

When he at last pushed the bedroom door open, two things were quite clear to Philippa: one, that he had only just got back, and two, that he was still very drunk.

He swayed in the doorway, pale and tousled, his glasses smudged with something greasy and his eyes narrowed in concentration. Cautiously, he removed a hand from the doorknob and shielded his eyes until Philippa adjusted the lampshade.

Her greeting went unacknowledged as he shuffled forwards, and Philippa watched, dumbstruck, a little flushed, and smiling sympathetically, as he undressed with care. All through it, he kept his eyes on the floor or the ceiling and breathed steadily like a yogi to maintain his balance. He did not seem upset or angry, he was not flustered or annoyed, and she decided she could happily wait until he had slept before hearing what Thompson had had to say for himself.

For now, she just watched. Down the buttons of his black and blue lurex shirt his fingers moved, parting the dark fabric to reveal the firm, neat lines of his body. He shrugged it off and undid his trousers and shimmied out of them with a determined one-legged display that impressed Philippa greatly. The socks followed, and his underwear, and then he finished by removing his silver-framed spectacles, folding them fastidiously, and placing them on his bedside table. Then he sighed and shrugged and looked at the floor again.

"Sweetheart?" Philippa asked gently. She bit her lip - he looked so forlorn, and yet his seriousness made her want to laugh as he stood there naked and beautiful. He seemed the most dejected of marble statues - less Le Penseur and more L'homme qui a perdu ses clés.

"Are you coming to bed?"

He made a strange sound, like he had been disturbed from some fathomless reverie, and moved as though shying away from her touch, yet he remained in the middle of the floor on the opposite side of the bed. With one very shy gesture of pause with his hand, like a conductor without his baton, he finally summoned his words. "No. Thank you," his voice was thick and slurred, and his eyelids fluttered with effort. "I'm sure you're lovely, but I have a wife."

Philippa blinked in astonishment and then had to compress her hands over her mouth to hold in her laughter.

With perfect solemnity, Francis bowed his head a little to her, pulled a spare blanket out from under the bed, and curled up on the floor.

Her shoulders quaking with mirth, Philippa slipped out from beneath the duvet and went to him. "My love, Francis! Husband, come to bed!" She chided him, her hands on his arm and her smile bittersweet. She felt no fear of the memories of their wedding night - of the first time she had invited him to leave the floor and come to bed, and his shaking, screaming, sweating body had struggled with withdrawal beside her on satin sheets. This man was not the shattered soul of that time in Las Vegas, and she was not that quelled, terrified girl, newly conscious of the way in which other lives depended upon her.

Philippa stroked the smoke-scented hair back from his creased brow and caressed his body through the blanket. "Husband," she murmured again. "Come to bed."

Francis's muscles tightened, his knees drawing up and his eyes scrunching closed, and Philippa lifted her hands, sorry that he had not understood.

She took his glasses from the bedside table and wiped their grubby lenses on the hem of the old t-shirt of his that she wore. Smoothing his hair and his brow again, turning his sleepy face upwards with gentle touches, she managed to hook his glasses over his ears and settle them.

"Francis?"

He pulled a face and his hands fought against the blanket he had so successfully tangled himself in. Gradually, reluctantly, he opened his eyes into a quizzical squint and frowned at Philippa.

"Oh, good. Oh, Knishka," he slurred, and reached the first free hand towards her face.

He let himself be helped to his feet, and he let her bring water to his lips and tuck him beneath the duvet. No sooner was he in place than Talus had returned to the mattress and curled in the hollow behind Francis's legs. Philippa rescued the bending frame of his glasses and put them aside again. She switched the light off and wound her limbs into the gaps their two forms left for her, nuzzling against Francis even though he smelled of beer and tar and tobacco.

-

The morning light was crisp in the kitchen at the back of St Mary's. Philippa stood at the sink waiting for the kettle to boil and watching the magpies play in the field. A battered blue Fiesta revved like a wasp as it struggled through the puddles and potholes of the driveway, taking each obstacle too quickly, too directly, with an arrogance that could not last long in the countryside.

