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Nirupam being the greatest person ever and everyone secretly thinking he's super cool (because he just is) ~
Charles, chapter three: Everyone's lack of theatrical invention in this class is depressing, except for Nirupam. Nirupam's dramatic brilliance gives me hope.
Since @tanoraqui expressed interest, and because I still like the idea and think there’s some good writing it in it but it’s been sitting on my Google Drive for like a year without my adding a single word to it, here is what I’ve got of the fic where Charles Morgan summons Cat Chant in order to interview him for his thesis. Unfortunately I never got to the part where Cat appears, so there is no Cat in this. It is inspired by @aegialia‘s post-Witch Week fic, but it doesn’t necessarily take place in the exact same universe.
Anyway, here you go:
There was tea and biscuits, only because Nirupam insisted on it: “You can’t invite someone over and not feed them.”
Charles glared at Nirupam over his stacks of notes. “I’m not inviting him. I’m summoning him.”
“Better make it the good biscuits,” said Nirupam firmly.
The good biscuits had hazelnuts and little crunchy bits of toffee in, and Charles resented having to share them with anyone. But Nirupam was nearly always right about things like that.
“Do you want me to sit in on this one?” Nirupam went on. “I can swap shifts with Layla; she’s looking for someone to cover for her on Thursday.”
“I can handle it,” said Charles.
“All right. But if I come home and you’re a spot of grease on the carpet, I’ll be cross.”
Nirupam took his keys from the hook by the door, and let it swing shut behind him. Charles waited until he was out of hearing before shouting, “I love you too!”
Then he turned his attention back to his work. On one side of the desk were stacks and stacks of notes. On the other side was a scrap of paper with a word written on it. Underneath, in the same shaky handwriting, was a pronunciation key. Charles had found the scrap of paper stuck between pages 195 and 196 of On Travel Between the Worlds, and it gave him a distinctly odd feeling. It was the same unaccountable feeling he got when he looked at the pair of spiked shoes kept in a box in the back of the closet, claiming to belong to Dan Smith. That was one reason Nirupam was worried.
#
Dr. Falconer barely glanced at Charles’ notes and proposals before sliding them back across her desk with an irritated frown. “I hardly see what relevance all this has to your thesis, Morgan,” she said. “I’d have expected any student of mine to have already got over the idea of summoning a spirit to write his papers.”
“I’m not looking for someone to do my work for me.” Charles pushed his glasses further up his nose. “I’m looking for an interview subject.”
“This . . . individual?” said Dr. Falconer. “Again, I fail to see the relevance. If he had a childhood, it must have been hundreds of years ago at least. Any memories he has of it would be necessarily suspect.”
“He’s not hundreds of years old. It’s obviously a family name or title of some sort.” And Charles probably should have stopped there, but the comment about suspect childhood memories nettled him. “You’d have to have the reading comprehension skills of a particularly dim-witted rhesus monkey to look at those sources and conclude they were all referring to the same person.”
The worst part was that he had to come home and tell Nirupam he was on the lookout for a new thesis advisor.
“Ha!” Nirupam crowed. “And guess who hasn’t had to order a new case of pointy hats or fake warts yet? Pay up!”
Charled dug his wallet out and slapped a five-pound note into Nirupam’s hand with ill grace. He was the one who had stupidly said want to bet? when Nirupam claimed that Charles went through thesis advisors faster than the store Nirupam worked at went through witch's costumes during Halloween season. "You probably charmed all the kids into buying six-shooters and cowboy hats instead, just because you can't bear losing."
"Tell me," said Nirupam, snapping the note back and forth a few times (next time Charles would pay him with an old fiver), "in all those psychology classes of yours, did you ever learn about something called projection?"
“Anyway,” said Charles, “I can’t help it if no-one appreciates my genius.”
#
Prodigal Witches: On So-Called “Magical Savants” and the Development of Witchcraft in Children with Autism
By Dr. Charles Morgan
[insert some plausible-sounding deleted beginnings here. Look up actual theses by psychology graduates?]
“It’s a good title, anyway,” said Estelle’s voice, much too close to Charles’ ear. He hit the power switch on his monitor and rounded on her furiously.
“Don’t do that! You know I hate people reading over my shoulder!”
Estelle backed up with a startled squeak. “I’m awfully sorry! I didn’t know, honestly. Nan never minds.”
“Nan,” said Charles, as his heart settled down to a normal rate, “is an attention whore.”
“Charles, we’ve had a conversation about misogynistic language.”
Charles groaned, and corrected himself to, “Nan is a fucking show-off. The title is hers, too, and I’m only keeping it until I come up with something better.”
