Chanter (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
chanter1944) wrote2019-06-24 12:53 am
chanter1944) wrote2019-06-24 12:53 am
Entry tags:
6 or 7 sentence... it's still Sunday in the nearer Pacific
This is from a fic I've been slooooowly working on, and there's some question of whether or not the entire thing will ever see AO3 daylight. Basically, Easy with languages in, over and above what we saw in the series. This is Luz in Holland as seen by Hashey, enchanting an audience in Portuguese post the rescue of the Red Devils. Assume this happened not long after the toast to Easy went up.
Luz is holding court from a seat atop a hay bale, blowing smoke rings for what looks like intermittent effect and gesturing through the dust motes and the chaff in the air as he speaks. Three Red Devils so far, expressions ranging from awestruck to interested to plain bemused, Ramirez from Hashey's own squad, Frank Perconte and, because irrepressible storytellers are a little like magnets sometimes, Skip Muck and Smokey Gordon face him in a squashed sort of circle, and Hashey doesn't envy the poor fella who got stuck sitting on the upturned bucket instead of a bale of his own. That fella doesn't seem to care too much, and once Hashey's a couple steps closer, he thinks he might have a sliver of a handle on why that's so.
Gordon's swaying slightly in his seat, one of the Red Devils is tapping his foot one two, one two, one two at speed, Muck looks like he wants to leap up and dance, and all the usual hundred considerations in Perco's face have smoothed out to amused surprise.
Luz's voice rises and falls, twists like a river to the sea, plucks at something, something in the air and Les doesn't understand, doesn't know a word of whatever language the radio op is speaking but the--the--dammit, the rhythm of the sound? he hasn't even got the words for this in English, the... the music of it's got him convinced that, apart from anything else, Luz is some kind of a god blessed master at two, not one, of his crafts, boys. Ramirez looks like he might be catching a word or so out of every three, Perconte half that or less (every now and then his eyebrows shoot ceilingward in recognition), but hell and good night, Hashey's lost. Somehow, he can't find it in himself to mind all that much.
Now with fixed cut tag! Sorry folks.
Luz is holding court from a seat atop a hay bale, blowing smoke rings for what looks like intermittent effect and gesturing through the dust motes and the chaff in the air as he speaks. Three Red Devils so far, expressions ranging from awestruck to interested to plain bemused, Ramirez from Hashey's own squad, Frank Perconte and, because irrepressible storytellers are a little like magnets sometimes, Skip Muck and Smokey Gordon face him in a squashed sort of circle, and Hashey doesn't envy the poor fella who got stuck sitting on the upturned bucket instead of a bale of his own. That fella doesn't seem to care too much, and once Hashey's a couple steps closer, he thinks he might have a sliver of a handle on why that's so.
Gordon's swaying slightly in his seat, one of the Red Devils is tapping his foot one two, one two, one two at speed, Muck looks like he wants to leap up and dance, and all the usual hundred considerations in Perco's face have smoothed out to amused surprise.
Luz's voice rises and falls, twists like a river to the sea, plucks at something, something in the air and Les doesn't understand, doesn't know a word of whatever language the radio op is speaking but the--the--dammit, the rhythm of the sound? he hasn't even got the words for this in English, the... the music of it's got him convinced that, apart from anything else, Luz is some kind of a god blessed master at two, not one, of his crafts, boys. Ramirez looks like he might be catching a word or so out of every three, Perconte half that or less (every now and then his eyebrows shoot ceilingward in recognition), but hell and good night, Hashey's lost. Somehow, he can't find it in himself to mind all that much.
Now with fixed cut tag! Sorry folks.