milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

del,
gilbert blythe

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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.

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"Amphibians are well enough, I suppose," he says, looking at the frog.

"I think you should get used to them," solemnly.

Why Del thinks this, no one knows. Possibly not even her.

Besides.

Frogs are cute.

"I'll try to, then," says Gil.

There aren't a lot of amphibians around in Maritime Canada in the winter.

But he'll try.

"Derry likes them," cheerfully. "And so I make them a lot."

Gil decides that it's worth risking that Derry is either a person or something close enough, and opts for "who" over "what." (Or, for that matter, "when" or "where" and above all "why.")

"Who is Derry?"

The answer is really very simple.

...Kinda.

"My daughter."

Gil smiles.

"And she likes frogs?"

"I'm a weird mom," solemnly. "But I think frogs are better for little girls to play with than ex-demon-gods who are now lizards cause they fucked with me too much."

Gil blinks again.

"Well, yes, I would imagine so," he says. "Ex-demon-gods don't sound like safe toys at all."

"They are not made of non-toxic-materials," seriously. "Derry should not gnaw on them. No."

"No. But then, she probably shouldn't gnaw on frogs, either."

It would be awfully bad for the frogs, for one thing.

"Sometimes they taste like butterscotch, when I forget what frogs should taste like. Then it's okay."

"Oh. Well, yes, that's a whole other matter, then, isn't it?"

Gil may never look at frogs the same way again.

"How old is your daughter, Del?"

Del considers this.

"I don't...know," she says finally and cheerfully.

Gil is, somehow, not surprised by this.

"I suppose it doesn't really matter," he ventures.

Odd, that.

"She is adopted," seriously. "I do not have birthdate type thingies. And I lack sanity some days. It makes keeping track of time hard. Tempus frangit."

"I suppose you could just celebrate her birthday whenever the mood struck you," Gil suggests.

Del looks at him oddly.

"I celebrate it every day. Why would I give thanks once a year when I'm blessed with her every moment?"

"I never thought of it that way," says Gil, "but I think you're right."

"Humans are silly," Del sighs. "I hope Derry doesn't turn silly when she grows up."

Gil's not sure how to respond to that, really, so he stalls by sipping what is, it must be confessed, fairly cold tea by this point.

Luckily, tea is still drinkable when cold.

"Do you think it's hard?" vaguely.

"Do I think what is hard?" Gil asks.

"Being a good parent."

The tea may be purple now.

But it's just a change in colour.

Gil considers this, and regards his suddenly purple tea a little warily.

"I don't know," he says, finally. "I mean, it's not anything I've had to, or gotten to, do yet. I think in some ways it must be very hard, and in others it's probably very very easy."