So I have wanted fic for this song for years. (I think I have also read your fic for years, and am one of those horrible people who never comments. So.)
And now it is 1:30 AM and I have had a Cold of Death for a week, and am probably not going to get to go to Dragon*Con because of it, and I am tired and achy and have a cat dozing next to me and I am missing my partner like a physical ache (fuck this living 30 miles apart thing, seriously) and...God. You wrote fic for "Famous Blue Raincoat."
And your tone is perfect, it fits the Narrator so well, and I love your interpretation of the Thin Gypsy Thief, and of how things played out for them, and the fact that the Narrator chooses to go with him, and they still end up parted again, and...gah. SO MUCH LOVE.
And now I want to write comment-fic of my head-canon for this song. Is that rude? Oh well.
***
It's almost evening on a rainy Friday in September when Jane comes in the door, the light from the hallway making the droplets in her hair shine like a halo. She has a rose clutched in her right hand, along with her purse and the mail.
I know already, before Jane explains. "He's back." He. We both know she's talking about you.
Jane drops her purse and keys on the table by the door. "I invited him for dinner."
Jane always knew what we needed better than we did.
Dinner is awkward. I can't stop staring at you. You and Jane make small-talk, and Jane's laugh is free. I had forgotten how happy you could make her. We are happy enough together, in our little life, in our little apartment, but there is something about you that makes her expand.
You look older, and more worn, and you wear the same sort of shabby clothes that you did when we were twenty-five. You still shove your hands into your trouser pockets when you're thinking, and when you're about to tell an especially good joke.
I shake your hand before you leave, and tell you it was good of you to come. You are shining, shining in the doorway, and I am not asking any questions. Jane kisses you on the cheek and says you should come again next week.
I go for a walk after you leave and manage not to think about you, almost. Jane doesn't mind. These years together, we have grown to understand each other. When I slip into bed, I stare at her sleeping form and am grateful.
It shouldn't surprise me that you do come to dinner again, but it does. You stand there in a stupid overcoat, the sleeves too short, with wine and bread and two roses. One is deep red, and the other a red-tipped gold. I don't know which one you mean for me.
Jane laughs and begs you to do your famous tango dancer impression. When you stick out your arms, both roses clutched in your teeth, your shirtsleeves gleam white from under your ridiculous coat. I turn away.
You come every week, every Friday, bringing roses that wither slowly, their perfume lingering. I cannot stop thinking about you. You join me sometimes on my walks. You ask how my work is going, or tell me a story from your own sprawling, overambitious novel. You were always the braver of us. Although Jane, I think, is the bravest of all. When she finds me sitting on the edge of our bed, fingering the lock of your hair, she kisses me and holds my hands gently, cupping your hair between us. She says, "I love you. He will stay this time. It will be well."
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Mad Past-My-Bedtime Rambling Review + Crazy Stalker Commentfic
Date: 9/3/11 06:17 am (UTC)So I have wanted fic for this song for years. (I think I have also read your fic for years, and am one of those horrible people who never comments. So.)
And now it is 1:30 AM and I have had a Cold of Death for a week, and am probably not going to get to go to Dragon*Con because of it, and I am tired and achy and have a cat dozing next to me and I am missing my partner like a physical ache (fuck this living 30 miles apart thing, seriously) and...God. You wrote fic for "Famous Blue Raincoat."
And your tone is perfect, it fits the Narrator so well, and I love your interpretation of the Thin Gypsy Thief, and of how things played out for them, and the fact that the Narrator chooses to go with him, and they still end up parted again, and...gah. SO MUCH LOVE.
And now I want to write comment-fic of my head-canon for this song. Is that rude? Oh well.
***
It's almost evening on a rainy Friday in September when Jane comes in the door, the light from the hallway making the droplets in her hair shine like a halo. She has a rose clutched in her right hand, along with her purse and the mail.
I know already, before Jane explains. "He's back." He. We both know she's talking about you.
Jane drops her purse and keys on the table by the door. "I invited him for dinner."
Jane always knew what we needed better than we did.
Dinner is awkward. I can't stop staring at you. You and Jane make small-talk, and Jane's laugh is free. I had forgotten how happy you could make her. We are happy enough together, in our little life, in our little apartment, but there is something about you that makes her expand.
You look older, and more worn, and you wear the same sort of shabby clothes that you did when we were twenty-five. You still shove your hands into your trouser pockets when you're thinking, and when you're about to tell an especially good joke.
I shake your hand before you leave, and tell you it was good of you to come. You are shining, shining in the doorway, and I am not asking any questions. Jane kisses you on the cheek and says you should come again next week.
I go for a walk after you leave and manage not to think about you, almost. Jane doesn't mind. These years together, we have grown to understand each other. When I slip into bed, I stare at her sleeping form and am grateful.
It shouldn't surprise me that you do come to dinner again, but it does. You stand there in a stupid overcoat, the sleeves too short, with wine and bread and two roses. One is deep red, and the other a red-tipped gold. I don't know which one you mean for me.
Jane laughs and begs you to do your famous tango dancer impression. When you stick out your arms, both roses clutched in your teeth, your shirtsleeves gleam white from under your ridiculous coat. I turn away.
You come every week, every Friday, bringing roses that wither slowly, their perfume lingering. I cannot stop thinking about you. You join me sometimes on my walks. You ask how my work is going, or tell me a story from your own sprawling, overambitious novel. You were always the braver of us. Although Jane, I think, is the bravest of all. When she finds me sitting on the edge of our bed, fingering the lock of your hair, she kisses me and holds my hands gently, cupping your hair between us. She says, "I love you. He will stay this time. It will be well."
I believe her.