miss maggie (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bossymarmalade) wrote2010-04-28 12:40 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote2010-04-28 12:40 pm
Entry tags:
3w4dw: icon keyword fic 1
You know what I like? Reading the keywords for people's icons.
"No luck with the box yet, huh?" Dean said, then grinned (while Sam pre-emptively rolled his eyes) and added, "-- not like that's new for you."
"Did you get some food, at least?"
Dean tossed a box of chicken at Sam and settled down with his own, turning the motel tv to an All in the Family rerun while they ate. Sam was quiet, almost grim as he mowed down his coleslaw, and he kept frowning at the musty wooden box all through his meal, reaching for it with fingers still greasy while he was chewing his last bite.
"Leave it for a minute and have some hot wings," Dean said, leaning far back enough in his rickety chair to aim the toe of one boot at Sam's knee. Sam froze half-sprawled across the bed, turning his head to stare at Dean, then next thing Dean knew his brother had his fingers all in the box of wings. Picking out bones and breaking them apart. Digging in his bag until he found a piece of red string, wrapping them around the bones to make an equal-armed cross. Holding it up in Dean's face with a distinctly crowing expression, and declaring, "I'm a genius."
"Craft time with bird carcasses sure means genius to me," Dean said, but Sam was fitting the bone thing into the box with just the right little twist to make it pop open with a disturbing-but-satisfying hiss. "The key in having a key," Sam told him, "is knowing it's a key."
"Imagine what we could open with some curly fries," Dean said, but it was no use. Sam could already tell he was impressed.
Holmes glanced around the sitting room with visibly increasing annoyance, which required Watson to sink down a bit more behind his paper to hide his smile. "Ah," Holmes said finally. "I see you have resolved to create decidedly more of an issue around my innocuous comment than is at all warranted."
"I've no idea what you're on about, Holmes," Watson murmured. "I've merely made a personal adjustment to my own habits to correct what I feel are some rather appalling lapses in civility since my service days; nothing to do with you except in the most roundabout way, I assure you. It's all my own volition. You behold before you a whole new Watson."
"Indeed. New Watson looks remarkably like old Watson." Both Watsons declined to comment upon this statement. Eyeing him suspiciously, Holmes curled up in his usual chair by the window and reached for his fiendish old briar pipe from its usual place jammed with tobacco in the toe of an orphaned slipper, but his hand closed on air. "New Watson feels we should use items for their intended purpose," Watson said serenely, handing over a proper tin and brand new pipe. Holmes' thin lips puckered briefly, but he schooled his features with haste and nodded instead, packing himself a pipe and smoking fiercely until a cloud wreathed their heads.
He managed to procure himself from the breakfast tray a cup of tea but no milk ("New Watson takes excessive amounts of cream, old boy"), a mere slip of scrambled eggs ("New Watson is devilishly fond of eggs, I'm afraid") and toast but no preserves ("New Watson likes jam!") before setting down both plate and teacup in aggravation.
"I cannot abide this!" Holmes snapped. He snatched the Strand from Watson's fingers, rapping it sharply against his friend's knees, and said, "It was a poorly-worded comment, Watson, from the overtired mind of a man who generally finds you to be the most amiable and convivial of roommates and chronologists. Now, I trust you will be able to produce the jam-pot, as there is no possibility that you should have been able to consume all of that jam no matter how much New Watson enjoys it."
"Why, it seems there is a teaspoon or two of the stuff left, after all," Watson smiled, holding out the pot and letting Holmes' fingers close over his.
There are times when Patty wonders what would happen if they all stopped pretending. She tried it once with Selma, when she stopped shaving altogether and stopped wearing bras (kept the dress, though, because it was damn comfortable), and Selma just looked at her sideways across the sofa and asked for more clamato if she was going to the kitchen. And: "I am calling you by your first name," Selma protested, when Patty prodded her to use the proper one, the real first name that's all but disappeared under years and layers of family silence.
This is her twin, her sister, her constant companion. Without Selma on board there's no chance of Marge, and without Marge there's no chance at all. So Patty shaves back up to her knees again and draws some eyeliner on her lashes, remembering the way Mom had done it, remembering how Mom always said, "i'm so glad i have three daughters, three beautiful girls," with a special secret sharp stare Patty's way.
"Pleased to meet you," she says to her reflection with its eyeliner and its Lady Laramie smoldering between its fingers. "I'm Patty Bouvier. Patty ... short for Patrick." They're supposed to be doubled d's in the shortened form but they erode into the familiar doubled t's, taking her momentary confidence with them. She sits, unsettled at her own audacity in even speaking that name out loud. "Shake a drumstick, Patty!" Selma calls from the living room. "We want to get to Ladies' Night before they run out of those deep-fried pork bites!"
three beautiful girls. Patty thinks of her nieces and nephew, Ling and Lisa and Maggie and Bart. She thinks of her Aunt Gladys, all the birthday presents of makeup and dolls and everything pink pressed on her with Significant Looks traded between Gladys and her mother, while Selma accepted her matching presents with unsupervised glee. "Coming," she calls back. Ladies' Night is waiting.
