I'm bored, have a WIP meme
Since the WIPs on my laptop taunt me with their tauning cursors of tauntiness, it's WIP meme time. Pretty much all from the Sprawling Modern AU, but some from the Ridic Popstar AU as well:
Sprawling Modern AU
A section from A Downhome Country Holiday
“You ruined Springsteen for me, did I ever tell you that? And Dylan. I can’t listen to Dylan in public anymore.”
“How was I to know you’d take the invitation in Lay, Lady, Lay so literally?” Eddie asked.
“Considering you were naked and lying on top of me at the time?”
“I wanted to make sure the message got through.”
“It did.”
Eddie smirked. He leaned over Andy, his cross dangling out from his shirt. It brought up memories of long ago, with dog togs clinking together and tangling with their movements.
“Explain Springsteen to me,” he said. “I never sang the Boss to you. Was it the ripped jeans?”
Andy shook his head. He reached up and rested his hands on the back of Eddie’s neck and pulled him down close. “The first time I saw you,” he whispered, “before I officially met you, you were leading some work detail and belting out ‘Badlands.’ You boosted everyone’s morale with that, did it all without the moto bullshit.”
“Always been a grunt, always will be. And it was always better for me to belt out the Classic Rock. I tried rapping once and Burgin laughed so hard he almost knocked a tent over.”
From the as-yet-untitled crack!fest that is the modern wedding of Kitty, Harry, and the combined forces of the Welsh-Lipton-Gorgan-Jones clans
Catherine “Kitty” Gorgan wasn’t a princess. She’d always been one of the boys, the only girl in a family of seven brothers and far too many male cousins. She was never a tom boy but was certainly not a pearls and cardigan girl. Kitty couldn’t be bothered. She went for function over form, comfy over couture, but still knew how to meld pretty with practical.
When Harry proposed Kitty knew some things were definitely going to happen. There would be a huge wedding in a Cathedral. They would be married by a priest or face the wrath of their combined families. They’d need to either rent out a convention center or a park for the reception to fit all their friends and family. There would be a cake, flowers, food.
Honestly, Kitty was tempted to elope and then have the major ceremony, but not only would her grandmother kill her, so would Harry.
She just never thought buying the actual dress would be this big a deal.
“No, Harry,” she whined, pushing the mountain of bridal magazines away. “No more ball gowns. No more flowers. And for the love of god, no more tulle.”
“This is the most important day of your life.”
“And I’m fine with a white dress off the rack and my mom’s veil.”
“But.”
“No ball gowns.”
“But.”
“No trains. Nothing longer than ankle-length. It’s a summer wedding.”
“You can’t go in front of Father John showing your ankles.”
“Watch me.”
This also has no title, I just like to write random bits of Kitty-background-fic every now and then
Kitty knew she didn’t look like your stereotypical Hollywood hacker. She never felt the urge to stick metal through various part of her body and her tattoos were more earth mother than hardcore. It was one of the reason Ron hired her on the spot, besides her skills. Kitty easily slotted into corporate America. She rocked a striped pant suit. It helped to blend it with the conservative corporate cubicle when you were hacking a bank’s database. FDIC was just below the DMV in terms of soulless emotionless employees.
She dropped her purse on the table and collapsed in her favorite recliner. It was ugly as sin, some garish paisley print that never should have seen the light of day, but she loved it. The strains of Brad Paisley’s “Start A Band” sounded from her pocket and she pulled out her phone.
“Cousin Eddie, what part of our great country are you in now?”
“Texas. I am disappointed. There are no Patrick Swayzes around kicking peoples asses.”
“I can’t see you playing a Texas Shuffle for your supper.”
“Kitty, I’ll play Stairway to Heaven for hours if it gets me room and board.”
“You can come here. You’d fit in perfectly with the alt-country scene.”
“I need to get away from the East Coast for awhile, Kits.”
“Still doing your tactical retreat from memories of old?”
“I just need to wander for a bit. Kits, I know you understand that. No matter how old any of us get, sometimes we just need to run away. I like living like this. It’s less complicated.”
“Bullshit. It lets you avoid the things you don’t want to think about. Eddie, I get it, okay. I know you have understandable crap to deal with from Afghanistan, but there was something else, wasn’t there?”
“Kitty, I didn’t call for this. I just, I can’t right now, okay. I just wanted to know how you are. How’s Harry? And Chuck?”
