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Entry tags:
Drabbles: National Treasure, M*A*S*H, Run Fatboy Run, Band of Brothers
Posting some old meme responses; the slightly-longer-than-drabbles that I particularly liked and thought stood well on their own (and were not entirely centered on in-jokes, which, in retrospect, a lot of my drabbles are).
Title: Take Me Out to the Ballgame
Fandom: National Treasure
Rating: G
Summary:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
twobit requested National Treasure + Fenway Park.
"You're tellin' me," says the sour-faced security guard, "there's something buried under third base. At Fenway Park."
"We're standing on the first base line," Riley mutters rebelliously in the background. "He didn't have to remind us where we are."
"Shut up, Riley," Abigail murmurs, and she shoots a demure smile at the guard as he glances their way.
"Yes, sir," Ben says, earnest as only a Gates can be. "I am."
The security guard squints at him suspiciously. "Is this like that thing with the Red Sox shirt at Yankee Stadium?"
"What?" says Ben.
"Buckingham Palace," lists Riley under his breath. "Your mansion, the White House, the National Archives, the Library of Congress, NSA file servers, the Department of Defense--"
"What?" Abigail hisses.
"Those're all the places I've broken into and not gotten caught. And where do I get caught? A baseball stadium by a rent-a-cop taking a cigarette break." Cranky: "I'm so much better than this, it's -- it's actually a little breath-taking. Like, I'm so annoyed I'm finding it difficult to breathe."
"Shut up, Riley!"
"I'll be very interested to hear what was so engrossing," says Ben, standing just behind Abigail out of nowhere, and both Abigail and Riley jump. "You know, later. We're in."
"Great." Abigail shoulders her bag.
Riley frowns. "No, not 'great.' Why in? Why suddenly in? What'd you do?"
"I told him," Ben says, low, while directing a genial smile at the security guard beaming at them a few feet away, "that we have reason to believe that a construction worker buried a Yankees jersey under third base in the seventies. We're the independent contractors sent to confirm its existence so it can then be removed."
"... What kind of idiot would believe that?" Abigail says, disbelieving.
"Baseball fanatics," mutters Ben. "Smile and wave."
Title: Treat
Fandom: M*A*S*H
Rating: G
Summary:cassildra requested mustard and Father Mulcahy.
"Perhaps it would taste better with mustard." Father Mulcahy cautiously prods the squidgey, monstrous lump of dubious origins with his fork, and is rewarded by a quiver and a plop as the blob loses a little bit of itself to the rest of the plate.
BJ winces, exaggerated. "Yeesh. You'd think the Army'd put a little more effort into making sure its food can't run away."
"Father, that stuff wouldn't taste better with anything," points out Hawkeye from across the table. "The toenail clippings of the Almighty Himself couldn't improve it."
Mulcahy raises his eyebrows ever-so-slightly.
Hawkeye immediately points skyward with his spoon. "Just ask Him."
"Well, I am certain that a bit of mustard will do just the trick," Mulcahy tells them firmly, and he charitably ignores Hawkeye and BJ's amused looks at each other as he rises with his tray and walks back across the mess tent.
There is no line for seconds.
"Hello Igor," he says, to the lanky cook who looks ready to fall asleep on his feet with boredom.
Igor blinks awake behind the counter. "Hiya, Father." He brandishes his ladle. "Back for more?"
"Er, no!" Father Mulcahy quickly shields his plate with a hand. "No, thank you, Igor. I was actually hoping that you might have some mustard in the kitchen."
"Nnnope," says Igor. "We're pretty much not supposed to put unnecessary seasonings on anything."
"... I see." Father Mulcahy clearly doesn't see, but he manages a smile. "Well, never mind, then, I suppose! Thank you."
"Sure thing, Father."
As he crosses back, Hawkeye and BJ are leaning on the table, waiting expectantly.
"No dice, Father?" BJ asks, and Mulcahy shakes his head as he reclaims his seat.
"No mustard," he corrects, and he puts a decisive spoonful of mystery gray blob in his mouth.
After a split-second's freeze, he notices Igor looking their way. Bravely, Mulcahy swallows.
His eyes water; he coughs.
Hawkeye and BJ exchange a look. As if in silent agreement, Hawkeye applauds while BJ pushes the salt and pepper across the table.
* * * * *
Several weeks later, Father Mulcahy finds the first jar of French's yellow mustard sitting on his desk beside his Bible, and he smiles.
And when he begins finding jars tucked away in odd places -- under a hat, under his pillow, in a shoe, inside a jacket pocket -- he laughs heartily every time, and carefully sets the jars aside, to be shared at a later date.
Title: When Troubles Melt Like Lemon Drops
Fandom: Run, Fatboy, Run
Rating: PG
Summary:gypsyjr requested Dennis, Jake, and bluebirds.
