Suspension of Disbelief, part four
Aug. 9th, 2006 08:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lizhanneTitle: Suspension of Disbelief, part four
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
anne_elliot
Rating: PG13 for this part
Pairing: Frank/Gerard, Frank/Ray
Author's notes: once upon a time, I saw the first priest!Gerard pictures, and helped by conversations about Stigmata-esque AUs with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
restriction, I started with an idea and ended up writing something completely different. This means you will find no demonic possession here, only a psychic, fucked-up Frank and a tired, disillusioned priest!Gerard.
Thanks torestriction for the wonderful beta job on this part.
No altar boys were (or will ever be) harmed in the writing of this story.
Disclaimer: this is an AU; you can't get much faker than that, right?
Links to previous chapters are under the cut.
- Part one
- Part two
- Part three
Suspension of Disbelief – Part 4
The only thing Frank can see around him as he drives is white fog, surrounding the car and hiding almost everything from view. Luckily, he knows the streets by heart, and he likes fog, he always has. Tonight it’s in tune with his mind, which makes a nice change from the anger and confusion that occupied it for the whole day.
He had woken up a couple of hours after his parents had left, the light still on and the door still closed. It was strange, the numbness he felt on waking: he was spent, almost at peace, his body still aching pleasantly from the sex of the night before. He lay quietly on the bed for a while, consciously attempting to block bad memories from the earlier fight and trying to remember only the feel of Ray’s arms around him while he slept, but it hadn’t worked. The image of his father’s face, deformed by fear and rejection, kept intruding on his thoughts.
Still unable - or unwilling - to get up, Frank let his brain have free course, reliving every part of their screaming match over and over again, caught in an endless loop. He was weary and angry, and unable to process anything further than “it’s not fair”, with a childish sense of abuse.
Rolling restlessly in bed, alternately too hot or too cold, and hating the sheets that clung to him like restraints, Frank stayed there until he heard his parents come home again. He froze, waiting for someone to come and bother him, but no, they had apparently decided that ignoring him was the best way to handle the situation.
Sounds of clinking plates and cutlery came down to him from the kitchen while he listened to the anxious rhythm of his heart, followed by the familiar, reassuring hum of the television in the background, and then finally laughter. He heard them both laughing softly at something, probably some lame joke on the television, and suddenly couldn’t remember ever feeling so alone.
Turning on his side, he clenched his jaw tightly, gasping in short, ragged breaths to control the tears that were threatening to spill again. He was done crying for them, he repeated like a mantra, until he heard the door close.
When he was, at last, sure they had gone for good, he jumped out of bed and started gathering up his things from around the room. He messily stuffed them in a couple of bags, hiding the small amount of money he kept under his mattress inside his socks. He hastily put some clothes on and ran out of the house, panting heavily and registering the noise of doors shutting behind him, but most of all, with the deafening noise of their confusion and rage echoing in his head.
His car - or better, the car they had, for some reason, registered to his name (a bad, bad mistake, Frank thought) - was in the garage, and even if his parents were going to be majorly pissed, he didn’t care about them, he was just glad they couldn't accuse him of stealing it. Somewhere inside him he suspected that they would have found it a cheap price to pay to be rid of him, after all.
So now here he is, driving aimlessly in the white night, after fending off Ray’s worried questions about what happened. But Frank didn’t tell him he was basically on the run, for he knew that Ray would have offered him to stay at his (already too small and cramped) place, and he doesn’t want to bother him. It’s not as if it was his fault in any way, after all.
Frank drives slowly past buildings he knows, their familiar shapes transformed and eerily strange as they swish past him in the milky fog. The blue neon that adorns the door of the pizza place looks disturbing like this, filtered light creating a halo of blue fog projecting in the night, but Frank couldn’t tell exactly why. He shivers and averts his eyes from it as he drives past, focusing on the road.
As usual when he’s not inside or near a building, they leave him mostly alone, a state of relative peace that always made him love driving.
He rolls down the window a bit and lights a cigarette, glad he remembered to buy a new pack before work. The air coming in is crisp and icy cold, which would be perfect if his usual, lovely car-sickness was keeping him company, but even if he doesn’t get sick when he drives he’s glad of it, because it makes his head lighter and his thoughts clearer, and it helps him fight the tiredness slowly creeping up on him. Frank knows he will eventually have to stop and sleep somewhere, but he still has no idea where, and that’s a thought he doesn’t like to dwell too much on right now.