Eventually the car pulled up in the back yard and Philippa sighed and plucked a fourth mug from the cupboard. The French window opened and a short, bearded man in designer sportswear entered without preamble - or wiping his shoes.

"Weel hullo, it's the wee wifey!"

Philippa closed her eyes and asked the universe to give her patience. With her sleep disturbed, her husband hungover and visitors already in the sitting room, she refused to spare Thompson any more time than was absolutely necessary.

"Good morning, Thompson. Did Francis leave something in the club last night?"

"Och did he no teel ye?" Thompson pulled up a chair, scraping its legs against the lino heedlessly. "It was muggins here who forgot - I didna have the tape on me. Told him I'd swing by wi' it today."

Philippa paused to assess his outfit. There were enough pockets - superfluous, decorative and some practical - that she supposed he could well have brought the bootleg tape with him, as he claimed.

Thompson grinned, his teeth a white line between thick layers of auburn beard, and he took a lighter and other paraphernalia from one of his pockets.

"No." Philippa slammed the kettle down on the sideboard as the smell hit her. "Put that out right now!"

Thompson's bushy brows raised innocently, but the scent of his joint was strong and already filling the kitchen.

"Out!" Philippa repeated. "I'll hold your head in the toilet and flush it if you don't put that out this instant."

Thompson rolled his eyes like a delinquent schoolchild, but he obeyed. "How the times ha' changed... Baccy a'reet?"

"Yes. Tea?"

"Aye. Milk, four sugars."

Philippa shot him a look of disgust from the corner of her eye, but obliged by ruining one of the four perfectly good cups of tea she had made. He switched to a roll-up cigarette and tucked the joint away for later.

"So is yer husband in?"

Philippa passed him the tea and an ashtray and folded her arms. "Do you need to see him?"

Thompson sniggered like he was used to having an audience impressed by his insolence. "I just told ye about the tape, lass!"

"Yes, and they're my demos, too. Francis is very happy for you to give the bootleg tape to me."

Seamlessly, blowing a cloud of smoke up towards the ceiling, Thompson grinned. "Ye didna ken I was coming here - he's no said eff all about it!" He chuckled to himself again. "Weak. He's lost his form, he'll be sick as a kebab hoose dug this morning, am I reet?"

Philippa picked up her own tea and savoured it, ignoring Thompson's roguish glee. "Thompson," Philippa finally said smoothly. "I do not need to ask Francis's permission to retrieve stolen goods that are as much mine as his. If you claim to be his friend in any way, you know this. I think you have had quite enough of your fun, and unless there is some other matter you need to discuss, please place the cassette on the kitchen table and see yourself out."

She was gratified to see Thompson's red-flushed skin deepen in hue around his facial hair. He cleared his throat as he took a large gulp of tea and concentrated on his cigarette to compose himself, while one hand finally rummaged in a pocket and brought out a tinted plastic cassette case.

"Look, lassie, it's a delicate matter," he said stiffly, but Philippa saw how he avoided her eyes in a new way - discomfort winning out over insouciance. He opened his mouth to speak again, but took several attempts to find the words, shifting awkwardly on his chair as he did.

"Now, me an' yer husband go way back. He kens what my business needs are."

Philippa smiled sweetly and let him squirm a little longer as she sipped her tea.

"I know what your business needs are, Thompson. Francis has told me all about how you met and what your work is. Are you in debt to someone?"

Now that made him blush. Philippa hid her satisfaction behind her mug.

Thompson ran a hand through his thick, short hair and shook his head, muttering imprecations about honour among thieves and the right to talk about another man's history.

"I'm quite liquid, thank ye, lassie," he finally looked up. "It's more of a technical concern."

"Try me," Philippa insisted.

When Thompson, seeing that he wasn't going to be granted access to the man of the house as easily as he had hoped, tried to dazzle Philippa with talk of radio frequencies, signal boosters and antenna ranges, he was soon to be simultaneously disappointed by her response and awed. She matched him technicality to technicality, she knew the questions to ask and the answers to give, and, even more impressive, she was certain that there was just the piece of kit he needed in the stable block – and she had the authority to bestow it upon him.

