Birthday drabbles for the_grynne. Happy, happy !

[orange_crushed]

Oh, I am so embarassed ! I thought I posted this already and I didn't. Darling, darling the_grynne, this was supposed to have been your birthday present ! It still is. You are a wonderful mind and an overflowing heart and I admire you deeply. Forgive me for possibly embarassing myself

Comments

[devohoneybee]

ohhhh, these are lovely. I especially like the tumblers in Bill's head... that captures TV Bill so well. He's so... deliberate in his responses to Sookie (except when he's not). *g*

[the_grynne]

I LOVE THESE BEYOND REASON and, oh, you write the little details like no one I know. The "eight minutes past midnight", on the cusp between AM and PM, night and day, her world and his. How easily the moment slides into awkwardness, although both are making such an effort to accommodate and be understanding.

"Never mind," she says, smiling wryly into her collar.

That head-turn, there. I can see it so clearly.

The second is so beautiful and elegiac, but not sad because John Connor can't indulge in missing the past without irony, because he's never lived fully in that world; he always knew it was heading towards this. I love that he calls humanity "his people", like they're not the only people now on the planet, and how Cameron sustains that judgment by acting like more than a machine with him. They're so complicated and intimate. Thank you so much, my dear.

[orange_crushed]

You are so, so very welcome.

John Connor can't indulge in missing the past without irony, because he's never lived fully in that world...

God, yes, what a perfect way of putting that. It's interesting to think of how displaced John is, even in the "now" of the show, because he's been removed from his own time just enough. And I do always see this connection between him and Cameron; they both resist their programming, one in a literal sense and the other in his resistance to being this folk hero figure that he doesn't understand.

Anyway, ramble. But happy birthday ! Knowing you like these, nothing could please me more.

[the_spin]

After a long minute he snaps the lid open at the nearest edge, so carefully; there is a gentle puff of dust into the air, the muted smell of earth and bitterness. Something from the morning, or the mornings before- his mother's smell, the earthenware cups and her thin, white hands around them.

This is just so pretty and evocative.