So he keeps on driving and smoking, his fingers small and white on the steering wheel, random images and thoughts flashing through his mind.
Him at age five, running down the corridor to the kitchen, excitedly telling his nanna that the curtains had moved while he passed.
“Le tende non si muovono da sole, Francesco.”
“Curtains don’t move,” she repeated with her thick Italian accent, “it was the wind,” and gave a slice of bread with honey on it, smiling.
Five years later, his mother pleading with Father O’Reilly to let him stay in the school, promising that he would never scare the other kids again by asking Sister Mary if the “people” he saw wandering through the class were their guardian angels – overactive imagination, she said – and that the lights going off after he had ran off to the toilet to cry must surely have been a coincidence, because how could a ten-year old sabotage the school’s electric system in the short space of five minutes?
Later, at home: his mother with red-rimmed eyes, forbidding him to ever talk of his “fantasies” again, cutting him short when he tried to protest that no, he wasn’t making it up.
There had been no bread and honey for him that day, only his grandmother scowling at him while she muttered prayers under her breath, curtly ordering him to sit down and pray with her.
The first time he heard his grandmother whisper that word – magara – when all the glasses on the table started to shake during a fight with his parents.
Grandmother in a hospital bed four years later, a small thing lost in a chaos of tubes and monitors, clutching her rosary until the end. Frank didn’t go in to say goodbye, but tried to hide his tears behind the glass.
He didn’t miss her.
As he turns to shake off some ash out of the window, he realizes with a start where he is. He slows the car and does a u-turn, pulling up at level with the old building, as one last memory comes to his mind, vivid and still painful after all those years.
***
Today’s been one of the worst days since he moved. Gerard is glad for the cold and for the long, exhausting walk, because it means that after a hot shower maybe he’ll be tired and relaxed enough to sleep, hoping to wake up feeling less disconnected tomorrow. He hates feeling like this, or better, he would hate it if he were coherent enough to describe how he feels.
It’s weird and disorienting, and it feels as if the world has a base he should be attached to, something like those plastic bases that came with Lego toys, with small round buttons you’d use to attach the pieces. His slot is probably broken, or has changed shape, because he’s only awkwardly clinging to the base, not fitting comfortably in. Things move with different laws around him, and he would like everything to just stop and let him have some rest, because he’s just too unbalanced to move or talk or act normally.
The fact that the first thing he found waiting for him that morning was a funeral certainly didn’t help – he was in no mood to tell gentle lies to mourning relatives, praising hypothetical virtues of their dearly beloved, who had probably been selfish and mean and human just like everyone else, instead of the shining pillar of virtue he was now describing. But he thought that starting his sermon with “You know what? It’s ok if she didn’t give half of her money to charity, or if she didn’t have smile for everyone every day. God probably loves her anyway,” wouldn’t rank among his brightest ideas to date, so he just did what he always does: go through the routine, say the same stale words, trying to keep his grasp on reality as objects seemed to change in front of his eyes, his feverish mind failing to recognize them for what they were at first.
He had to close his eyes at one point, reminding himself where he was – church – what he was doing – pretending – who he was – Gerard, the pale man with black hair standing behind the altar. Gerard hates those brief attacks of vertigo, when even looking at himself in the mirror he has trouble recognizing himself, as if for a moment he’s seeing a different person reflected in the glass. As if he was out of his own skin and looking at himself from the outside.
Gerard shakes his head, taking another drag from his cigarette. He realizes that he should worry more about these kinds of days because surely it’s not normal, but the truth is that he’s used to it by now, and it doesn’t really interfere with his life since it doesn’t happen so often anyway. He feels slightly better now as the fog hides the world around him and gives him more balance, less distraction. He walks slowly, cold and tired but in no real hurry to get home, letting his mind wander freely, enjoying the calmness that is now finally, slowly descending upon him.
