Meyer Lansky (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
recognize_an_opportunity) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kore_logs2013-04-26 05:57 pm
recognize_an_opportunity) wrote in kore_logs2013-04-26 05:57 pm
Entry tags:
Apologies are difficult...
Who: Meyer & Ned
What: Meyer has some apologies to make, given what happened during the week they were all not quite themselves. Apologies, needless to say, are difficult.
When: Forward dated to Day 67
Where: Ned's house.
Warnings: Swearing? Feelings? Definitely awkward apologies.
A very wise -- and very cunning -- man had once told Meyer that knowing when to apologize was more important than being right. It was also more important to apologize at the opportune moment than to simply do as your conscience dictated (if your conscience dictated anything at all.) The apology needed to sound genuine; it had multiple parts, all of which fit together in a specific way: it was a careful balance of humility and grace -- not too subservient, yet not grudging; not overly wordy, but eloquent and to the point.
Yet for everything Arnold Rothstein had taught him about apologies, there was no simple and straightforward phrasing to fall back on when your apology included seeking forgiveness for turning into a vampire and attacking a near stranger. No apology gift seemed to suffice, either. At home he might have offered a bottle of liquor or a wad of cash, but neither of those seemed quite right here.
Lost for a proper script, Meyer felt a little like he had as a child, when he was still learning the complex game of wriggling out of trouble. It was like going in front of an angry tribunal when the victim knew just as well as you did that you were guilty -- except as a child, the tribunal had been his mother, and in this case, the tribunal was Ned.
That was why, as he stood, hat in his hands, in front of Ned's house, he had to take a deep breath. It wasn't guilt that filled him so much as the queasy fear of losing a potential ally, but luckily, that feeling and guilt translated the same on his face: an unsure smile, a furrowed brow, an appropriately contrite expression all around.
He took one more deep breath, and knocked twice on Ned's door.
What: Meyer has some apologies to make, given what happened during the week they were all not quite themselves. Apologies, needless to say, are difficult.
When: Forward dated to Day 67
Where: Ned's house.
Warnings: Swearing? Feelings? Definitely awkward apologies.
A very wise -- and very cunning -- man had once told Meyer that knowing when to apologize was more important than being right. It was also more important to apologize at the opportune moment than to simply do as your conscience dictated (if your conscience dictated anything at all.) The apology needed to sound genuine; it had multiple parts, all of which fit together in a specific way: it was a careful balance of humility and grace -- not too subservient, yet not grudging; not overly wordy, but eloquent and to the point.
Yet for everything Arnold Rothstein had taught him about apologies, there was no simple and straightforward phrasing to fall back on when your apology included seeking forgiveness for turning into a vampire and attacking a near stranger. No apology gift seemed to suffice, either. At home he might have offered a bottle of liquor or a wad of cash, but neither of those seemed quite right here.
Lost for a proper script, Meyer felt a little like he had as a child, when he was still learning the complex game of wriggling out of trouble. It was like going in front of an angry tribunal when the victim knew just as well as you did that you were guilty -- except as a child, the tribunal had been his mother, and in this case, the tribunal was Ned.
That was why, as he stood, hat in his hands, in front of Ned's house, he had to take a deep breath. It wasn't guilt that filled him so much as the queasy fear of losing a potential ally, but luckily, that feeling and guilt translated the same on his face: an unsure smile, a furrowed brow, an appropriately contrite expression all around.
He took one more deep breath, and knocked twice on Ned's door.
no subject
"After all, people can get good at hiding things, when they need to. No one where I'm from knew about me, or that there were people like me. Everyone went around assuming that magic wasn't real. As far as I could find out, it wasn't, apart from myself. I wasn't exactly going to go around disabusing people of that notion. Hell, if I'd been a little bit more lucky, or a little bit more careful, no one here would know, either."
He puts the last of the mason jars into the water and hands Meyer the wooden spoon, gesturing to the strawberries, which are starting to bubble nicely, "You can take a turn stirring, if you'd like."
"There still may be a logical explanation. Even for magic and monsters. It's just not an explanation we understand, yet."
no subject
He knows all about hiding things, about shutting things away where nobody else can see them. He may not have magic powers, may be normal by all reasonable definitions of the word, but he often doesn't feel normal, not in the more mundane sense. It's a rare day when he shares even a tiny fraction of what's going on in his head; the constantly rushing thoughts, the planning, the calculations he does almost without thinking about every little risk and eventuality. He's used to feeling different, too, but he has to admit, it's not for the same reasons, nor does it have the same potential consequences.
He takes the spoon and begins stirring the strawberries, glad to have something to keep his hands preoccupied. It's difficult to be without a cigarette for the nicotine fix it provides, certainly, but an almost as important part of his addiction revolves around the fact that he likes to have something to do with his hands. Stirring the strawberries keeps that craving down to a dull roar, rather than something that threatens to overpower him. "There may be a logical explanation, but I don't like not understanding things."
That's the most intimate thing he's said about himself all day, but he doesn't expect Ned to see it that way. It seems like an obvious statement -- after all, nobody likes to be left in the dark about something -- but for him, it's not just fear of embarrassment or the desire to be a know-it-all: information can be the difference between life and death, and in a place like this, he thinks it probably is.
no subject
"I'm not really fond of it myself."
He thinks about explaining Charles' theory about mutations to Meyer, but decides against it. Perhaps if Meyer, himself, were looking for answers, he would. But as it is, Ned doesn't see why he would need to know any of that. It's something very different, not understanding something that is deeply personal to others, and not understanding something deeply personal about yourself.
One thing he can help Meyer to understand, small though it may be, is how to make preserves.
"Now," he says, "time for the sugar."
He walks him through the next steps, intermixing bits of explanation for the steps - why to leave extra room in the tops of the jars, why to boil them after they are full and for how long, how long to chill them for once they have been processed. It's a lot to take in, but Meyer has his notepad, and Ned is a patient and experienced teacher.