Six Inches of Snow on my Kia Optima = Fic
Title: Midsummer in Monrovia
Rating: Teen for a little bit of language
Pairing: Winry/Havoc
Length: 978 words
Warnings: No spoilers
Summary: The Havoc boys introduce Winry to a new pastime.
A/N: Set in the SWM Seeks CSFG w/ GP universe. Yes, I'm writing fanfiction for my own fanfiction. What of it?
Midsummer in Monrovia
The glare off the water was bad enough to make Winry squint. She cupped her hands around her eyes and tried her hardest to watch, but she could see only in glimpses before having to squeeze her eyes shut.
“He's been down there a while now,” Winry said to no one in particular.
“He's fine,” Curtis declared from where he sat in the stern, his arm resting on the outboard motor.
Winry looked at little Melia sitting to her left, her arms crossed on the gunwale of their boat, her chin resting on her wrists. She looked enraptured despite having the same difficulty watching the river as Winry. Winry thought the girl was being incredibly calm about the whole thing-Jean had been underwater for almost two minutes now. Eric kept looking over at them from where he stood in the middle of the river, water up to his bare chest, and waving reassuringly. That seemed to be enough for Melia, who, when Curtis had announced that they were going “noodling,” clapped her hands excitedly. Eric and Jean had gotten rather excited, too, both of them slipping into their matching Monrovian accents and posturing in a way that struck Winry as downright adolescent. Winry had had no idea what the hell they were talking about but had climbed into the truck bed next to Jean gamely.
They road out to the river, a swollen June sun overhead, and Jean seemed adamantly against telling Winry what was going on. Even as he helped her step off the dock into Curtis's motor boat, even as they road into a slow, muddy stretch of the river and dropped anchor, even as Jean and Eric stripped to the waist and slipped clumsily into the water, Jean insisted that Winry wait and see. She could tell he was having a grand old time keeping her ignorant.
“Curtis, are you sure about this?” Winry asked, turning to look at the older man in the stern. His eyes, almost permanently squinted from so many years in the field, flicked from the water to Winry.
“He's fine,” he said.
Suddenly, a very loud splash erupted behind Winry, and she wheeled around so fast that the boat beneath her rocked. Melia began to clap and cheer as Jean broke the surface of the water with a triumphant hoot, something long and gray wriggling violently in his arms. He started making his way toward the boat, the thing in his arms kicking the water around him into a froth.
Winry was not certain what drew her attention more, the frantically flopping animal, big as a foal, Jean had pinned to his chest or the way his shoulders stained against it, the lines in his arms that stood out sharp and bold. His glistening was awfully distracting.
“Look at that thing!” Eric cheered as he came up behind Jean.
“Fucker's probably forty-five pounds,” Jean grunted. Eric swatted him and told him not to cuss in front of Melia.
Jean's teeth were grit hard when he came up to the boat. Winry could see now that he had a fish latched onto his right arm almost to his elbow, his fist curled tight and protruding out of the fish's gills. When she realized that Jean was getting ready to heave the thing into the hull, Winry flung herself into the bow of the boat. Riverwater sloshed over her feet as Jean hauled the thrashing fish, thicker and longer than Winry's thigh, into the boat.
“What the hell is that?” Winry asked. She had never seen a fish so big. Its tail made great hollow thumping noises as it flapped violently against the hull. It seemed recalcitrantly stuck on Jean's forearm, its toothless jaws locked around him.
“This,” Jean explained, his voice thick and guttural, “is a catfish.” He put his free hand on the fish's wide mouth and began to push it down his arm. “Welcome to,” he paused to wince and grunt, “to the wonderful world of noodling.” When the fish refused to let go, Jean tried prying its jaws open.
"That ain't gonna work, Jean,” Curtis gruffed from the stern. “Give him a wallop.”
Jean nodded at his father, grimaced down at the fish, and thumped it hard between the eyes. While it still remained clamped on his arm, Jean was able to push it down and down until he wrenched his hand free. A streak of blood ran down the underside of his forearm, and he dunked his arm in the river to rinse it.
“What?” was all Winry could manage as she gawked at the fish that was now motionless at her feet.
“Catfish noodling,” Jean explained, still breathing hard from the exertion and resting his arms on the gunwale next to Winry. Because he was standing in the water, he was shorter than Winry, and she looked in horror from the fish to Jean and back again. Eric, who had disappeared under the water as Jean was unloading into the boat, popped up in the middle of the river as well, clutching his own catfish, just as large and violent as Jean's.
“What's wrong with using a fishing pole?” Winry asked as Eric trudged up and dumped his fish into the hull. Winry squeaked and pulled her feet up into her seat. Melia had the opposite reaction: she dropped down into the belly of the boat, crouched next to her father's catch, and began poking the catfish in its big, viscid eye.
Jean and Eric exchanged a look. “Noodling is a helluva lot more fun,” Eric said as though he were answering an asinine question.
“Yeah,” Jean said, running a hand through his sopping hair. “I just got to punch a forty-five pound fish in the face, babe.”