Thompson let out a low whistle between his teeth and looked her over anew. He had not noticed anyone else appear at the kitchen doorway as he talked to Philippa, and did not turn now, his eyes quite occupied by the young Mrs Crawford's body. They roved with fresh regard over her fitted jeans and the trim waist emphasised by her tucked-in t-shirt, while Philippa faced the counter to open a packet of biscuits onto a plate. With hindsight, he supposed he should have known that Lymond would only choose the best.

Behind Thompson, unbeknownst to him, a short woman with apricot hair narrowed her eyes and gestured to her son to be quiet. Hamal leaned against Joleta's leg, tugging on her hands and looking up with an imploring blue gaze.

"Cookie soon," Joleta mouthed and laid a delicate finger once more over her cupid's bow lips.

She had recognised the voice in the kitchen, and, despite Philippa's prompt action, she had recognised the smell of Thompson's joint. Wondering what was taking so long for her friend to make the tea and get rid of this unpleasant person, Joleta had decided to see the situation for herself. An old, uncomfortable memory surfaced, and Joleta Reid Malett sucked the inside of her cheek thoughtfully as she contemplated the back of the pirate's head.

She decided it might be better to prepare for the encounter, and tugged Hamal back down the corridor and into the sitting room. Here, she crouched to look him in the eyes, and she smiled mischievously. "That man is an old acquaintance of Mummy's, Müchli. Do you know him?"

Hamal shook his head and glanced back towards the kitchen. He was a small six-year-old, and still did not like to be around large, strange, loud men. Thompson appeared to tick most of those boxes, and he made his mother's hands tremble to boot. Hamal pouted. "Do you want to hide, Mum?"

"No," Joleta whispered. Her aquamarine eyes were very round and very bright, and her smile was determined. "No, we won't hide. Could you run to the front room and get something from Mummy's bag?"

He nodded seriously and Joleta cupped her hand to whisper in his ear.

-

"Oh, Letty, I'm sorry," Philippa turned with the plate in one hand and two mugs in the other. "I was just coming to you."

Joleta's expression was blithe and she told Philippa not to worry.

The French windows were open and the distant grunts of a stubborn man, trying single-handedly to load his small car with broadcasting equipment, drifted across the yard.

"I'm surprised you still associate with that oaf," Joleta said, sitting down opposite the French windows and taking a biscuit off the plate Philippa set before her.

Philippa put her hands on her hips and watched Thompson struggle, but she had offered her help and been rebuffed - she owed him no more. "He has his uses. And he's not normally this much trouble," she frowned. "His usual drinking buddies must be out of town."

"Or dead of cirrhosis," Joleta muttered.

Philippa made an equanimous sound as she munched a biscuit, and then started and looked about. "Where's Hamal?"

Joleta waved a hand. "Getting something for me. He'll be here soon. I think he likes cookies more than he's afraid of him." Joleta snapped her biscuit in half and dunked one piece vindictively in her tea.

"That's important progress," Philippa grinned.

"Hmm," Joleta said, watching Thompson come back towards the kitchen. He brushed his hands together and leaned against the open French window, affecting some kind of piratical charm.

"Hullo my bonnie, when did ye get here?"

With an icy smile, Joleta did not deign to answer him, and Thompson huffed and turned to Philippa.

"Aye, weel, ye've been a great help, so - mayhap I'll nae bother his lordship in future and come straight tae ye?" He looked her up and down as Philippa moved to hold the French door, waiting for him to leave so that she could close and lock it this time.

Thompson wasted time, dawdling in the entrance as he fumbled in a pocket.

Philippa stared at the fields impatiently, longing to get rid of him so she could finally check on Francis and take him his tea.

Hamal pattered back into the room and handed Joleta what he had brought, before reaching up on tip-toes to drag the plate of biscuits across the table.