“I know, Eddie, I’m sorry. I just worry about you. You’re out there on your own, wandering around like you’re stuck in some purgatory on Earth and you won’t tell anyone why. It’s been three months since you were last home.”
“And how long has it been since you crossed over Maryland’s state lines?”
“I have to stay out because I don’t want to be detained as a threat to national security. I have an actual reason.”
“And maybe in my wanderings I made a deal with the devil at a crossroads.”
“You always get so sentimental when you play Robert Johnson.” She sighed into the phone. “Why do I have a feeling it’s more devil dogs after your ass than hell hounds.”
From the ridic I used to be a popstar AU
Currahee Studios sat at the bottom of a converted office building. Screaming Eagle Publishing and all its associated offices sat above. There were actually three Currahee Studios locations, two in Nashville and one in West Virginia, but the one at 101 Aldbourne Way was the public face of the company.
“Hey Lip,” Popeye said.
“Yeah, boy?” he asked.
“Some dude from an art gallery’s here. Said he’s got your deliveries.”
Lip looked up from his laptop. “Tall guy, brown hair?”
“Unnerving stare? Yeah, that’s him. Got two kids with him too.”
“Apparently it’s a family business,” Lip said. He pushed out from his desk and straightened his clothes. “Are they in the lobby?”
“Yeah, Q-Tip won’t let them past the desk.”
“Stafford,” Lip muttered with a smile. Q-Tip was pretty much his little bulldog. He was the first wave of security in the building, even if he did appear to be a receptionist. Lip jogged down the hallway, not wanting an accident. Speirs didn’t seem like the kind to take Q-Tip’s level of banter and bullshit for long.
“Ron, good to see you again,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Likewise, C.C.”
Q-Tip looked up at the sound of Lip’s business name but when back to his magazine when Lip shook him off. “Screwby,” he said.
***********
“Why the fuck,” Luz panted, “do we do this to ourselves.”
“Because you want to live to see forty,” Carwood responded. He needed to sit down. And some water. And possibly traction.
Rudy made them run up the side of a mountain at least three times a week. He called it a hill, but Carwood came from West Virginia. He knew the difference.
“Come on, my brothers,” Rudy said, “only one more pass down.”
“Rudy, seriously, you’re half android, right?” Luz asked.
“Nah, brother, just a certified badass,” Rudy replied.
Rudy was a great trainer. He slowed his pace to keep up with you, paid attention to your health, but never, ever, let you feel like you were being catered too.
Seriously, they all owed Joe for taking that film role. If it wasn’t for Just Got Back From Hell they never would have met Rudy. Which probably meant they’d all be the size of the Goodyear Blimp.
After they reached the bottom of the hill and finished their cool down, Rudy let them rest. He wandered off to take pictures of the local scenery while Luz and Carwood laid out on the grass.
“So, Ron Speirs?” Luz asked.
“Joe told you,” Carwood replied.
“The indie musician you had a crush on back in the day, whose gallery you just happened to stumble across in the middle of Nashville? Yeah, Joe told me. Said you bought enough artwork to finance his kids’ college education.”
“Only the first year for one of them. The sculpture’s for Joe’s birthday. The offices needed some new artwork.”
“Uh-huh.”
“George, I did not just drop that much cash because a guy I found attractive in his music videos ten years ago owns the gallery. Yeah, the prints I bought are clearly his daughter’s, but I’d rather snatch those up now because in twenty years they’re going to be collector’s items.”
“That good?”
“She’s got a talent,” Carwood said. He always was good at rooting out the next big thing, seeing and untiring the skill in every up-and-coming artist he met. Didn’t matter if it was music, dance, or the visual arts. His mother called it an innate sense of taste.
“Joe said you used the alias to make the deal.”
“It was First Thursday,” Carwood explained.
“So?”
“Art After Hours. Didn’t know who would be crawling around. Since this city knows me as C.C. Winters, it seemed like the best thing to do.”
“Yeah, the lack of mullet really confuses people.”
“You had a rat-tail.”
“You’re responsible for at least some of the hole in the ozone layer with all the hairspray and moose you used from 1989-1994.”
“Would you like me to remind you of the Tommy Hilfiger Overalls Incident of 1992?”
“God, my kids still can’t believe I dressed like that.”
“Just wait until they reach our age.”