As he gets closer to the church he notices a car parked in front of the nearby schoolyard – the school is right next to the church, and Gerard’s small flat is actually a part of the school building – a strange sight at this time of night, because the streets are usually deserted by now. That’s one of the things he likes most about walking at night. But it looks like his solitary walk tonight isn’t meant to be all that solitary after all, because curled up on a bench in the small park next to the school is Frank, the kid from the diner.
He’s surprised to see him here, and for a moment he wonders if he came here to see him, maybe after quarrelling with his parents – Gerard doesn’t know why he should do such a thing, but a light in Frank’s eyes earlier had given him the impression that despite his reticence, the kid really was desperate to find someone he could talk to.
Frank doesn’t seem to notice him though, and Gerard calls out to him softly as he approaches, to shake him out if his fixed, absent-minded staring at the schoolyard.
“Frank?” – Gerard shivers, burrowing his hands deeper in his pockets, or maybe just a little spooked by how Frank doesn’t seem to notice him at all, completely lost in his thoughts – “Frank, what are you doing here?”
He steps nearer to him as he speaks, and Frank finally snaps out of his trance and looks at him, blinking slowly while the fine mist swirls around them, white and eerie in the cone below the streetlight.
“Oh, it’s you. Hi.”
Frank looks away again after saying this, not going back into his trance but not seemingly wanting to communicate more either, so Gerard sighs and sits down next to him, resting his elbows on his knees. He has a gut feeling that his earlier conjecture wasn’t entirely wrong, or part of it at least. Frank doesn’t look excited, or in any way moved, to see him.
“Are you lost, or do you enjoy freezing your ass off on uncomfortable benches on your free time?”
He thinks he can actually see the corners of Frank’s mouth twitch for a moment before he answers, still looking fixedly at the schoolyard in front of him.
“What was that, swearing? You’re not a good example, you know.”
“It’s almost 3AM, it is freezing cold, and I’m not wearing a collar. You could say I’m off work right now.”
“Mmm.”
“Want to tell me why you’re here?” Gerard asks after a minute, when it’s clear that Frank isn’t at his most communicative at the moment.
“No.”
“Ah.”
Frank shakes his head, and looks at him – really looks at him – for the first time, an apologetic look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, I mean…I don’t want to bother you. I’ll be going any second now, don’t worry about me.”
“Going home?”
“…No.”
“Do you have anywhere at all you can sleep at tonight?”
“Not really,” Frank admits after a short hesitation, “but I hadn’t thought of that so far…I didn’t really mind.”
Gerard sighs, looking at this strange kid who’s apparently homeless in the middle of the night and prefers to sit on a bench, staring at the old playground in front of him like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, instead of being in his car with the heating turned on. Frank is pale and looks tense, dark shadows underlining his eyes, and his hands keep twitching and playing nervously with his cigarette.
“Want to come in? Only for tonight, and you don’t have to tell me anything if you want. You can sleep on my couch.”
Frank ponders his offer for a second, taking a deep drag from his cigarette. Even though he’s known him for a very, very short time, Gerard knows that the fact that Frank’s not making any rude jokes about him having hidden motives for inviting him in is a bad sign. Something really bad must have happened.
In the end, Frank simply turns to him with a nod and a quiet “Thanks,” offering him his packet of cigarettes.
“No thanks, it’s too cold to stay outside to smoke now, and I want to go to bed anyway. Fetch your things and let’s go. I have my own small flat just behind the church.”
A quick run to the car and Frank returns with his bag and backpack, which Gerard takes from him as they start walking towards the church.
“Just one thing…no smoking in the house, please.”
Frank doesn’t seem to notice him, and lights a cigarette before walking through the door. Hesitating, Gerard almost says something, but then shakes his head, sighs, and follows him inside the flat.
Five
Author:
anne_elliotRating: PG13 for this part
Pairing: Frank/Gerard, Frank/Ray
Author's notes: once upon a time, I saw the first priest!Gerard pictures, and helped by conversations about Stigmata-esque AUs with
restriction, I started with an idea and ended up writing something completely different. This means you will find no demonic possession here, only a psychic, fucked-up Frank and a tired, disillusioned priest!Gerard.Thanks to
restriction for the wonderful beta job on this part.No altar boys were (or will ever be) harmed in the writing of this story.