Several things then happened together, like a house of cards collapsing on itself: Thompson turned to go and Joleta stood up. She saw his hand move before Philippa did, but her shout did not stop Thompson from reaching out to slap the backside of Philippa's jeans hard enough that Joleta felt her teeth ring with it. Joleta raised what she presumed to be a can of gel-based self-defence spray and Thompson lit up his joint, figuring the wench couldn't stop him now he was already on his way out.

Joleta fired her weapon, and the strong, sickly smell of hairspray was rapidly joined by the smell of singed beard, and Philippa, Joleta and Thompson each cried out with a different shade of outrage.

Shocked, but not disappointed to see Thompson's beard alight, Joleta followed up with a move from her martial arts class that left Thompson sprawled and groaning on the kitchen lino, his joint lost and his facial hair crackling with embers on one side on his face.

By the time Philippa knelt roughly on his chest and smothered his smouldering beard with a tea-towel, the smoke detector in the hall was beeping and Joleta had turned to check on Hamal.

The boy stood round-eyed by the kitchen table, a biscuit half inside his mouth and a doubtful look on his face that was only assuaged when he saw his mother's flushed glee. "It's ok?" he asked around the biscuit.

Joleta laughed, and so did Philippa as she leaned on Thompson's face. He groaned miserably but found that he didn't mind the smell of burnt hair so much when Francis Crawford's pretty little wife was sitting on his chest.

Without the aid of anyone in the kitchen the smoke detector ceased its noise, and Lymond himself appeared in the doorway. His face and hair were pale and yellowed like parchment, his dressing-gown hung unevenly and revealed a deep swathe of his chest, and his feet were bare. Golden stubble textured his fine jaw like sandpaper and purple shadows made his eyes puffy. He let out a small grunt as Hamal flung himself against his body and squeezed him hard around the waist.

"I take it you got what you came for, Thompson?" Francis asked in a husky approximation of his usual sarcastic drawl. He leaned over and picked up the cassette from the table. "This had better not be blank."

Thompson made a muffled sound of protest, and Philippa reluctantly lifted the towel from his face. She stood up and let Thompson find his own way to his feet - after he had discovered and retrieved his joint.

"It's no blank," he said somewhat shakily, dusting his tracksuit down. "Ye'll see. Ye've got a leak in the Berlin studio."

Francis stroked Hamal's hair as the boy clung to him and looked up, waiting patiently for the opportunity to ask his question.

"And - of course - should you come across any more of these recordings, you will pass them on, or at the very least not sell them for your own profit, is that correct?"

Thompson looked nervously around the kitchen, from Philippa's folded arms to the way Joleta continued to shake her can of hairspray menacingly. "Ah, no, no. I'll be sure and send them tae ye. Both. Tae both o'ye."

He took his leave and Philippa left the French windows open to clear the smells in the kitchen. Francis agreed to Hamal's request to be walked around the kitchen table. He adopted a stoic expression as he gripped the boy's hands and waddled across the lino, with one of Hamal's feet perched on top of each of his.

Philippa put the kettle on again and sighed. "Well, he's going to insist on meeting you in Edinburgh every time, now."

"I don't know," Joleta plonked herself into a chair at the table again. "I think he quite enjoyed that," she said with disappointment.

Francis sat as well, and adjusted his dressing gown self-consciously, pulling it closed over his chest. "Perhaps, but it goes too far against his pride. He'll be terrified I'll bring it up in public. I think, Knishka," he looked up as Philippa put a hand on his shoulder and bent to grab another biscuit. "That we won't need to see Thompson for some time."

She smiled and planted a kiss on his upturned face.

---

Notes: Finding an equivalent for Yunitsa seemed desirable as it has such a specific and elusive context. I went for Knishka, which is Russian slang for ‘a little pocket book carried around by many hippies, in which ad hoc drawings and thoughts were scribbled down, usually contained a great many [...] quotes in either English or in rudimentary translation, designed to serve as reminders of the emotion they had engendered when heard in their musical context.’ [source] I like the idea of Francis drawing on Philippa for his emotional memories and inspirations, and it’s a word she would not have understood without context even if she was learning Russian herself while he was living there among counter-cultural types. The title is from R.E.M.’s ‘Radio Free Europe’; Joleta calls Hamal by a Swiss term of endearment (Müchli means ‘little mosquito’ - I mean, it is still Joleta and she probably got called this a lot at school). In case it’s not obvious, L’homme qui a perdu ses clés means ‘the man who lost his keys’. And yes, Talus is undoubtedly descended from @erinaceina-blog​‘s Astraea (in The Faerie Queene Spenser apparently calls Astraea’s groom Talus).

