Work Text:
The common language is as riddled with flaws as the people who made it. Every interpreter and poet collectively have either helped or hindered what was a labyrinth of attempted communication.
Tad was a scientist, technically. It took a grand library of scientific knowledge to be a mechanic, therefore, Tad was a scientist. The common language was written into the folds of their mind every time they had to look at their waterlogged ship. Words behind worthless calculations, worthless, in a planet that was yet to have a description the poets could agree on. Afterall, Tad was no poet; just a scientist.
But sometimes a lost flickering thought of a sweeter time, when common didn't mean F=G*(m1*m2)/r^2. Maybe she’d been thinking of it more when she saw Alliums. Comparison of flowers to people. How it was a perfect highlight to another’s complexion. Maybe in another universe that other was only an allium and Tad; Tad could be the beetle crawling up the stem. However Tad didn’t know how to approach those thoughts. So they were left out, not a trace left on the pages of her journal. Afterall, the journal was for logs, and Tad was a scientist not a poet.
Tad did feel their soul crunch when that flower aimed a bow at her eye in accusation. When that allium’s petals turned gray in lack of necessity; no sun, no water, no sleep.
After that it was easy to find time to hold that Allium in their arms. Often when the dark circles got deeper.
And when she was there, sometimes common didn’t seem good enough. It made Tad want to rewrite the language. Sparks of poetry suddenly seemed infinitely hotter than the home flame that flicked at thinking about the starcore and the building of a new ship.
Tad never planned to tell anyone about how she thought of writing about the sandpaper skin that refined her stressed muscle. Not that it was embarrassing, it was just unimportant. The opening of the portals left other things to be higher on the list. If anything the sudden spark of creative energy was left at the bottom, only to be brought up in utter boredom and desperation of topics to speak of.
That of course didn’t stop the occasional temptation to call or describe Vesper by things other than her name. A single glance to make her a wave in the ocean. A single word to make her the morning wind. It was ridiculous honestly. Sometimes Tad worried himself that the metaphors didn’t make sense. But then again poetry was meant to be interpreted, right? Only there was no interpreter.
Nauseating. That could describe it when Tad almost called Vesper ‘Allium’. But Tad was on her knees ready to defend, it wasn’t nauseating. It was as if gold was laced in her blood, poisonous to her body. But a body with golden blood was precious; who would give up the riches in such a form?
The walls were closing in so much that Tad took a moment to pause packing for her expedition to get out her journal. It was no longer enough to think about poems when Vesper was there. Now she haunted him like a ghost. So Tad did the only relief he could. The back page of their journal suddenly filled with a quick ramble; hardly a refined poem.
She had gotten so focused on just spurring out thoughts in hazy rhymes that she was startled when that much needed sandpaper grasped her shoulder.
“What are you doing?” a faint chuckle hid behind the curtains of her words. Vesper leaned over to get a look at the words.
“Writing,” It was easier to say than expected. Just air, “I just tried writing something small” The bottom of the list now wrangled up to the top by Vesper’s flowering hands.
“I didn’t know you did that.” Her accent: a lovely melody.
“I used to when I was little. It has…” Tad looked down at the scrambled words, and gently shut the covers, “It has definitely been awhile.”
“What is it? Like, creative story or?”
“Poetry- yeah.. Just poetry.” Tad quickly tried to catch up to Vesper’s train of thought, and stop it, “Sorry, why’d you come over? I assume you had something planned outside of hearing about my novice writing.”
She looked at him like he was the poetry he had just written. Tad wasn't sure if that was pleasing or terrifying, “I was going to ask about the servers we recovered. But I am curious now,”
“Didn’t think you’d be interested in poetry,” Tad let herself laugh to keep the situation calm, to keep the gold in her blood settled in her feet.
“Not like I’d ever write it. But maybe yours is decent.”
“Probably not, as I've said, I’m very rusty.”
Vesper shook her head, but the matter was dropped back down the list to speak about servers instead. Tad absentmindedly tucked her pen behind her ear.
