keepsmehonest | 1st Tune

So, I've got to say, I feel a little silly doing this. Talking to a notebook isn't exactly commonplace where I come from. I've been told I can write into it too, but that almost makes it feel a little too personal. Like I'm writing in a journal instead of... broadcasting on the radio or making a phone call to group of people. I'm not exactly much of a writer, either. That'd be my brother, Christy.

[He laughs a little awkwardly before pausing. Yeah, he feels more than a little ridiculous talking to a book. It's part of the reason he's waited so long before addressing Luceti. Aside from taking the time to settle into the extra room in Jilly's studio. And searching the store for his fiddle.]

I'm Geordie Riddell. From Newford. New York. That's in North America. On Earth. [Then, muttered under his breath:] ...I can't believe I'm saying this. [He clears his throat and continues in a louder voice.] Uh, 1979.

I just arrived here a few days ago, but apparently my best friend has been here a lot longer. Some of you may know her. Jilly Coppercorn? Terminally cheerful artist that almost always has some paint stains on her person?

She's the one who suggested I use this... whatever it is... to try and locate my fiddle. It's an old Czech fiddle, manufactured around the turn of the century. Worn but well taken care of, recently restrung, and the initials G.R. are on the left part of the lower bout. The last time I saw it, it was in its case - scruffy, black with a picture of a blonde Victorian woman in her mid-twenties and a list of Irish drinking tunes inside.

They're very important to me - fiddle and case both - so if you've seen anything fitting the description, let me know?

Thanks.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He sighs. As much as he understands her response, it just seems to diminish the point he was trying to make.]

That's not it, Jilly.

-and everyone should get a fairy godmother to grant them wishes, even if they don't have the evil stepmother to go with it. And it's a real atrocity that flying carpets aren't actually real.

Jilly.

[He says her name a little sharper this time. It's not meant to be mean, just an attempt to get her to stop changing the subject.]

Edited 2012-09-08 15:18 (UTC)

[she sighed, shaking her head. She cuts it out, but she's still not giving in]

If you expect me to help you feel guilty, that's not going to happen. Besides, as much as I missed you, boyo--and I did. Don't get me wrong--I wasn't exactly alone.

There are good people here. And I even made it through a whole year in one piece.

I don't feel sorry for myself, and neither should you.

[She was right and he knew it. But rather than making Geordie relax, it only irritated him further. It wasn't that he hated someone else being right. It was just... that she was right.

Like losing Sam, Jilly being stuck here was beyond his control.]

Still. I'm glad I'm here now.

[something in his tone drew her gaze just in time to see that irritation flicker over his face.

Oh Geordie.

Setting her brush down on the palate, she crossed to the stool where he was sitting, cupped his face, and planted a quick kiss on his forehead with a laugh.] Me too. So stop worrying.

[when she released him, she was more than a little amused to see streaks of paint on his face where her hands had been.]

[She watches Jilly put the brush down and walk over, remains sitting still when she cups his face and kisses his forehead. It's hard to hold on to the last strands of irritation after such a gesture. Geordie smiles at her when she steps back.

And then raises an eyebrow in question.] What's so funny?

[raising a hand, she wiggled paint-stained fingers so he could see]

...now we match.

[He brushes his fingers over his cheek to find them covered in color. Amused, Geordie rolls his eyes at her.]

Gee, thanks.

[she only grinned more.] Oh, come on now...don't be blue.

[He looks down at his fingers and then back up at Jilly. His eyebrows raise skeptically.]

It's a little too late for that.

[which, of course, kicks off a bout of silly laughter. Dipping her fingers in a bit of yellow, she held them up threateningly]

I could fix that?

[He raises his hands in front of his chest, palms out in that universal gesture of 'stay away.' Geordie tries his best to keep his words serious.

But his best isn't good enough. Laughing,]

Stay away, oh frightening monster of paint.

[the idea was in her head though and, laughing, she reaches for him, attempting to get around the barrier of hands to leave a streak of yellow on his nose]

[Laughing, he grabs her wrists and tries his best to push back against her advances. But Geordie's not putting nearly as much strength into his defense as he would a real attacker.

The laughing is too distracting.]

[the paint might not make it onto his nose, but he'll soon have a bright, new streak on his forehead for all his pains]

[Seconds after her paint covered fingers brush by his forehead, Geordie lets go of her to place his hands against his heart.]

Alas, I have been wounded!

[she gave a dramatic sigh] Sad, sad day.

...Wherever he falls, there shall he lie.

[His eyes close and he collapses backward on the couch.

Dead.

Or, at least, pretending to be.]

1st Tune

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