Disclaimer: this is an AU; you can't get much faker than that, right?
Links to previous chapters are under the cut.
- Part one
- Part two
- Part three
Suspension of Disbelief – Part 4
The only thing Frank can see around him as he drives is white fog, surrounding the car and hiding almost everything from view. Luckily, he knows the streets by heart, and he likes fog, he always has. Tonight it’s in tune with his mind, which makes a nice change from the anger and confusion that occupied it for the whole day.
He had woken up a couple of hours after his parents had left, the light still on and the door still closed. It was strange, the numbness he felt on waking: he was spent, almost at peace, his body still aching pleasantly from the sex of the night before. He lay quietly on the bed for a while, consciously attempting to block bad memories from the earlier fight and trying to remember only the feel of Ray’s arms around him while he slept, but it hadn’t worked. The image of his father’s face, deformed by fear and rejection, kept intruding on his thoughts.
Still unable - or unwilling - to get up, Frank let his brain have free course, reliving every part of their screaming match over and over again, caught in an endless loop. He was weary and angry, and unable to process anything further than “it’s not fair”, with a childish sense of abuse.
Rolling restlessly in bed, alternately too hot or too cold, and hating the sheets that clung to him like restraints, Frank stayed there until he heard his parents come home again. He froze, waiting for someone to come and bother him, but no, they had apparently decided that ignoring him was the best way to handle the situation.
Sounds of clinking plates and cutlery came down to him from the kitchen while he listened to the anxious rhythm of his heart, followed by the familiar, reassuring hum of the television in the background, and then finally laughter. He heard them both laughing softly at something, probably some lame joke on the television, and suddenly couldn’t remember ever feeling so alone.
Turning on his side, he clenched his jaw tightly, gasping in short, ragged breaths to control the tears that were threatening to spill again. He was done crying for them, he repeated like a mantra, until he heard the door close.
When he was, at last, sure they had gone for good, he jumped out of bed and started gathering up his things from around the room. He messily stuffed them in a couple of bags, hiding the small amount of money he kept under his mattress inside his socks. He hastily put some clothes on and ran out of the house, panting heavily and registering the noise of doors shutting behind him, but most of all, with the deafening noise of their confusion and rage echoing in his head.
His car - or better, the car they had, for some reason, registered to his name (a bad, bad mistake, Frank thought) - was in the garage, and even if his parents were going to be majorly pissed, he didn’t care about them, he was just glad they couldn't accuse him of stealing it. Somewhere inside him he suspected that they would have found it a cheap price to pay to be rid of him, after all.
So now here he is, driving aimlessly in the white night, after fending off Ray’s worried questions about what happened. But Frank didn’t tell him he was basically on the run, for he knew that Ray would have offered him to stay at his (already too small and cramped) place, and he doesn’t want to bother him. It’s not as if it was his fault in any way, after all.
Frank drives slowly past buildings he knows, their familiar shapes transformed and eerily strange as they swish past him in the milky fog. The blue neon that adorns the door of the pizza place looks disturbing like this, filtered light creating a halo of blue fog projecting in the night, but Frank couldn’t tell exactly why. He shivers and averts his eyes from it as he drives past, focusing on the road.
As usual when he’s not inside or near a building, they leave him mostly alone, a state of relative peace that always made him love driving.
He rolls down the window a bit and lights a cigarette, glad he remembered to buy a new pack before work. The air coming in is crisp and icy cold, which would be perfect if his usual, lovely car-sickness was keeping him company, but even if he doesn’t get sick when he drives he’s glad of it, because it makes his head lighter and his thoughts clearer, and it helps him fight the tiredness slowly creeping up on him. Frank knows he will eventually have to stop and sleep somewhere, but he still has no idea where, and that’s a thought he doesn’t like to dwell too much on right now.
So he keeps on driving and smoking, his fingers small and white on the steering wheel, random images and thoughts flashing through his mind.
Him at age five, running down the corridor to the kitchen, excitedly telling his nanna that the curtains had moved while he passed.
“Le tende non si muovono da sole, Francesco.”
“Curtains don’t move,” she repeated with her thick Italian accent, “it was the wind,” and gave a slice of bread with honey on it, smiling.