EDIT: Drive-by music rec for the singer-songerwriter/folk fans. Tony Lucca's album, Solo. It is acoustic and lovely. Go, find it, now.
Sprawling Modern AU
A section from A Downhome Country Holiday
“You ruined Springsteen for me, did I ever tell you that? And Dylan. I can’t listen to Dylan in public anymore.”
“How was I to know you’d take the invitation in Lay, Lady, Lay so literally?” Eddie asked.
“Considering you were naked and lying on top of me at the time?”
“I wanted to make sure the message got through.”
“It did.”
Eddie smirked. He leaned over Andy, his cross dangling out from his shirt. It brought up memories of long ago, with dog togs clinking together and tangling with their movements.
“Explain Springsteen to me,” he said. “I never sang the Boss to you. Was it the ripped jeans?”
Andy shook his head. He reached up and rested his hands on the back of Eddie’s neck and pulled him down close. “The first time I saw you,” he whispered, “before I officially met you, you were leading some work detail and belting out ‘Badlands.’ You boosted everyone’s morale with that, did it all without the moto bullshit.”
“Always been a grunt, always will be. And it was always better for me to belt out the Classic Rock. I tried rapping once and Burgin laughed so hard he almost knocked a tent over.”
From the as-yet-untitled crack!fest that is the modern wedding of Kitty, Harry, and the combined forces of the Welsh-Lipton-Gorgan-Jones clans
Catherine “Kitty” Gorgan wasn’t a princess. She’d always been one of the boys, the only girl in a family of seven brothers and far too many male cousins. She was never a tom boy but was certainly not a pearls and cardigan girl. Kitty couldn’t be bothered. She went for function over form, comfy over couture, but still knew how to meld pretty with practical.
When Harry proposed Kitty knew some things were definitely going to happen. There would be a huge wedding in a Cathedral. They would be married by a priest or face the wrath of their combined families. They’d need to either rent out a convention center or a park for the reception to fit all their friends and family. There would be a cake, flowers, food.
Honestly, Kitty was tempted to elope and then have the major ceremony, but not only would her grandmother kill her, so would Harry.
She just never thought buying the actual dress would be this big a deal.
“No, Harry,” she whined, pushing the mountain of bridal magazines away. “No more ball gowns. No more flowers. And for the love of god, no more tulle.”
“This is the most important day of your life.”
“And I’m fine with a white dress off the rack and my mom’s veil.”
“But.”
“No ball gowns.”
“But.”
“No trains. Nothing longer than ankle-length. It’s a summer wedding.”
“You can’t go in front of Father John showing your ankles.”
“Watch me.”
This also has no title, I just like to write random bits of Kitty-background-fic every now and then
Kitty knew she didn’t look like your stereotypical Hollywood hacker. She never felt the urge to stick metal through various part of her body and her tattoos were more earth mother than hardcore. It was one of the reason Ron hired her on the spot, besides her skills. Kitty easily slotted into corporate America. She rocked a striped pant suit. It helped to blend it with the conservative corporate cubicle when you were hacking a bank’s database. FDIC was just below the DMV in terms of soulless emotionless employees.
She dropped her purse on the table and collapsed in her favorite recliner. It was ugly as sin, some garish paisley print that never should have seen the light of day, but she loved it. The strains of Brad Paisley’s “Start A Band” sounded from her pocket and she pulled out her phone.
“Cousin Eddie, what part of our great country are you in now?”
“Texas. I am disappointed. There are no Patrick Swayzes around kicking peoples asses.”
“I can’t see you playing a Texas Shuffle for your supper.”
“Kitty, I’ll play Stairway to Heaven for hours if it gets me room and board.”
“You can come here. You’d fit in perfectly with the alt-country scene.”
“I need to get away from the East Coast for awhile, Kits.”
“Still doing your tactical retreat from memories of old?”
“I just need to wander for a bit. Kits, I know you understand that. No matter how old any of us get, sometimes we just need to run away. I like living like this. It’s less complicated.”
“Bullshit. It lets you avoid the things you don’t want to think about. Eddie, I get it, okay. I know you have understandable crap to deal with from Afghanistan, but there was something else, wasn’t there?”
“Kitty, I didn’t call for this. I just, I can’t right now, okay. I just wanted to know how you are. How’s Harry? And Chuck?”