When Winry looked up at them, they were giving her matching looks of incredulity on their practically matching faces.
Rating: Teen for a little bit of language
Pairing: Winry/Havoc
Length: 978 words
Warnings: No spoilers
Summary: The Havoc boys introduce Winry to a new pastime.
A/N: Set in the SWM Seeks CSFG w/ GP universe. Yes, I'm writing fanfiction for my own fanfiction. What of it?
Midsummer in Monrovia
The glare off the water was bad enough to make Winry squint. She cupped her hands around her eyes and tried her hardest to watch, but she could see only in glimpses before having to squeeze her eyes shut.
“He's been down there a while now,” Winry said to no one in particular.
“He's fine,” Curtis declared from where he sat in the stern, his arm resting on the outboard motor.
Winry looked at little Melia sitting to her left, her arms crossed on the gunwale of their boat, her chin resting on her wrists. She looked enraptured despite having the same difficulty watching the river as Winry. Winry thought the girl was being incredibly calm about the whole thing-Jean had been underwater for almost two minutes now. Eric kept looking over at them from where he stood in the middle of the river, water up to his bare chest, and waving reassuringly. That seemed to be enough for Melia, who, when Curtis had announced that they were going “noodling,” clapped her hands excitedly. Eric and Jean had gotten rather excited, too, both of them slipping into their matching Monrovian accents and posturing in a way that struck Winry as downright adolescent. Winry had had no idea what the hell they were talking about but had climbed into the truck bed next to Jean gamely.
They road out to the river, a swollen June sun overhead, and Jean seemed adamantly against telling Winry what was going on. Even as he helped her step off the dock into Curtis's motor boat, even as they road into a slow, muddy stretch of the river and dropped anchor, even as Jean and Eric stripped to the waist and slipped clumsily into the water, Jean insisted that Winry wait and see. She could tell he was having a grand old time keeping her ignorant.
“Curtis, are you sure about this?” Winry asked, turning to look at the older man in the stern. His eyes, almost permanently squinted from so many years in the field, flicked from the water to Winry.
“He's fine,” he said.
Suddenly, a very loud splash erupted behind Winry, and she wheeled around so fast that the boat beneath her rocked. Melia began to clap and cheer as Jean broke the surface of the water with a triumphant hoot, something long and gray wriggling violently in his arms. He started making his way toward the boat, the thing in his arms kicking the water around him into a froth.
Winry was not certain what drew her attention more, the frantically flopping animal, big as a foal, Jean had pinned to his chest or the way his shoulders stained against it, the lines in his arms that stood out sharp and bold. His glistening was awfully distracting.
“Look at that thing!” Eric cheered as he came up behind Jean.
“Fucker's probably forty-five pounds,” Jean grunted. Eric swatted him and told him not to cuss in front of Melia.
Jean's teeth were grit hard when he came up to the boat. Winry could see now that he had a fish latched onto his right arm almost to his elbow, his fist curled tight and protruding out of the fish's gills. When she realized that Jean was getting ready to heave the thing into the hull, Winry flung herself into the bow of the boat. Riverwater sloshed over her feet as Jean hauled the thrashing fish, thicker and longer than Winry's thigh, into the boat.
“What the hell is that?” Winry asked. She had never seen a fish so big. Its tail made great hollow thumping noises as it flapped violently against the hull. It seemed recalcitrantly stuck on Jean's forearm, its toothless jaws locked around him.
“This,” Jean explained, his voice thick and guttural, “is a catfish.” He put his free hand on the fish's wide mouth and began to push it down his arm. “Welcome to,” he paused to wince and grunt, “to the wonderful world of noodling.” When the fish refused to let go, Jean tried prying its jaws open.
"That ain't gonna work, Jean,” Curtis gruffed from the stern. “Give him a wallop.”
Jean nodded at his father, grimaced down at the fish, and thumped it hard between the eyes. While it still remained clamped on his arm, Jean was able to push it down and down until he wrenched his hand free. A streak of blood ran down the underside of his forearm, and he dunked his arm in the river to rinse it.
“What?” was all Winry could manage as she gawked at the fish that was now motionless at her feet.
“Catfish noodling,” Jean explained, still breathing hard from the exertion and resting his arms on the gunwale next to Winry. Because he was standing in the water, he was shorter than Winry, and she looked in horror from the fish to Jean and back again. Eric, who had disappeared under the water as Jean was unloading into the boat, popped up in the middle of the river as well, clutching his own catfish, just as large and violent as Jean's.
“What's wrong with using a fishing pole?” Winry asked as Eric trudged up and dumped his fish into the hull. Winry squeaked and pulled her feet up into her seat. Melia had the opposite reaction: she dropped down into the belly of the boat, crouched next to her father's catch, and began poking the catfish in its big, viscid eye.
Jean and Eric exchanged a look. “Noodling is a helluva lot more fun,” Eric said as though he were answering an asinine question.
“Yeah,” Jean said, running a hand through his sopping hair. “I just got to punch a forty-five pound fish in the face, babe.”
When Winry looked up at them, they were giving her matching looks of incredulity on their practically matching faces.