(Untitled)

[turnedtoproust]

Generally, Scripps has found a sort of calling in playing the background for the whimsy of his friends, allowing them to sing and act and be fools around him. It's not to say that he doesn't partake, but every group needs a steady anchor to provide the backing music and the task has fallen to him. It's not as though he's the most responsible, per

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[willbewonderful]

Duck enjoys listening to the more musically talented members of the island. It's not a sentiment he dares display too often, for fear that his husband might be hiding around the corner, lying in wait to pronounce him a fan of musicals, which Duck's not, per se. He just likes good music in any form. And so, upon looking around and finding no sign of Geoffrey, Duck slips through the rec room door, waiting for a break in the music before offering up his quiet applause.

[turnedtoproust]

Scripps feels the inane and desperate desire to do something mad and egotistical like bow. He curbs that interest with a quick reminder to himself about modesty and how Jesus never took a bow after delivering on a miracle (not that he wouldn't have deserved it). "You're far too kind. It's all going to go to my head, you realise," he warns, a warm hint in his voice.

[willbewonderful]

"I bet I can stand it," Duck replies, "We don't hear singing like that around here too often. It's a shame there's not a singing group. Used to be one, but the girl running it disappeared." Duck shrugs with a rueful smile. "Happens a lot, unfortunately."

[turnedtoproust]

"Well, I'm hardly in the market," he admits, mostly because he's used to being told what he's meant to strive for. "I'm Scripps," he introduces himself, leaning over the piano in order to offer a hand out to him for a good and proper introduction. "Usually, I accompany my mates, but they're not about. I suppose I'm just filling the void."

[willbewonderful]

"Not here?" Duck asks, returning the shake with a firm, if calloused, one of his own. "Well, they could show up yet, people do all the time." The kid's been here maybe a couple months by Duck's reckoning. For a guy who's been on the island for years, it's nothing, but for a kid who's left his whole life behind...Duck can't say he envies him. "I'm Duck. You settling in okay?"

[turnedtoproust]

"Honestly, I think it's good that we're finally being parted," he muses aloud, a thought that's strayed through his mind more than once or twice in the process of thoughts of Oxford. "No one can stay together forever, can they? No matter how hard they try."

He is starting to sound rather gloomy -- best to turn it around. "I'm settling in well as I can, I suppose. Roof over my head, meals in the morning and night, decent people that I've met, and a rather puzzling amount of literary neighbours."

[willbewonderful]

Duck huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, that happens. First time I saw Horatio Hornblower on the island, I nearly crapped myself. But it's fun. Who else can say they know Superman, you know? Hell, snow'll be coming soon, it always does in December. We got a good chance of seeing the real Santa."

[turnedtoproust]

"You know, I may very well have to rethink my entire existence if I see Santa Claus," Scripps informs Duck with a wide-eyed look of stunned surprise on his face. He didn't even think such a thing could be possible. "All those childhood years spent hoping for a miracle and this is the year it happens -- in a certain shade of paradise."

[willbewonderful]

"Place has a way about it," Duck agrees, wondering what kind of miracle this kid had hoped for. Who knows, this place is kind as often as it is cruel; Scripps might find it yet.

"If you see him, catch him early. He usually makes wooden toys, but if you hurry sometimes you can get an iPod."

[turnedtoproust]

Scripps gives him a confused look, not sure what pods have anything to do with this. "I pod?" he echoes. "I'm not sure what podding or me, myself, or I have anything to do with the wishes of Christmas," he confesses.