I'll probably do this again, if none of the icon owners who I randomly choose object to it. *g*
"No luck with the box yet, huh?" Dean said, then grinned (while Sam pre-emptively rolled his eyes) and added, "-- not like that's new for you."
"Did you get some food, at least?"
Dean tossed a box of chicken at Sam and settled down with his own, turning the motel tv to an All in the Family rerun while they ate. Sam was quiet, almost grim as he mowed down his coleslaw, and he kept frowning at the musty wooden box all through his meal, reaching for it with fingers still greasy while he was chewing his last bite.
"Leave it for a minute and have some hot wings," Dean said, leaning far back enough in his rickety chair to aim the toe of one boot at Sam's knee. Sam froze half-sprawled across the bed, turning his head to stare at Dean, then next thing Dean knew his brother had his fingers all in the box of wings. Picking out bones and breaking them apart. Digging in his bag until he found a piece of red string, wrapping them around the bones to make an equal-armed cross. Holding it up in Dean's face with a distinctly crowing expression, and declaring, "I'm a genius."
"Craft time with bird carcasses sure means genius to me," Dean said, but Sam was fitting the bone thing into the box with just the right little twist to make it pop open with a disturbing-but-satisfying hiss. "The key in having a key," Sam told him, "is knowing it's a key."
"Imagine what we could open with some curly fries," Dean said, but it was no use. Sam could already tell he was impressed.
Holmes glanced around the sitting room with visibly increasing annoyance, which required Watson to sink down a bit more behind his paper to hide his smile. "Ah," Holmes said finally. "I see you have resolved to create decidedly more of an issue around my innocuous comment than is at all warranted."
"I've no idea what you're on about, Holmes," Watson murmured. "I've merely made a personal adjustment to my own habits to correct what I feel are some rather appalling lapses in civility since my service days; nothing to do with you except in the most roundabout way, I assure you. It's all my own volition. You behold before you a whole new Watson."
"Indeed. New Watson looks remarkably like old Watson." Both Watsons declined to comment upon this statement. Eyeing him suspiciously, Holmes curled up in his usual chair by the window and reached for his fiendish old briar pipe from its usual place jammed with tobacco in the toe of an orphaned slipper, but his hand closed on air. "New Watson feels we should use items for their intended purpose," Watson said serenely, handing over a proper tin and brand new pipe. Holmes' thin lips puckered briefly, but he schooled his features with haste and nodded instead, packing himself a pipe and smoking fiercely until a cloud wreathed their heads.
He managed to procure himself from the breakfast tray a cup of tea but no milk ("New Watson takes excessive amounts of cream, old boy"), a mere slip of scrambled eggs ("New Watson is devilishly fond of eggs, I'm afraid") and toast but no preserves ("New Watson likes jam!") before setting down both plate and teacup in aggravation.
"I cannot abide this!" Holmes snapped. He snatched the Strand from Watson's fingers, rapping it sharply against his friend's knees, and said, "It was a poorly-worded comment, Watson, from the overtired mind of a man who generally finds you to be the most amiable and convivial of roommates and chronologists. Now, I trust you will be able to produce the jam-pot, as there is no possibility that you should have been able to consume all of that jam no matter how much New Watson enjoys it."
"Why, it seems there is a teaspoon or two of the stuff left, after all," Watson smiled, holding out the pot and letting Holmes' fingers close over his.
There are times when Patty wonders what would happen if they all stopped pretending. She tried it once with Selma, when she stopped shaving altogether and stopped wearing bras (kept the dress, though, because it was damn comfortable), and Selma just looked at her sideways across the sofa and asked for more clamato if she was going to the kitchen. And: "I am calling you by your first name," Selma protested, when Patty prodded her to use the proper one, the real first name that's all but disappeared under years and layers of family silence.
This is her twin, her sister, her constant companion. Without Selma on board there's no chance of Marge, and without Marge there's no chance at all. So Patty shaves back up to her knees again and draws some eyeliner on her lashes, remembering the way Mom had done it, remembering how Mom always said, "i'm so glad i have three daughters, three beautiful girls," with a special secret sharp stare Patty's way.
"Pleased to meet you," she says to her reflection with its eyeliner and its Lady Laramie smoldering between its fingers. "I'm Patty Bouvier. Patty ... short for Patrick." They're supposed to be doubled d's in the shortened form but they erode into the familiar doubled t's, taking her momentary confidence with them. She sits, unsettled at her own audacity in even speaking that name out loud. "Shake a drumstick, Patty!" Selma calls from the living room. "We want to get to Ladies' Night before they run out of those deep-fried pork bites!"
three beautiful girls. Patty thinks of her nieces and nephew, Ling and Lisa and Maggie and Bart. She thinks of her Aunt Gladys, all the birthday presents of makeup and dolls and everything pink pressed on her with Significant Looks traded between Gladys and her mother, while Selma accepted her matching presents with unsupervised glee. "Coming," she calls back. Ladies' Night is waiting.
I'll probably do this again, if none of the icon owners who I randomly choose object to it. *g*