Five years later, his mother pleading with Father O’Reilly to let him stay in the school, promising that he would never scare the other kids again by asking Sister Mary if the “people” he saw wandering through the class were their guardian angels – overactive imagination, she said – and that the lights going off after he had ran off to the toilet to cry must surely have been a coincidence, because how could a ten-year old sabotage the school’s electric system in the short space of five minutes?
Later, at home: his mother with red-rimmed eyes, forbidding him to ever talk of his “fantasies” again, cutting him short when he tried to protest that no, he wasn’t making it up.
There had been no bread and honey for him that day, only his grandmother scowling at him while she muttered prayers under her breath, curtly ordering him to sit down and pray with her.
The first time he heard his grandmother whisper that word – magara – when all the glasses on the table started to shake during a fight with his parents.
Grandmother in a hospital bed four years later, a small thing lost in a chaos of tubes and monitors, clutching her rosary until the end. Frank didn’t go in to say goodbye, but tried to hide his tears behind the glass.
He didn’t miss her.
As he turns to shake off some ash out of the window, he realizes with a start where he is. He slows the car and does a u-turn, pulling up at level with the old building, as one last memory comes to his mind, vivid and still painful after all those years.
***
Today’s been one of the worst days since he moved. Gerard is glad for the cold and for the long, exhausting walk, because it means that after a hot shower maybe he’ll be tired and relaxed enough to sleep, hoping to wake up feeling less disconnected tomorrow. He hates feeling like this, or better, he would hate it if he were coherent enough to describe how he feels.
It’s weird and disorienting, and it feels as if the world has a base he should be attached to, something like those plastic bases that came with Lego toys, with small round buttons you’d use to attach the pieces. His slot is probably broken, or has changed shape, because he’s only awkwardly clinging to the base, not fitting comfortably in. Things move with different laws around him, and he would like everything to just stop and let him have some rest, because he’s just too unbalanced to move or talk or act normally.
The fact that the first thing he found waiting for him that morning was a funeral certainly didn’t help – he was in no mood to tell gentle lies to mourning relatives, praising hypothetical virtues of their dearly beloved, who had probably been selfish and mean and human just like everyone else, instead of the shining pillar of virtue he was now describing. But he thought that starting his sermon with “You know what? It’s ok if she didn’t give half of her money to charity, or if she didn’t have smile for everyone every day. God probably loves her anyway,” wouldn’t rank among his brightest ideas to date, so he just did what he always does: go through the routine, say the same stale words, trying to keep his grasp on reality as objects seemed to change in front of his eyes, his feverish mind failing to recognize them for what they were at first.
He had to close his eyes at one point, reminding himself where he was – church – what he was doing – pretending – who he was – Gerard, the pale man with black hair standing behind the altar. Gerard hates those brief attacks of vertigo, when even looking at himself in the mirror he has trouble recognizing himself, as if for a moment he’s seeing a different person reflected in the glass. As if he was out of his own skin and looking at himself from the outside.
Gerard shakes his head, taking another drag from his cigarette. He realizes that he should worry more about these kinds of days because surely it’s not normal, but the truth is that he’s used to it by now, and it doesn’t really interfere with his life since it doesn’t happen so often anyway. He feels slightly better now as the fog hides the world around him and gives him more balance, less distraction. He walks slowly, cold and tired but in no real hurry to get home, letting his mind wander freely, enjoying the calmness that is now finally, slowly descending upon him.
As he gets closer to the church he notices a car parked in front of the nearby schoolyard – the school is right next to the church, and Gerard’s small flat is actually a part of the school building – a strange sight at this time of night, because the streets are usually deserted by now. That’s one of the things he likes most about walking at night. But it looks like his solitary walk tonight isn’t meant to be all that solitary after all, because curled up on a bench in the small park next to the school is Frank, the kid from the diner.
He’s surprised to see him here, and for a moment he wonders if he came here to see him, maybe after quarrelling with his parents – Gerard doesn’t know why he should do such a thing, but a light in Frank’s eyes earlier had given him the impression that despite his reticence, the kid really was desperate to find someone he could talk to.
Frank doesn’t seem to notice him though, and Gerard calls out to him softly as he approaches, to shake him out if his fixed, absent-minded staring at the schoolyard.
