Meme responses: domestic fic and time stamp meme
Rest of the Domestic Fic meme responses:
Harry/Kitty for skew_whiff
Harry is the little spoon, and he’s not ashamed to admit that. Ever since Bastogne he’s hated being cold and Kitty gladly shares her warmth. When she makes the bed she puts on more sheets and blankets than they really need, knowing Harry will gather them around him while he sleeps. And it feels like such a luxury these days, to have extra sheets, blankets, and pillows to pile on top of their bed.
They live on well water, out here on the farm, and hot water isn’t really an everyday option. The old house only has a bath tub anyway. Most of the people out here use coal for heating, but Harry and Kitty’s place still goes for the wood burning stoves. Kitty likes to watch Harry chop the firewood. He always does it the wrong way, but he still gets it done and rarely hurts himself in the process.
They trade their chickens’ eggs for milk from the neighboring farm. Kitty likes to make the walk out there while Harry studies for his classes. They make talk of moving closer to the city, getting the milk delivered, but so far neither one is willing to part from this little bit of peace.
Kitty remembers their anniversary, of course, but Harry is the one who makes a big celebration out of it. Kitty could never deny him the right to find joy in life, not after the Hell he’s seen, even if he never talks of it. It’s there in his eyes, in scars on his body, and Kitty knows their anniversary means more than just their wedding to Harry. She still has all the letters he sent, wrapped up in a box under the bed, each one telling her how much he couldn’t wait to see her when he got home.
No one out here has a television and going to the pictures is a rare treat. They make do with radio programs and magazines. Conversation has never been a problem between the two, neither has silence, but each night Harry still leads her in a dance through the living room, Glenn Miller’s music following them around. The dancing normally gives way to a night of Harry singing while Kitty plays the piano, and that’s always been one of their favorite things, singing old songs together.
They try to eat one meal out whenever they go to the city. Kitty prefers the diners, but Harry likes to show off every now and then, and sometimes they wind up in places far too fancy for Kitty to feel comfortable. She doesn’t see what the fuss is anyways, the food just doesn’t match the prices in those upscale restaurants. Besides, if she wanted fancy, she has Hitler’s silverware to eat with at home. Not that she ever likes to see it brought out, but she bets none of the other couples inside the dark wood-paneled restaurants have that at home.
Kitty knew she could never win the fight between Harry and his drinking. He’s just like all her brothers, and while it only rarely gets out of hand, she knows a losing fight when she sees it. The one little thing they do always fight about is whether or not to name the chickens. Kitty refuses to, they’re not pets so much as living, working, parts of the farm. And it’s never good to have a personal name associated with your possible dinner. Harry’s of another matter entirely, treating them like pets. It can only end in tears for Harry, and Kitty does all she can to spare him that, but they both have stubborn Irish tempers and as much as they love each other, on some things they will never agree.
Harry only leaves a trail of mess and clothing when he’s too deep in the bottle. Kitty just cleans up after him, knowing he’ll be repentant in the morning. She does most of the cleaning, but Harry loves to do the laundry. He tells her he’s learned to appreciate the beauty of a clean pair of socks, and Kitty trusts him with that and their everyday linens. She still does most of it, but that’s more because she knows how to do it right as opposed to whatever Harry thinks is the proper way.
Q-Tip/Gibson, Nashville 'verse for skylilies
Ron Gibson’s the little spoon, and he’s man enough to admit that. By sheer size alone, Evan takes up most of the bed, but Ron doesn’t mind sharing at all. He feels content to fall asleep with Evan wrapped around him, softly humming some rap song even while half-awake. He doubted Jay-Z ever meant for his songs to be turned into lullabies, but Evan makes it work. Ron usually would be the one to steal all the blankets, he can’t stand being cold, but he’s learned to share equally with Evan.