“I know, Eddie, I’m sorry. I just worry about you. You’re out there on your own, wandering around like you’re stuck in some purgatory on Earth and you won’t tell anyone why. It’s been three months since you were last home.”
“And how long has it been since you crossed over Maryland’s state lines?”
“I have to stay out because I don’t want to be detained as a threat to national security. I have an actual reason.”
“And maybe in my wanderings I made a deal with the devil at a crossroads.”
“You always get so sentimental when you play Robert Johnson.” She sighed into the phone. “Why do I have a feeling it’s more devil dogs after your ass than hell hounds.”
From the ridic I used to be a popstar AU
Currahee Studios sat at the bottom of a converted office building. Screaming Eagle Publishing and all its associated offices sat above. There were actually three Currahee Studios locations, two in Nashville and one in West Virginia, but the one at 101 Aldbourne Way was the public face of the company.
“Hey Lip,” Popeye said.
“Yeah, boy?” he asked.
“Some dude from an art gallery’s here. Said he’s got your deliveries.”
Lip looked up from his laptop. “Tall guy, brown hair?”
“Unnerving stare? Yeah, that’s him. Got two kids with him too.”
“Apparently it’s a family business,” Lip said. He pushed out from his desk and straightened his clothes. “Are they in the lobby?”
“Yeah, Q-Tip won’t let them past the desk.”
“Stafford,” Lip muttered with a smile. Q-Tip was pretty much his little bulldog. He was the first wave of security in the building, even if he did appear to be a receptionist. Lip jogged down the hallway, not wanting an accident. Speirs didn’t seem like the kind to take Q-Tip’s level of banter and bullshit for long.
“Ron, good to see you again,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Likewise, C.C.”
Q-Tip looked up at the sound of Lip’s business name but when back to his magazine when Lip shook him off. “Screwby,” he said.
***********
“Why the fuck,” Luz panted, “do we do this to ourselves.”
“Because you want to live to see forty,” Carwood responded. He needed to sit down. And some water. And possibly traction.
Rudy made them run up the side of a mountain at least three times a week. He called it a hill, but Carwood came from West Virginia. He knew the difference.
“Come on, my brothers,” Rudy said, “only one more pass down.”
“Rudy, seriously, you’re half android, right?” Luz asked.
“Nah, brother, just a certified badass,” Rudy replied.
Rudy was a great trainer. He slowed his pace to keep up with you, paid attention to your health, but never, ever, let you feel like you were being catered too.
Seriously, they all owed Joe for taking that film role. If it wasn’t for Just Got Back From Hell they never would have met Rudy. Which probably meant they’d all be the size of the Goodyear Blimp.
After they reached the bottom of the hill and finished their cool down, Rudy let them rest. He wandered off to take pictures of the local scenery while Luz and Carwood laid out on the grass.
“So, Ron Speirs?” Luz asked.
“Joe told you,” Carwood replied.
“The indie musician you had a crush on back in the day, whose gallery you just happened to stumble across in the middle of Nashville? Yeah, Joe told me. Said you bought enough artwork to finance his kids’ college education.”
“Only the first year for one of them. The sculpture’s for Joe’s birthday. The offices needed some new artwork.”
“Uh-huh.”
“George, I did not just drop that much cash because a guy I found attractive in his music videos ten years ago owns the gallery. Yeah, the prints I bought are clearly his daughter’s, but I’d rather snatch those up now because in twenty years they’re going to be collector’s items.”
“That good?”
“She’s got a talent,” Carwood said. He always was good at rooting out the next big thing, seeing and untiring the skill in every up-and-coming artist he met. Didn’t matter if it was music, dance, or the visual arts. His mother called it an innate sense of taste.
“Joe said you used the alias to make the deal.”
“It was First Thursday,” Carwood explained.
“So?”
“Art After Hours. Didn’t know who would be crawling around. Since this city knows me as C.C. Winters, it seemed like the best thing to do.”
“Yeah, the lack of mullet really confuses people.”
“You had a rat-tail.”
“You’re responsible for at least some of the hole in the ozone layer with all the hairspray and moose you used from 1989-1994.”
“Would you like me to remind you of the Tommy Hilfiger Overalls Incident of 1992?”
“God, my kids still can’t believe I dressed like that.”
“Just wait until they reach our age.”
EDIT: Drive-by music rec for the singer-songerwriter/folk fans. Tony Lucca's album, Solo. It is acoustic and lovely. Go, find it, now.