[The marquis has had to wait longer for far more unpleasant things. He's had to weather more than stiff and complaining joints to get what he wants. And that's what this is, in a certain very specific way: getting what he wants.]
[What he wants is not closure, precisely, but - a completed sentence would be nice. A sense of certainty, even if it's certainty in uncertainty, precision in imprecision. He does not require Dean to be happy, but he does require him to be present. For that, he'll wait.]
[He smiles, just barely, and doesn't indicate the completed repair of the necklace because that's something that some other person would do. Some other man who likes praise, who wants it, who demands it, who expects gratitude. Who knows friendship, which is still such a foreign animal to the marquis de Carabas that he is incapable of treating it as anything but a lion at the other end of a chair. Perpetually wary of love, he allows it, but is baffled.]
[Nevertheless, he does things like this - repairs, jokes, moments of silent camaraderie - and they feel right. Snow had faith in him. Ned loved him. But Dean showed him about what is right.]
[Someday, he'll even trust that instinct. Not today, but soon. He is a work in progress. He is a puzzle one quarter complete; the corners, at least, are located, the edges in progress.]
[The laugh begins low in his throat and bubbles out into something giddy, disbelieving.]
Do you want to know something funny?
[He grins, shark-sharp, and doesn't pause but for breath.]
[ Spam ]
[What he wants is not closure, precisely, but - a completed sentence would be nice. A sense of certainty, even if it's certainty in uncertainty, precision in imprecision. He does not require Dean to be happy, but he does require him to be present. For that, he'll wait.]
[He smiles, just barely, and doesn't indicate the completed repair of the necklace because that's something that some other person would do. Some other man who likes praise, who wants it, who demands it, who expects gratitude. Who knows friendship, which is still such a foreign animal to the marquis de Carabas that he is incapable of treating it as anything but a lion at the other end of a chair. Perpetually wary of love, he allows it, but is baffled.]
[Nevertheless, he does things like this - repairs, jokes, moments of silent camaraderie - and they feel right. Snow had faith in him. Ned loved him. But Dean showed him about what is right.]
[Someday, he'll even trust that instinct. Not today, but soon. He is a work in progress. He is a puzzle one quarter complete; the corners, at least, are located, the edges in progress.]
[The laugh begins low in his throat and bubbles out into something giddy, disbelieving.]
Do you want to know something funny?
[He grins, shark-sharp, and doesn't pause but for breath.]
I don't remember my name.