FIC - The Old Familiar Carols Play (Part 3)
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries
Title: The Old Familiar Carols Play
Pairings: Donald/Timmy
Rating: various, with one NC-17 chapter
Spoilers: minor ones for most of the movies
Summary: Some Christmases are more memorable than others.
Warning: A crazy rainbow of emotions.
Author’s Note: I covered as many of the prompts as I could when writing this. If I left yours out, either thematically or musically, I do apologize. I could only fit in twelve chapters. Thanks guys! As always, thanks to my wonderful betas mjmcca and nyteflyer .
Miles Away
Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow . . .
“Kid. Hey kid. Hey, kid!” The voice was accompanied by a nudge, and Donald grudgingly lifted his pillow from his face. Not much. Just enough to answer.
“What do you want?” Donald snapped before his eyes were open. Lt. Murtaugh stood over him with a bemused smirk on his face. “Sir,” he added hastily. “I meant, sir.” Murtaugh's smirk deepened and Donald gulped. Well shit.
“Don't think I don't know that sir is a synonym for asshole, son,” Murtaugh said. He nudged Donald with the toe of his boot again. “And get up. We've got dinner going.”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I mean, I'll be right there, sir,” Donald replied, trying to scramble to his feet, salute and fold up his bedroll at the same time.
“And fucking relax. It's Christmas,” Murtaugh snorted, rolling his eyes.
“Yes, sir,” Donald agreed, nodding.
“Christ, you're green,” Murtaugh muttered as he walked away. As soon as he was out of sight, Donald let his head hang for a moment. That had gone so well. Really. It was a wonder Lt. Murtaugh didn't just shoot him and bury his body in the desert one night. Christ. He finished stowing his bedroll and pushed to his feet. Reaching for his gear, Donald hesitated. Murtaugh said relax. Maybe that meant he didn't need to gear up. But if he didn't and something happened, he'd be holding everyone up. After a moment of waffling, Donald finally just scooped up his gear and carried it with him as he headed after Murtaugh toward the fire. Nearly a dozen men sat around the fire pit talking quietly and passing flasks and cups back and forth. Donald paused at the flickering edge of the firelight. Murtaugh glanced up at him.
“Sir?” Donald asked, studying the scene curiously. Wordlessly, Murtaugh jabbed an elbow into the man next to him, forcing him over a space.
“Sit, Strachey,” he ordered. Donald dropped his bag and dropped to the ground in front of it.
“Jesus kid, d'you bring everything you own?” someone called. Donald peered across the fire until the shadowy figure resolved itself into Garcia.
“Well I just thought,” Donald started.
“Lay off the kid, will you, G? It's fucking Christmas,” Tomlinson grunted. He shoved a mug of something hot and strongly alcoholic into Donald's hands. “Go on, kid.” Cautiously, Donald took a sip and coughed. Coughed again.
“Smooth,” he gasped. Tomlinson chuckled and retrieved the mug to knock back a mouthful. Donald wiped his nose on the back of his hand.
“Dom fuckin' Perignon it ain't, but it'll get ya drunk as shit,” Tomlinson said appreciatively.
“True enough,” Murtaugh said as he reached across Donald for the mug. “And it'll make my Christmas a Hell of a lot brighter.”
“Nah, I'm just glad I'm here,” Garcia announced, taking a long pull from his flask. Donald looked at him curiously. “If I was home, my abuelita would be screeching about how the goddamn tree was crooked and making enough tamales to feed most of New Mexico. D'you know what tamales smell like before you eat 'em?” Donald shook his head as Murtaugh handed him the mug again. He sipped idly - managed not to cough this time.
“They smell like socks. Really old sweat socks. And my brother would bring all 5 of his kids. Christ, those little fuckers break a lot of shit. Up at 0600 every fucking day screaming “Es la manana! Feliz Navidad! Queremos regalos! Tengo hambre!” on and on and on when all the grown-ups want is to sleep until the sun actually rises . . .” Garcia trailed off, staring into the flames. He took another pull from his flask and sighed. “No, better to be here.” Tomlinson saluted him with the reclaimed mug.
“I hear that,” Tomlinson announced. “If I were home, my wife would insist on her mother coming down for the holidays. And probably her crazy-ass sister. And Jesus, they fight all the damned time. Then they cry, and when I try to help they slap me. I don't get it, you know? If they hate each other, why do they spend every damned holiday at my house?” Murtaugh snorted another laugh.
“What about you, kid?” Garcia called, leaning closer to the dancing flame. Donald licked his lips thoughtfully.
“Last year, Mom got this enormous tree. I scratched my arms all to Hell dragging it in the house. And my sister brought her boyfriend to Christmas lunch,” Donald started.
“Lunch?” Garcia demanded. “Who the fuck has Christmas lunch?” Tomlinson smacked his arm. “No seriously, what the fuck?”
“My mother always has Christmas lunch because Christmas night she throws this enormous party for all of her friends. She spends weeks getting ready for it. People start talking about it right after Thanksgiving. It's a big deal. Dancing, talking, incredible food,” Donald explained. “She puts the tree in the front window so you can see it from outside and pipes Christmas music through the whole house.” Tomlinson's face had gone soft and slightly dreamy. Garcia looked impressed.