The two walked and talked, and talked and walked. The journal forgotten, but those words not. Still held on the tip of the tongue, waiting to unwind into a blizzard.
Their destination ends at Vesper’s home instead.
It was only half a surprise when Vesper brought it all back up, as she had that power to undo any list Tad liked to make, “I am still very curious on the poetry thing.”
“Oh? It really is just random thoughts.” Tad quickly responded, he did not fear Vesper knowing it was about her. Just put it at the bottom again, to which Vesper would fish out.
“Like about what?”
Tad was ready to laugh and tell her all about how it was all stupid childish things. But she had that look that unloaded the gun immediately. She was attentive, listening more than Tad expected about some silly words.
“That, well…” Emeralds reached into her voicebox, “You… Mostly.”
Vesper didn’t even seem all that shocked. She just watched. Tad just waited.
“Right, right. Okay, me. You write about me. What do you..? What is there to write about me.?”
“I don't know; your just very, comparable."
That was rewarded with a laugh, “Comparable?”
“Yes. Comparable.” Tad let herself laugh with Vesper.
“Okay, compare me. Tell me a poem.”
“I don't have any just ready.”
“Then write one.”
“Now?”
“Yes now. I want to see what you write.”
Tad shook her head in disbelief as she leaned against the nearest wall, “I don’t have any paper on me so.”
“Then just make one up out loud,”
“ Absolutely not. I told you I'm a novice. You have to give me a paper and at least thirty minutes of suffering.”
“Just write it on yourself”
“I am not going to write it on myself. I’ll write it on you if you're that insistent.”
“Hey, no.” Vesper folded her arms sternly, but her face held a smile that kept Tad just as captivated.
“You're the one bringing up writing it on people. And you’re the one wanting a poem.”
Vesper groaned and rubbed her eyes, “fine write it on my arm,”
“Then you’ll read it”
“That's the point is it not?”
“Yeah but you're putting me on the spot. It will hardly be any good.”
“Okay then what do you have in mind?”
“I don’t know, can I write it on… I don’t know” A black splotch of ink where a solution should be.
“If you're this stubborn then write it on my shoulder.”
“What's stopping you from looking in a mirror?” It was teasing, truly Tad was just only finding a way to stall, torn on whether she even wanted to do it period; never mind how it was written.
“You're impossible. I’ll find out what it says regardless. I'm good at that.”
Tad pulled the pen out from behind her ear and twirled in between the pads of her fingers, “fine turn around.”
“You're not going to stab me in the back, right?” Vesper pulled her hair to the front of her shoulders, silky dark rivers that Tad would be more than willing to drown in.
“Because I’ll be able to do that much damage with a pen,” Tad shook her head and opted instead for the newly revealed neck, after all Vesper’s hair would just hide it.
Vesper just stared at her own palms, rough and scarred, “Never can be too careful”
“Right on that.” Tad muttered, gently pulling down the collar just enough. There wasn’t much space. Three or four small lettered lines would fit max…
Tad was not a poet. No matter how much he wrote. He was a scientist. Common was written into their nails with the dirt and grease of repairs. The ink was slow and painless, albeit a little uncomfortable.
If the words were truly a poem is questionable. But they were words for Tad and Vesper alone… Something Tad wasn’t even sure they wanted Vesper to find.
It was only two lines long actually. The shortest poem Tad had in him. And yet, it was possibly their favorite.
…
The ink had long washed off and faded by the time Tad left. But even so Vesper found herself tracing the back of her neck as if the words were engraved in her stone skin. They never were.
All that was left was flesh. Even when she laid at night worrying over Evren. Even when she looked at the scraps and wondered how they would get them fixed. It was only flesh. And Tad was not there to chisel a new grave.
Vesper was not a poet. She was not a scientist. But she did love to read. Common was a language she saw, and learnt. Now all she had to do was wait for a poet, no not a poet, a scientist, to come rewrite her world. Or at least come try to.