Evan appreciates any sort of clean water he can get. After his time in the Marines, he’ll take any shower, hot, cold, indoors, outdoors, it didn’t matter. Ron never said anything when he used all the hot water, especially since Ron was never a big fan of hot showers anyway. Being just this shade of pasty white, any time in hot water turned him red like a lobster. Runner had always found it amusing, but it was one of those traits Ron could never help but feel self-conscious about. Not that Evan would ever say anything, but this whole live-in relationship was whole new territory to Ron, and he didn’t want to massively fuck it up.
Evan always remembers to buy the milk, he’s practical like that and always has the essentials. He’s also the one who calls the landlord but that’s more because Ron’s almost always attached to his phone between work for Coconut & Rhyme and Currahee Studios. When it comes to their anniversary, well, they’ve only had one so far. It’s not like they’d forget it, but Ron has it programmed into his phone and computer’s calendars. Thankfully, the only person who knew was Runner, and he didn’t have room to mock anyone.
Of the two of them, Evan’s by far the more practical. He keeps things neat and organized, always knows where everything is and even keeps Ron’s trailing piles of stuff in order. Ron’s taken over the laundry though. Evan can’t be trusted with bleach. Other than that, they divide the rest of the chores up equally. They both get more sloppy when tired and overworked, and when Evan’s Marine buddies stay over the apartment is a mess of packs, socks, and pillows. And nothing can be helped by the mess that is left over after a Game Day party.
Their favorite thing to do outside of work and going to various shows, was playing on the company sports teams. Ron played on the hockey team during the same time Evan was taking over the court in basketball. Spring saw them both on the softball team, while Autumn had them signed up for football. It was good to have the time to hang out with their other friends and co-workers while getting some exercise. While Evan still loved going to the gym, Ron really couldn’t be bothered.
Ron’s time on the hockey team is the one stupid thing they fight over. Ron’s always played hockey, he’d loved it since he watched The Mighty Ducks as a kid. Ron knows he’s not your typical athlete by far, too short, too scrawny, but he knows how to use his height and weight to his advantage. Evan still has yet to realize that, since he refuses to watch the games, claiming that he doesn’t want to see Ron get his teeth knocked out or worse. Ray’s on Ron’s side though, and is doing everything he can to get Evan on Team Hockey.
Ron’s mom gives them leftovers at least three days a week, sometimes she even stops by the apartment and leaves whole casseroles in the freezer. They do still get take-out though, since neither one can cook for shit. Ron discovered his love of Indian while living in Boston and Evan will drive fifteen miles out of the way just for fish tacos.
In general, if it doesn’t involve music, Ron’s not really up to date on it. That’s what Evan is in charge of the Netflix and the DVR. Ron just requests that new episodes of Holmes on Homes and repeats of City Confidential wind up somewhere. Evan’s still trying to make it through the backlog of TV shows and movies he missed while over there, but since Ron’s far from pop culture savvy, it works out perfectly.
They’re still trying to figure out how to work together and learning about each other, but Ron personally thinks they’re doing pretty well for two sort-of-pathetic goobers.
Time Stamp Meme Part 2 responses
Snafu meets the other Gene, Modern AU for skylilies
“We got a new boot drop next door,” Merriell said, peering out of the kitchen window.
“Snaf, how many times do I have to tell you to stop stalking our neighbors,” Burgie said from the table.
“We got two of them, Burgie, moving in next to Jay. Don’t make me be neighborly.”
“Did I say anything about you being neighborly?” Burgie asked.
“You were thinking it.”
“Snaf, the only person on God’s green earth who can make you do shit you don’t want to is Gene.”
Merriell scoffed. “He think he be.”
“The Baby Jesus cries when you lie,” Burgie said. He took his coffee mug and joined Merriell by the sink. “Shit, those are our new boys.”
“I ain’t going over there and making nice,” Merriell said.
“At least not until Haldane orders us too,” Burgie said.
“Us?”
Burgie nodded. “Fine, me. Why I have to be the Welcome Wagon for the new boys, I don’t know.”