#the band au #lymond fic #my fic #my writing #Francis/philippa

[notasapleasure]

Six sentence Sunday

I felt like I hadn’t done that much writing this week, but it turns out I have three WIPs to post from! A bit more than six sentences where there’s dialogue and the sentences are short.

So whether you’re a horrible (wonderful) gremlin who likes the idea of Band AU Graham Reid Malett tormenting Jerott (subtitled: The Worst Breakup Ever), whether you needed to know that Slata Baba in the Band AU is a big, nervous dog who doesn’t die, or whether you were at all curious as to whether I ever wrote non-Lymond characters, there’s something for...the usual extremely specific tastes.

1)      Horrible no good whump (Band AU, Gabriel/Jerott)

"No, you are right. The scar will be an interesting talking point for you. What will you tell your groupies, Mr Blyth?"

Jerott closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, wondering what would happen to him once Geetesh had has his fun. The twin points of pain made sparks of light dance behind his eyelids, interference crackling on the edges of his awareness.

Geetesh discarded the cloth and touched Jerott's face once more with his hand, smoothing over skin that felt bruised and tender. "Will you tell them it was given to you by your tormentor? Or by one who you loved? Will you say I have ruined you, that not even your adoring fans can save you, though they will try, with all that they have to give..." Geetesh's hand slid to Jerott's neck, cupping his throat just below the line of his jaw, fingers working against the hot line of Jerott's pulse, thumb a threat of strength over his Adam's apple. "Well?"

2)      Fluff! Francis is a bit worried, but it’s ok, Slata Baba is getting nice belly scritches from a party guest (Band AU, the post-Checkmate celebration of Thatcher’s ousting)

With her dark coat and reclusive tendencies, Slata Baba had quickly demonstrated that she could vanish in the most inconspicuous corners of shadow. The most likely thing to send her sulking was the intrusion of strange people into her new home, and at present there were rather a lot of rather strange people within the walls of St Mary's.

The sound of the party rang through the building, and not even the sanctuary of the study was completely free of it. And now a very large, very nervous Moscow street dog was roaming about - a Russian Vodolaz, no less, a breed known for its high-strung personality and unreliable temper - a dog who had unwillingly become a stray for a second time in her life a little over two years ago, and had only recently been reunited with her adopted family. A dog with abandonment issues loose in a house where party guests stood on lintels laughing and smoking and left doors open, where a handful of under-tens stampeded from occupation to occupation without restraint or limits on the noise they produced.

Francis felt his pulse quicken and wondered who had left this particular door open - no matter. First he had to find the dog. 

3)      And Then We Danced fic...that will become a Band AU crossover because @erinaceina-blog knows what’s up: Merab in London, encountering a bunch of proud middle-aged queer artists out celebrating Adam Blacklock’s birthday in a Georgian restaurant.

Mary's aunt opened one thin door and revealed a long, narrow bedroom with half a square window at the end. The bed took up most of the space, and with a chest of drawers by its head, beneath the window, it left barely room for three paces from the door across the pale laminate floor. Merab swallowed and made himself smile gratefully - it would be a novelty to have his own room, but he worried about where he would be able to practice.

He put his bags down on the bed and shrugged off his coat, breathing in the smell of lavender on the sheets. Mary's aunt was explaining that she did not usually cook elaborate Georgian meals and he should not get used to it - but for their first night in England she thought her boys would be homesick.

He might have supposed it to be one of her grammatical slips, only then she added: "It's funny, the two of you turning up at once. No lodger for months and then my house is full! He is sleeping at present; he was on a very early flight. So, you take your time, unpack, I will call you boys when the table needs setting."

#my fic #sunday six #my wips