[setting up;
Title: Mother Goose
Rating: PG [so far]
Series: Sweeney Todd: The Demonic Barber of Fleet Street, Supernatural
Summary: Mrs. Lovett misses her almost child. Sam hates Mondays in small towns. Somehow, this makes sense in 1995.
Notes: My God, why do I start fic at the oddest times? Thank you's go to
pspgm for editing and basically kicking my ass going, "SCHREIB! Du verdammte SCHAAF!"
September 27th, 1995:
"Be careful, old man," chortles Michael Davidson. He helps Old Johnson lift the exhibit for the Mc Farley Musuem, a quaint set up. It's a small museum in a small city, but it's its pride and joy. They take care piecing together the odd little exhibit.
"Shut up," Old Johnson grumbles as they carefully put together the table. It's shaping up to be an odd little kitchen, with lifelike soot and dust covering it. Jeffery Dean and Max Ackles put down the oven in the back, all of them trying not to distract the curator, a tall black woman with a clip board. She doesn't say much, but they know that they'd better get this right the first time.
"What's this exhibit for, anyway, Ms. Stent?" asks Old Johnson.
"Part of a Victorian horror series," she replies tersely, eyes sweeping over everyone. "Ackles, Dean, shift it over a little more."
It takes an hour's work, but it's worth it. The last thing to do is mount the mannequin and dress it.
They draw straws and the task goes to Old Johnson. But that's expected. He doesn't have the best of luck anyway.
It's the worst task.
Ms. Stent's eyes do not leave him as he slowly dresses and positions the mannequin. He can feel beads of sweat threatening to break out, but he tries to keep calm. He counts in his head as he fits the roller pin, fixes the hair, adjusts the dress.
Twenty agonizing minutes later, it's done.
Ms. Stent breaks into a surprisingly warm smile as she looks up at the finished exhibit.
"I hope you'll have a good time here, Mrs. Lovett."
Rating: PG [so far]
Series: Sweeney Todd: The Demonic Barber of Fleet Street, Supernatural
Summary: Mrs. Lovett misses her almost child. Sam hates Mondays in small towns. Somehow, this makes sense in 1995.
Notes: My God, why do I start fic at the oddest times? Thank you's go to
pspgm for editing and basically kicking my ass going, "SCHREIB! Du verdammte SCHAAF!"
September 27th, 1995:
"Be careful, old man," chortles Michael Davidson. He helps Old Johnson lift the exhibit for the Mc Farley Musuem, a quaint set up. It's a small museum in a small city, but it's its pride and joy. They take care piecing together the odd little exhibit.
"Shut up," Old Johnson grumbles as they carefully put together the table. It's shaping up to be an odd little kitchen, with lifelike soot and dust covering it. Jeffery Dean and Max Ackles put down the oven in the back, all of them trying not to distract the curator, a tall black woman with a clip board. She doesn't say much, but they know that they'd better get this right the first time.
"What's this exhibit for, anyway, Ms. Stent?" asks Old Johnson.
"Part of a Victorian horror series," she replies tersely, eyes sweeping over everyone. "Ackles, Dean, shift it over a little more."
It takes an hour's work, but it's worth it. The last thing to do is mount the mannequin and dress it.
They draw straws and the task goes to Old Johnson. But that's expected. He doesn't have the best of luck anyway.
It's the worst task.
Ms. Stent's eyes do not leave him as he slowly dresses and positions the mannequin. He can feel beads of sweat threatening to break out, but he tries to keep calm. He counts in his head as he fits the roller pin, fixes the hair, adjusts the dress.
Twenty agonizing minutes later, it's done.
Ms. Stent breaks into a surprisingly warm smile as she looks up at the finished exhibit.
"I hope you'll have a good time here, Mrs. Lovett."