“Frank?” – Gerard shivers, burrowing his hands deeper in his pockets, or maybe just a little spooked by how Frank doesn’t seem to notice him at all, completely lost in his thoughts – “Frank, what are you doing here?”
He steps nearer to him as he speaks, and Frank finally snaps out of his trance and looks at him, blinking slowly while the fine mist swirls around them, white and eerie in the cone below the streetlight.
“Oh, it’s you. Hi.”
Frank looks away again after saying this, not going back into his trance but not seemingly wanting to communicate more either, so Gerard sighs and sits down next to him, resting his elbows on his knees. He has a gut feeling that his earlier conjecture wasn’t entirely wrong, or part of it at least. Frank doesn’t look excited, or in any way moved, to see him.
“Are you lost, or do you enjoy freezing your ass off on uncomfortable benches on your free time?”
He thinks he can actually see the corners of Frank’s mouth twitch for a moment before he answers, still looking fixedly at the schoolyard in front of him.
“What was that, swearing? You’re not a good example, you know.”
“It’s almost 3AM, it is freezing cold, and I’m not wearing a collar. You could say I’m off work right now.”
“Mmm.”
“Want to tell me why you’re here?” Gerard asks after a minute, when it’s clear that Frank isn’t at his most communicative at the moment.
“No.”
“Ah.”
Frank shakes his head, and looks at him – really looks at him – for the first time, an apologetic look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, I mean…I don’t want to bother you. I’ll be going any second now, don’t worry about me.”
“Going home?”
“…No.”
“Do you have anywhere at all you can sleep at tonight?”
“Not really,” Frank admits after a short hesitation, “but I hadn’t thought of that so far…I didn’t really mind.”
Gerard sighs, looking at this strange kid who’s apparently homeless in the middle of the night and prefers to sit on a bench, staring at the old playground in front of him like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, instead of being in his car with the heating turned on. Frank is pale and looks tense, dark shadows underlining his eyes, and his hands keep twitching and playing nervously with his cigarette.
“Want to come in? Only for tonight, and you don’t have to tell me anything if you want. You can sleep on my couch.”
Frank ponders his offer for a second, taking a deep drag from his cigarette. Even though he’s known him for a very, very short time, Gerard knows that the fact that Frank’s not making any rude jokes about him having hidden motives for inviting him in is a bad sign. Something really bad must have happened.
In the end, Frank simply turns to him with a nod and a quiet “Thanks,” offering him his packet of cigarettes.
“No thanks, it’s too cold to stay outside to smoke now, and I want to go to bed anyway. Fetch your things and let’s go. I have my own small flat just behind the church.”
A quick run to the car and Frank returns with his bag and backpack, which Gerard takes from him as they start walking towards the church.
“Just one thing…no smoking in the house, please.”
Frank doesn’t seem to notice him, and lights a cigarette before walking through the door. Hesitating, Gerard almost says something, but then shakes his head, sighs, and follows him inside the flat.
Five
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-09 07:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-09 09:00 pm (UTC)Love this. It's so different and so fucking refreshing to read Priest!Gerard that isn't cliched and horrible and yeah. I usually see that in the summary and run away as fast as possible. But this is amazing. I love the pace; the slow unfolding of details.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-10 02:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-10 09:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-10 11:52 am (UTC)Do you approve of how I changed the ending? You were right, it was a bit too abrupt to end it where I did, but I didn't want to bother you again (I kept most of the other changes you made, and turned around a couple of sentences you had pointed out), and well, this had been sitting unposted since april. Now I only have to finish part five...knowing myself, a couple of months should do the trick. *facepalm*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-12 06:00 am (UTC)seriously, i can't believe that this is the first thing i'm reading from you. this is amazing. keep up the good work.
ps. ray? is love. the sex? HOT DAMN.
pps. i am now off to google to find out what at magara is, because it is the cat to my curiosity. or something.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-12 09:41 am (UTC)Lovely comment, thank you so much. I'm glad you are enjoying this, and Ray is, indeed, love.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-12 09:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-12 09:42 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-12 09:42 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-15 10:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-22 10:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-18 07:45 am (UTC)