"Libby," calls the familiar voice, and Libby O'Dell stalwartly does not look up. Hurrying footsteps, now, and she lets the bakery door begin to drop shut -- and a battered trainer jams itself in at the last second, preventing the door from closing.
"Dennis, the party is over," she says, low and tight, and she finally looks up into her ex-fiance's face.
Dennis recoils from her furious stare but doesn't remove his foot from the door. "I'm -- it's over? Already? That can't be right. It was from six til eight, yeah?"
"It was from one til four," Libby hisses. "Jake has been waiting for you for hours. All his friends have gone. Gordon was here before you."
"...Oh," says Dennis. To his credit, he looks remarkably distressed; it's the only thing that prevents Libby from re-opening the door and slamming it on his foot. "Oh damn -- is Jake still here?"
"Dennis, I don't think that's a good idea." She sighs. "I think you should go."
"But -- I can't just go! It's Jake's birthday!"
"And yet you still didn't arrive anywhere near on time, Den--"
"Dad!" A blur of motion flies across the bakery floor (and would have crashed into the door, if the blur's mother weren't a wise woman with quick reflexes who threw the door open) and collides with Dennis's knees with a solid whump. Dennis grunts with the hit and staggers back a step, but he's already grinning hugely by the time he peels his now-five-year-old son off his legs and hauls him up into his arms.
"There was a clown," Jake informs him. "He made swords out of balloons. It was really cool."
"Was it?" Dennis inquires, grinning right at him. "I'll bet it was."
"You missed it," Jake says.
Dennis's smile slips. "I know I did. I'm really sorry, mate. Got the times all mixed up." Beat. He frowns, peering closer at his son. "You -- do realize that your entire mouth is blue."
"There was blue icing!" To demonstrate, Jake sticks out his extremely blue tongue.
"Very nice," says Dennis, and Libby, watching with an inscrutable expression and her arms folded, steps aside to allow him into the shop.
"The party was Wizard of Oz themed," she says. "The kids had cupcakes with bluebirds on them."
"Bluebirds?" Dennis asks, a little carefully, as Libby shuts the door behind him.
" 'If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why oh why can't I,' " Libby recites, stepping around the pair of them, heels clicking.
"Ah. Right." Dennis very pointedly does not look at where Libby has bent over to pick up a few crumpled balls of wrapping paper. (Um, not after the initial glance, anyway.) "So, Jake 'n Bake!" He grins at Jake. "You want your present?"
Jake beams. "Yeah!" Dennis sets him down in a chair at the nearest table; he crouches down in front of him and -- not without some fanfare -- produces a medium-sized flat package from inside his coat. Jake immediately begins giggling at the comic strip pages that it's wrapped in; Dennis reads the first few word balloons aloud in silly voices.
Libby, sweeping up bits of confetti and paper, glances over, and she quietly shakes her head to herself.
Title: Retreat
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Rating: PG-13?
Summary:newredshoes requested Nixon and orange.
"Orange," says Malarkey, his hand cupped around the cigarette dangling from his lips, and around the lighter that he's trying to ignite. "You ever wonder why they're waving all that orange stuff at us?"
Already smoking, Guarnere shoots him a disgusted sideways glance. "Jesus, what're you, stupid?"
"Yeah he's stupid; who the hell you think you're talkin' to?" Joe Toye puts in, and gets a helmet slung at him for his trouble.
"Gentlemen," says a voice from the top of the foxhole, forestalling the looming scuffle. The three of them glance up to find Captain Nixon crouching overhead; he looks half-amused. His face is streaked with mud and dirt, and his helmet has two prominent holes in the front. "You seen Captain Winters anywhere?"
"Yes sir," says Guarnere. "He went that way, maybe five minutes ago." He points in the correct direction.
"Thanks." Nixon rises -- and then he pauses, and looks at Malarkey. "They're waving orange stuff because their national flag's orange," he says. Beat. "Don't you guys have your own foxholes?" Shooting them another bemused look, he moves on.
Toye whacks Malarkey with his own helmet.
* * * * *
"You ever miss all those orange flags?" Nix says, out of nowhere.
Huddled in an overcoat, scarf, and helmet, his face several shades whiter than normal, Dick Winters glances up from the map and over at him. "What?"
Nix ignores the question. "I do." He jiggles one leg; his boot crunches in the packed snow that makes up the tent's floor. "I think I'm starting to forget what color looks like."
"Could've gone home," Winters reminds him, mild. "Seen all the color you wanted."
"What, and shake hands and kiss babies for the war effort? No, thanks. It's all Peacock's." He leans over to add a notation on the map, pen clumsy in a cold, gloved hand. "Besides, I'm just starting to get used to it here. All I'm saying is, some color besides white and red, once in a while? Even you can't tell me it wouldn't be nice."