“It’s your gentlemanly manner,” Merriell said.
Burgie just laughed. “He probably figures if I can handle you, I can take anything.”
“I ain’t hard to handle,” Merriell said.
Burgie slapped him on the back of his head. “You ain’t, not once you get to know you.”
********
It’s not that Merriell didn’t like meeting new folks, contrary to what everyone seemed to think of him, he enjoyed people watching. He and Gene-Baptiste would do it all the time when they went into the city, trailing beyond their grandparents, settling down on benches and booths, tracking all the strangers. They’d spend hours dreaming up the lives of those different people, with their expensive clothes and flashing jewels, harsh accents and and different manners. They’d make plans about their futures, leaving behind the bayou and living like those fancy folks. Life hadn’t turned out like that yet, but there was still a ways to go.
Merriell enjoyed the Marines, loved that they were all stripped down and forced onto an equal footing. It made it easier to deal with these new boys, with their educated words and crisp civilian clothes, spending money sent from their parents, driving nice trucks as opposed to shitboxes that only worked with the use of a fist and prayer.
Once those boys crossed the line onto the base, wearing the brand of the United States Marine Corps, no one cared about who their parents were, where they came from, they were here to be trained and to not get themselves or anyone else killed. On the base, Merriell Shelton, Merl-Francis, became Snafu. He’d already been to war once, him and Burgie, they’d been in the shit, survived gob smacking levels of incompetency with another company in Afghanistan, and somehow found themselves slapped down in K/3/5.
Even with the enforced equal footing, half the time he didn’t want to learn the new guys name. Either they’d be transferred out, or dropped out, or even worse. It seemed too much trouble when the only ones he really cared about were Burgie, his Gunny, Eddie Jones, and his Captain, Haldane.
Merriell sat back in the mess and watched the new boys wander in, all clean clothes and confused, awkward smiles. Their last names were stenciled on their PT shirts and he couldn’t help but note them: Oswalt, Leyden, and Sledge. Oswalt was tall, Leyden shorter than Burgie with a dark sneer on his lips that Merriell could sympathize with, and Sledge looked far too damn delicate to even be here. His recruited must’ve been desperate to fulfill his quota.
“Gunny asked us to go make friends,” Burgie side, sliding next to Merriell, “he says that we’re the best candidates to help the new boys fit into the platoon.”
“Why, cause we be neighbors,” Merriell scoffed, “the Hatfields and McCoys were neighbors too.”
Burgie laughed, shaking his head and trying to keep the sound from echoing in the room. “I think it’s more an age thing. Leyden just finished high school.”
“They shouldn’t be here, Burgie,” Merriell said.
“I know,” Burgie said, “but they are. And we’ve got to do our best to make sure they stay around long enough to see twenty-five.”
“We got to go be nice now?” Merriell asked.
“I told Gunny we’d wait until we’re off base. They might feel more comfortable and it gives us an excuse to bail out if we need to.”
“Thanks, Burgie,” he said. He knew damn well Burgie did that for him.
*******
The boot drops’ apartment smelled like new paint and packing tape. Merriell wanted to open a window, didn’t like feeling trapped like this, but he knew enough about propriety that you couldn’t just open someone else’s windows.
“Gunny Jones thought it’d be best if we helped you boys adjust to Oceanside,” Burgie said, using his soothing voice.
“He thinks we can’t cut it?” Leyden asked, his harsh northern accent cutting through Merriell’s thoughts. Most of the Northern boys started off at Parris Island, they didn’t come out to California until they made a unit like Recon. Leyden must’ve requested the placement, since everyone east of the Mississippi was supposed to go to South Carolina first.
“It’s not that,” Burgie assured, “it’s just that of everyone in the platoon right now, we’re the closest to your age and we’re single, like you. Think of this as your ultimate fraternity and you’re new pledges.”
“So, you’re here to start the hazing?” Oswalt asked, he had a textbook in his hand. It was a medical tome, Merriell recognized it from the kind he’d seen Gene flip through.
