065 ☣ fish for fallen light

[fridgetothefire]

If you know me, I probably miss you. And maybe even if you don't.

[She repeats this Romani, and then Russian, and then German. And then ASL.]

Comments

[fridgetothefire]

[It's better than any of the admiral's terse approval. She blossoms, a little; she'll hold the warmth of that close a long time. She closes her eyes for a second, doesn't bother trying to hide how happy it makes her. He should see it, how much he matters, is admired. The legacy they have wrought.]

I've got some great inmates now. A big biker guy and a twitchy little cutie who reminds me of me. And...Stephen.

[It's not that Stephen's not great. It's just that he is very difficult to describe. She is bemused at her own failure.]

[surfaceshine]

[He still can't really accept that on a deliberate, conscious level of course, but it does make him feel better to see that he has that kind of influence; he always wanted to belong, to have people, to matter. Now he does, and he is happier than he ever remembers being, or even thinking he possibly could be.

He's grinning by the time she looks back up.]

And Stephen, huh? I mean, as long as none of 'em are taking shots at you while your back is turned, or at least ones you aren't expecting, some days that's all you can ask for. But it's nice to get more.

[fridgetothefire]

No, nothing like that.

Stephen is - brisk. Brittle. Very british.

Poem-like. The spare kind, not frilly. He accomplishes a lot with an economy of activity. Very competent, bad at staying still. He's a good person who's mostly gotten twisted around and then clamped down on it, I think.

[dinosize]

...I'm poem-like?

[fridgetothefire]

A human villanelle.

[Nineteen lines; precision, repetition, echoes and rhymes and refrains. More curled in on himself than the zippered scheme of a sonnet, not a syllable wasted.

She is very pleased with this comparison, nods grandly.]

[dinosize]

I've no idea what that means.

[fridgetothefire]

It's a very specific form. Sleekly efficient, which is the point of poetic restriction.

Strong tercets, and interlocking double-barreled refrains that crop up stubbornly again and again. A historical tendency toward bleakness or dry humor.

Would you like examples?

[dinosize]

No thanks.

[surfaceshine]

[Dean has ever been the gut instinct to Sam's cerebral integrity; his purview is heart and hand, his brother's head and soul. He doesn't understand what she's saying, can't make the words fit into the form of a person, though he might understand if he actually met the man. That, he's good at.

It shows.]

Oh, well, in that case. [Even when the man himself cuts in Dean doesn't click onto it, but he does know this much:] As long's you're happy, sweetheart.

[fridgetothefire]

[She laughs a little, mostly at herself.]

I'm alright.

Morgana's graduated, by the way. God, who else...

[surfaceshine]

[Excuse him for just a moment, he's whooping and pulling a fist-pump in the air on his side of the connection.

A moment later he's grinning again, blinding and wide.]

I knew it. I knew it, you gorgeous creature. I knew she was close last time around, I knew she was close when I left, but god. I'm glad she finally made it over the line.

[fridgetothefire]

Yeah, she was close. It was pretty soon after, I think.

[Beaming again, so damn proud of both of them.]

She's back - in a coma, now, but. God, Dean. She has about as much idea what she's doing as I did but she's going to be a great warden, I can tell.