milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

del,
gilbert blythe

(no subject)

The door to the White Sands Schoolhouse has once again refused to open to the White Sands School.

Gil should be listening to presentations on Canadian history right now, but Canadian history not being the most exciting history any country's ever had . . . well, let's just say he's not too sorry to find himself in Milliways again.

He is, as always, looking for a certain redhead. But he's in a very good mood, and happy to talk to just about anyone.

Come on over.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Well, sometimes, y'know, you get almost what you want, if not quite.

So there's a redhead. For the moment, anyway.

Just...not the one Gilbert was thinking of.

And that is what you get, for not being completely specific.

Gil gives the woman a polite and friendly smiles, and nods a greeting to her.

"Good evening."

Details are key.

"Hi," she laughs, and one blue eye focuses on him while one green eye seems to drift across the room. "You look kinda. Um. The thingy. Y'know? Where you find out that the lemon popsicle is really strawberry. Y'know?" Beat. "I don't."

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

"Popsicle?"

"I like strawberry ones," she says finally, both eyes looking at him now. "They taste like kisses."

"Strawberries are very nice," says Gil, and there's just an air of humoring the madwoman.

Gil is in so far over his head right now that he doesn't even realize he's underwater.

"Would you like to sit down?"

Most people have that air, really, when talking to Del.

Unless they lack survival instincts.

"Do I look like I need to?" earnestly, very concerned.

"Well, no," says Gil, "but I thought you might like to."

He offers her his hand.

"I'm Gilbert Blythe, of Avonlea, Prince Edward Island, Canada, 1882."

"I remember 1882," dreamily. "I was a tadpole for part of that year. I think. That might have been 4293. It gets confusing."

The hand is taken very politely.

This does not mean it's shaken, mind. But she has enough sense to know that you touch the hand when it's extended to you.

"...Say 'eh'?"

Gil shakes her hand, twice, and then extricates his.

"Well, it's only the very beginning of 1882, where I am."

He has no earthly (or any other worldly, for that matter) idea what they're talking about at this point.

That's...really the best way to be when talking with Del.

Imagine if you understood her.

"No," absently, "that was the year I played with the prostitutes in San Francisco. I think. I don't know. Did you ever think you were forgetting something really important, and if you remembered it the entire universe would fall into place, but you have to forget to keep from crying? Yeah. Sometimes I get that way. I think. It doesn't hurt though. No. Do you like tea?"

Tea! Tea is a topic Gil understands. He clings to that topic like a drowning man would to a life preserver.

"Tea. Yes, yes, I like tea. Would you like some? I can -- I can get some."

"Everyone here likes tea," sadly.

"I think it must be a sexual thing, really. It's the only explanation. Yes! I would like tea. Please. Thank you."

Gil is resolutely ignoring certain parts of that.

He flags down a passing waitrat and orders tea, which arrives very promptly.

"Cream or lemon? Sugar?"

The tea seems ever so much saner than his companion right now.

The table seems saner than his companion.

"Mango juice," solemnly. "Blue."

IT TASTES GOOD WITH TEA.

Really.

(Actually, mango juice is disgusting, and the mun wishes she'd NEVER tried that one.)

Tables are saner than almost everyone. They are steady and well-balanced. Or they're replaced.

Gil blinks, looks at the tea tray, and (surprise, surprise), finds no mango juice of any color.

Another request to another waitrat, a moment, and then he sets the cup of Blue Mango English Breakfast tea in front of her.

And fails to think of anything to say.

"You know what people should do more?" Del licks at her spoon and attempts to balance it on her nose. "Have fun. You know you don't do that? I mean, not you you. The vast You. Like the royal we, but less British, and more inclined to alcoholism than drinking tea. But you know? You get hangups and fidgets and don't know how to just go have fun. Some people do. But most of you don't. It's kinda sad."

The spoon falls off her nose and Del giggles.

"You worry too much," she finishes solemnly, and pokes at her tea curiously. "What's this?"

"I think I'm quite capable of having fun, when I want to," says Gil, who has followed this rather better than some of the other comments. Perhaps he's getting better at it.

"And that's your tea."

"Why wouldn't you want to have fun, Gilbert Blythe man boy person?" Blinking, and then, "Oh. I forgot."

"Tea's icky."

"Would you like mango juice, then?" he asks, offering her a small silver pitcher.

"And, well, sometimes things have to be done which aren't especially fun."

"Yeah. No. I mean, yeah, mango juice, and yeah. I know. But you've got, like, 80 years. Maybe. Give or take a heartbeat. If you're lucky. Humans take themselves too seriously," eyes drifting over the ceiling. "And then my sister comes and takes you home. It's just life. You're born with all the skills for it, y'know. How come you make it so much harder than it has to be? It's silly."

Gil hands her the pitcher.

"Your sister?"

Oh, dear.

"Death. Original goth chick, dontchaknow. Too fond of eyeliner."

The pitcher's a butterfly.

The pitcher's a fire hydrant.

The pitcher's a mango, and she bites into it and smiles at him.

"We're like a bad episode of Springer that's been running since the beginning of stars."

"Your sister is Death?"

"Uh-huh."

What?

No big deal.