charm your way across the Khyber pass

In the perverse way of brains, mine has decided that after having listed all the fics I might work on, what it is really interested in just now is a) catching up with RL stuff, b) being distracted by things like this delightful (and deliciously food-porny) serial Hathaway/OMC and (not unrelatedly re Oxford-based slash) rereading linman's Florentine Politics; c) mooning over my own original universe. None of which I'm going to argue with; the second is enjoyable, the first is practical and so, actually, is the third, even if it appears not to be, because that's where my focus needs to be in the new year. (Which is not to say I won't write the fic; I have a decent start on Aral's Conversations, and as soon as I can go for a walk without hurting too much I'll work out a plot for the "Sparrow" sequel. And it's been nice to have the time to noodle with the Lewis one before I have to turn it in this week.)

But sitting here doing knee stretches and rereading bits of Not Time's Fool (book four) is not a bad thing to be doing on a rainy day, especially when I hit what's possibly my favorite exchange in the entire series:

"You came to my wedding," she said flatly.

"Yes, I did. But after all, you came to my funeral."

Because, oh B. and W., that is your whole timey-wimey solemn and farcical relationship in a nutshell, not that one can tell that without the context, but believe me, it is. And W's "It is an inherently dramatic situation, you have to admit" and this bit (under cut for incomprehensible spoilers):

( sex and death and elephants )

Oh, you two. Just... get a room. And have a spiritual and paradoxical crisis in it, with occasional doomed flirting and complaints about rheumatism.

So that (with a lot of musical earworming added) is where my head is now.