Dick smiles, faint and very dry. "I'll be sure to ask the Germans," he says.
Title: Take Me Out to the Ballgame
Fandom: National Treasure
Rating: G
Summary:
twobit requested National Treasure + Fenway Park."You're tellin' me," says the sour-faced security guard, "there's something buried under third base. At Fenway Park."
"We're standing on the first base line," Riley mutters rebelliously in the background. "He didn't have to remind us where we are."
"Shut up, Riley," Abigail murmurs, and she shoots a demure smile at the guard as he glances their way.
"Yes, sir," Ben says, earnest as only a Gates can be. "I am."
The security guard squints at him suspiciously. "Is this like that thing with the Red Sox shirt at Yankee Stadium?"
"What?" says Ben.
"Buckingham Palace," lists Riley under his breath. "Your mansion, the White House, the National Archives, the Library of Congress, NSA file servers, the Department of Defense--"
"What?" Abigail hisses.
"Those're all the places I've broken into and not gotten caught. And where do I get caught? A baseball stadium by a rent-a-cop taking a cigarette break." Cranky: "I'm so much better than this, it's -- it's actually a little breath-taking. Like, I'm so annoyed I'm finding it difficult to breathe."
"Shut up, Riley!"
"I'll be very interested to hear what was so engrossing," says Ben, standing just behind Abigail out of nowhere, and both Abigail and Riley jump. "You know, later. We're in."
"Great." Abigail shoulders her bag.
Riley frowns. "No, not 'great.' Why in? Why suddenly in? What'd you do?"
"I told him," Ben says, low, while directing a genial smile at the security guard beaming at them a few feet away, "that we have reason to believe that a construction worker buried a Yankees jersey under third base in the seventies. We're the independent contractors sent to confirm its existence so it can then be removed."
"... What kind of idiot would believe that?" Abigail says, disbelieving.
"Baseball fanatics," mutters Ben. "Smile and wave."
Title: Treat
Fandom: M*A*S*H
Rating: G
Summary:
cassildra requested mustard and Father Mulcahy."Perhaps it would taste better with mustard." Father Mulcahy cautiously prods the squidgey, monstrous lump of dubious origins with his fork, and is rewarded by a quiver and a plop as the blob loses a little bit of itself to the rest of the plate.
BJ winces, exaggerated. "Yeesh. You'd think the Army'd put a little more effort into making sure its food can't run away."
"Father, that stuff wouldn't taste better with anything," points out Hawkeye from across the table. "The toenail clippings of the Almighty Himself couldn't improve it."
Mulcahy raises his eyebrows ever-so-slightly.
Hawkeye immediately points skyward with his spoon. "Just ask Him."
"Well, I am certain that a bit of mustard will do just the trick," Mulcahy tells them firmly, and he charitably ignores Hawkeye and BJ's amused looks at each other as he rises with his tray and walks back across the mess tent.
There is no line for seconds.
"Hello Igor," he says, to the lanky cook who looks ready to fall asleep on his feet with boredom.
Igor blinks awake behind the counter. "Hiya, Father." He brandishes his ladle. "Back for more?"
"Er, no!" Father Mulcahy quickly shields his plate with a hand. "No, thank you, Igor. I was actually hoping that you might have some mustard in the kitchen."
"Nnnope," says Igor. "We're pretty much not supposed to put unnecessary seasonings on anything."
"... I see." Father Mulcahy clearly doesn't see, but he manages a smile. "Well, never mind, then, I suppose! Thank you."
"Sure thing, Father."
As he crosses back, Hawkeye and BJ are leaning on the table, waiting expectantly.
"No dice, Father?" BJ asks, and Mulcahy shakes his head as he reclaims his seat.
"No mustard," he corrects, and he puts a decisive spoonful of mystery gray blob in his mouth.
After a split-second's freeze, he notices Igor looking their way. Bravely, Mulcahy swallows.
His eyes water; he coughs.
Hawkeye and BJ exchange a look. As if in silent agreement, Hawkeye applauds while BJ pushes the salt and pepper across the table.
Several weeks later, Father Mulcahy finds the first jar of French's yellow mustard sitting on his desk beside his Bible, and he smiles.
And when he begins finding jars tucked away in odd places -- under a hat, under his pillow, in a shoe, inside a jacket pocket -- he laughs heartily every time, and carefully sets the jars aside, to be shared at a later date.
Title: When Troubles Melt Like Lemon Drops
Fandom: Run, Fatboy, Run
Rating: PG
Summary:
gypsyjr requested Dennis, Jake, and bluebirds."Libby," calls the familiar voice, and Libby O'Dell stalwartly does not look up. Hurrying footsteps, now, and she lets the bakery door begin to drop shut -- and a battered trainer jams itself in at the last second, preventing the door from closing.
