"You hate everything," says Ross with easygoing disdain.
"That's not true!" Eion insists, trying to get his rifle strap to stop pinching his shoulder and failing. "Come on, it's muddy, it's cold, it's -- it smells here
( ... )
This weather tries to hold you by your neck and keep you from struggling. It'll kill you that way, like a cat gone feral.
Sometimes Gene tries to find pieces of home in the French-speaking placesthey fight. After all, this is where his people came from, in the general sense, so many years and generations ago. Maybe there was something they found homey, wherever they'd wound up -- Acadia, Louisiana, wherever. In Normandy he felt nothing: he was too busy learning to live with combat. Belgium is even less welcoming. The forest is a high, dense place, with plenty of branches but no light. Gene remembers the sun on his lashes back home, the high living arches and banners of Spanish moss. The endless, even rows of pines are more oppressive than the strange overexposure of Holland's dikes. Gene accepts that he's in a strange place, and hopes it will spit him back out on the other side.
Until then, foxhole to foxhole, he has to keep moving.
Hi! That's totally fine, and I've added you back! (Looks like your thoughts on Southland are mostly my thoughts on Southland. Is it next week yet?) Looks like we've got the same weather to complain about, for the most part. :)
Yay for Southland love! Oh, and if you're looking for a prompt, I've got BoB RPF, Ron Livingston and Damian Lewis, with Damian getting irritated by the camera.
Re: Don't they always!skew_whiffApril 10 2009, 17:51:33 UTC
AHAHA YES. Oh, lordy, that's lovely - especially the very image of Smokey testing out his poetry on More. (...I think I want to incorporate that into some modern AU thing. Like, he and Web are at the same creative writing class or something.)
It's very disconcerting, being wedged against a wall because you can't get around a man carrying a large cardboard box and you can't move because he's giving you this look that's very much not a "team player" look of shocked fascination.
"Can I help you?" he says finally, unable to mask his discomfort.
"No, no," the guy says. "I'm just... getting my stuff in next door."
"You're Gibbons?" says Dean, mentally running through his file on the new hire.
"Yeah, it's my first day. Sorry, I'd shake your hand, but, you know." As consolation, he backs up so Dean can get through the narrow hallway. Nothing is made more comfortable by the sight of the guy's eyes falling on Dean's white collar (on his favorite striped blue shirt, nonetheless) and twitching. "Well," he says, smiling gamely, "guess I'll see you around."
Dean smiles, no teeth. "I'm really looking forward to working with you, pal."
He thinks Gibbons may be laughing as they both turn and part ways.
It'll take a while, but eventually Dean and Peter will get to know each other better and bond over that rare European beer brand they both like even though it has lots of carbs, and Dean will start wearing less ridiculous shirts and Peter will get used to rice milk lattes and. Um. I just want Dean to have more friends *wobbly lip*
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"You hate everything," says Ross with easygoing disdain.
"That's not true!" Eion insists, trying to get his rifle strap to stop pinching his shoulder and failing. "Come on, it's muddy, it's cold, it's -- it smells here ( ... )
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And I posted a thing at the thing. OH EION. IT'S OKAY BABY, YOU CAN GO DO THEM LATER.
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Sometimes Gene tries to find pieces of home in the French-speaking placesthey fight. After all, this is where his people came from, in the general sense, so many years and generations ago. Maybe there was something they found homey, wherever they'd wound up -- Acadia, Louisiana, wherever. In Normandy he felt nothing: he was too busy learning to live with combat. Belgium is even less welcoming. The forest is a high, dense place, with plenty of branches but no light. Gene remembers the sun on his lashes back home, the high living arches and banners of Spanish moss. The endless, even rows of pines are more oppressive than the strange overexposure of Holland's dikes. Gene accepts that he's in a strange place, and hopes it will spit him back out on the other side.
Until then, foxhole to foxhole, he has to keep moving.
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It's very disconcerting, being wedged against a wall because you can't get around a man carrying a large cardboard box and you can't move because he's giving you this look that's very much not a "team player" look of shocked fascination.
"Can I help you?" he says finally, unable to mask his discomfort.
"No, no," the guy says. "I'm just... getting my stuff in next door."
"You're Gibbons?" says Dean, mentally running through his file on the new hire.
"Yeah, it's my first day. Sorry, I'd shake your hand, but, you know." As consolation, he backs up so Dean can get through the narrow hallway. Nothing is made more comfortable by the sight of the guy's eyes falling on Dean's white collar (on his favorite striped blue shirt, nonetheless) and twitching. "Well," he says, smiling gamely, "guess I'll see you around."
Dean smiles, no teeth. "I'm really looking forward to working with you, pal."
He thinks Gibbons may be laughing as they both turn and part ways.
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