“You’ve gotten this far, I really don’t think you need any more hazing,” Burgie said.
“Besides, the Corps doesn’t welcome it anymore,” Merriell said.
“Bad for the image,” Burgie agreed, “too many boys couldn’t take it.”
“Bullshit,” Leyden said.
“Leyden, you know what a Red Alert is?” Snafu asked.
Leyden just rolled his eyes and walked over to the fridge, pulling out a beer without offering anyone else a drink. It was only Burgie’s stomping on his foot that kept him from commenting on the lack of hospitality and the underage drinking.
“You have a third roommate, right?” Burgie asked.
“Gene Sledge,” Oswalt said, “he’s out now.”
“Gene?” Merriell asked.
“Yeah, Eugene,” Leyden said, “he sounds like an old man.”
“Acts like one too,” Oswalt joked.
Merriell just couldn’t. He couldn’t take another Gene too young to be doing this shit. He grabbed Burgie’s shoulder and tugged hard. Burgie met his eyes, saw whatever Merriell desperately didn’t want him to, but needed him to see.
“Snaf,” he said, “I forgot, but your Mama called. She said if you didn’t reply before dinner time, she’d fly out here and beat your ass. Why don’t you go do that, while me and the new boys talk.”
Merriell didn’t have to say thank you before slinking out of the apartment, trying not to show his panic.
He ran into Sledge on the walkway.
“Oh hell,” Sledge said, a southern drawl stressing the words. His brown eyes were too young, too wide, and Merriell could not do this right now.
“You going to lend a hand,” Sledge asked, trying to pick up the fallen groceries.
“New boys need to learn how to sweat,” Merriell said, more out of reflex than anything else.
He stepped over Sledge, ignoring the glare thrown his way and went straight for the park across from the apartment complex.
Two months after Snafu and Lieb meet in Nashville 'verse, for skylilies
Merriell Shelton came out of the swamps of Louisiana with a zydeco flair to his folk music. His lyrics were considered very dark, especially when paired with his lighthearted musical compositions, but that summed Shelton up in person as well.
He’d been on his first major tour for two months now and his tour manager, Joe Liebgott, had refrained from trying to kill him yet. Much to everyone’s surprise, Merriell included. Liebgott had a long history in the business, from bus driver, to stage crew, to hair stylist. He didn’t have the book smart credentials of the business, but he had the experience and the street smarts.
Merriell couldn’t help it, he liked the man. He was older by more than a handful of years, he had a lived-in look and feel about him. He had a dirty smile, a dirtier mouth, and the kind of attitude that Merriell’s mama always told him to stay far away from.
It was safe to say Merriell was approaching an infatuation. His eyes always followed Joe, tracked his movements, what type of girls and guys he picked up at their various gigs. He knew what kind of drinks he liked, which brand of cigarettes he preferred, and that he never took his eyes off Merriell when he played his slower songs.
Merriell stared out in to tonight’s crowed. Spotted Joe in the back, near the bar, chatting up some pretty sorority girl in a white tank-top. He stepped back from his mic and walked over to his band and said one word.
“Sugar.”
Christenson laughed. “You finally making your move?” he asked.
Merriell nodded.
“About time,” Jackson muttered.
Merriell stepped back to his mic, locking eyes with Joe, knowing he had his full attention now. He took a deep breath while Christenson started the opening bass notes.
Merriell started strumming out his own section and rasped into the mic, “I guess you need a little sugar, ‘cause you always run around.”
Merriell may not have nice tits and a tight tank-top. He didn’t have a great smile or a genius mind. But he sure as hell knew how to make his music work, to make people feel, to bring people to their knees.
Joe had no idea what he was getting himself into, and neither did Merriell, but he couldn’t deny that excited shiver that started down his spine. Something was definitely set to begin.
A/N: "Sugar" is a song by The Horrible Crowes. Go, listen, now.