"Dennis, the party is over," she says, low and tight, and she finally looks up into her ex-fiance's face.
Dennis recoils from her furious stare but doesn't remove his foot from the door. "I'm -- it's over? Already? That can't be right. It was from six til eight, yeah?"
"It was from one til four," Libby hisses. "Jake has been waiting for you for hours. All his friends have gone. Gordon was here before you."
"...Oh," says Dennis. To his credit, he looks remarkably distressed; it's the only thing that prevents Libby from re-opening the door and slamming it on his foot. "Oh damn -- is Jake still here?"
"Dennis, I don't think that's a good idea." She sighs. "I think you should go."
"But -- I can't just go! It's Jake's birthday!"
"And yet you still didn't arrive anywhere near on time, Den--"
"Dad!" A blur of motion flies across the bakery floor (and would have crashed into the door, if the blur's mother weren't a wise woman with quick reflexes who threw the door open) and collides with Dennis's knees with a solid whump. Dennis grunts with the hit and staggers back a step, but he's already grinning hugely by the time he peels his now-five-year-old son off his legs and hauls him up into his arms.
"There was a clown," Jake informs him. "He made swords out of balloons. It was really cool."
"Was it?" Dennis inquires, grinning right at him. "I'll bet it was."
"You missed it," Jake says.
Dennis's smile slips. "I know I did. I'm really sorry, mate. Got the times all mixed up." Beat. He frowns, peering closer at his son. "You -- do realize that your entire mouth is blue."
"There was blue icing!" To demonstrate, Jake sticks out his extremely blue tongue.
"Very nice," says Dennis, and Libby, watching with an inscrutable expression and her arms folded, steps aside to allow him into the shop.
"The party was Wizard of Oz themed," she says. "The kids had cupcakes with bluebirds on them."
"Bluebirds?" Dennis asks, a little carefully, as Libby shuts the door behind him.
" 'If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why oh why can't I,' " Libby recites, stepping around the pair of them, heels clicking.
"Ah. Right." Dennis very pointedly does not look at where Libby has bent over to pick up a few crumpled balls of wrapping paper. (Um, not after the initial glance, anyway.) "So, Jake 'n Bake!" He grins at Jake. "You want your present?"
Jake beams. "Yeah!" Dennis sets him down in a chair at the nearest table; he crouches down in front of him and -- not without some fanfare -- produces a medium-sized flat package from inside his coat. Jake immediately begins giggling at the comic strip pages that it's wrapped in; Dennis reads the first few word balloons aloud in silly voices.
Libby, sweeping up bits of confetti and paper, glances over, and she quietly shakes her head to herself.
Title: Retreat
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Rating: PG-13?
Summary:
newredshoes requested Nixon and orange."Orange," says Malarkey, his hand cupped around the cigarette dangling from his lips, and around the lighter that he's trying to ignite. "You ever wonder why they're waving all that orange stuff at us?"
Already smoking, Guarnere shoots him a disgusted sideways glance. "Jesus, what're you, stupid?"
"Yeah he's stupid; who the hell you think you're talkin' to?" Joe Toye puts in, and gets a helmet slung at him for his trouble.
"Gentlemen," says a voice from the top of the foxhole, forestalling the looming scuffle. The three of them glance up to find Captain Nixon crouching overhead; he looks half-amused. His face is streaked with mud and dirt, and his helmet has two prominent holes in the front. "You seen Captain Winters anywhere?"
"Yes sir," says Guarnere. "He went that way, maybe five minutes ago." He points in the correct direction.
"Thanks." Nixon rises -- and then he pauses, and looks at Malarkey. "They're waving orange stuff because their national flag's orange," he says. Beat. "Don't you guys have your own foxholes?" Shooting them another bemused look, he moves on.
Toye whacks Malarkey with his own helmet.
"You ever miss all those orange flags?" Nix says, out of nowhere.
Huddled in an overcoat, scarf, and helmet, his face several shades whiter than normal, Dick Winters glances up from the map and over at him. "What?"
Nix ignores the question. "I do." He jiggles one leg; his boot crunches in the packed snow that makes up the tent's floor. "I think I'm starting to forget what color looks like."
"Could've gone home," Winters reminds him, mild. "Seen all the color you wanted."
"What, and shake hands and kiss babies for the war effort? No, thanks. It's all Peacock's." He leans over to add a notation on the map, pen clumsy in a cold, gloved hand. "Besides, I'm just starting to get used to it here. All I'm saying is, some color besides white and red, once in a while? Even you can't tell me it wouldn't be nice."
Dick smiles, faint and very dry. "I'll be sure to ask the Germans," he says.
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