“You hang a lot of mistletoe for the chiquitas?” he asked. “Get a little Christmas loving?” Donald laughed loudly. He took another drink of whatever was passed his way.
“God no,” Donald replied. “I spend the entire day down the street with the Walters. Lord knows I don't want to get between my mother and her decorating. Ruthie and Rebekkah and I make latkes and matzo and eat until we can't stand up. Sometimes Mr. Walters will play the guitar. Noah and I skateboard. Once I got to light one of the candles on the Menorah.” Murtaugh had a highly speculative look on his face.
“They Jewish?” Tomlinson asked, confused. Donald nodded.
“Those girls must've been hot shit for you to bail on a party for them,” Garcia mused. Donald shrugged a shoulder.
“They talked to me,” Donald explained. “And last year we made this army of snowmen across their back yard. We even tipped one over on its side and scooped pieces out of it like the others had killed it or something. Mr. Walters wasn't all that impressed, but we thought it was funny as Hell.”
“Christ. Snowmen? How old are you, kid? Twelve?” Garcia laughed.
“I'll be nineteen in June,” Donald said defensively. Silence fell for a long moment. Finally, Murtaugh clapped a hand on Donald's shoulder.
“It sounds like a real nice Christmas, kid,” Tomlinson said quietly. He passed Donald the mug.
“It was,” Donald replied. He lifted the mug, tipped his head back and drained it. He managed to set the mug on the ground before he exploded into another coughing fit. “But this isn't bad.” Tomlinson slapped his thigh and reached for the mug.
“Now you're gettin' it,” Murtaugh said. Garcia tossed a flask over the fire to plop at Donald's feet.
“Try that shit on for size, kid! It'll put hair on your chest,” he called. Donald picked up the flask and looked around. Around him, people laughed and passed drinks back and forth.
“Come on! Man up!” Garcia shouted. Donald tossed the flask back.
“You first, amigo,” he replied. Garcia laughed, opened the flask and took a slug. He gasped and wiped at watering eyes. Donald crossed his arms and slouched back against his pack.
Not bad.
=+++=
1980 (A Baby Just Like You)
1982 (White Christmas Makes Me Blue)
1992 (Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas)
1998 (God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen)
1999 (I Wonder as I Wander)
2000 (Frosty the Snowman)
2002 (Coventry Carol)
2004 (Walking in a Winter Wonderland)
2005 (Holly, Jolly Christmas)
2006 (Do You Hear What I Hear?)
2009 (All I Want for Christmas is You)
2047 (Aspenglow)
Title: The Old Familiar Carols Play
Pairings: Donald/Timmy
Rating: various, with one NC-17 chapter
Spoilers: minor ones for most of the movies
Summary: Some Christmases are more memorable than others.
Warning: A crazy rainbow of emotions.
Author’s Note: I covered as many of the prompts as I could when writing this. If I left yours out, either thematically or musically, I do apologize. I could only fit in twelve chapters. Thanks guys! As always, thanks to my wonderful betas mjmcca and nyteflyer .
Miles Away
Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow . . .
“Kid. Hey kid. Hey, kid!” The voice was accompanied by a nudge, and Donald grudgingly lifted his pillow from his face. Not much. Just enough to answer.
“What do you want?” Donald snapped before his eyes were open. Lt. Murtaugh stood over him with a bemused smirk on his face. “Sir,” he added hastily. “I meant, sir.” Murtaugh's smirk deepened and Donald gulped. Well shit.
“Don't think I don't know that sir is a synonym for asshole, son,” Murtaugh said. He nudged Donald with the toe of his boot again. “And get up. We've got dinner going.”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I mean, I'll be right there, sir,” Donald replied, trying to scramble to his feet, salute and fold up his bedroll at the same time.
“And fucking relax. It's Christmas,” Murtaugh snorted, rolling his eyes.
“Yes, sir,” Donald agreed, nodding.
“Christ, you're green,” Murtaugh muttered as he walked away. As soon as he was out of sight, Donald let his head hang for a moment. That had gone so well. Really. It was a wonder Lt. Murtaugh didn't just shoot him and bury his body in the desert one night. Christ. He finished stowing his bedroll and pushed to his feet. Reaching for his gear, Donald hesitated. Murtaugh said relax. Maybe that meant he didn't need to gear up. But if he didn't and something happened, he'd be holding everyone up. After a moment of waffling, Donald finally just scooped up his gear and carried it with him as he headed after Murtaugh toward the fire. Nearly a dozen men sat around the fire pit talking quietly and passing flasks and cups back and forth. Donald paused at the flickering edge of the firelight. Murtaugh glanced up at him.
“Sir?” Donald asked, studying the scene curiously. Wordlessly, Murtaugh jabbed an elbow into the man next to him, forcing him over a space.
“Sit, Strachey,” he ordered. Donald dropped his bag and dropped to the ground in front of it.
“Jesus kid, d'you bring everything you own?” someone called. Donald peered across the fire until the shadowy figure resolved itself into Garcia.
“Well I just thought,” Donald started.
“Lay off the kid, will you, G? It's fucking Christmas,” Tomlinson grunted. He shoved a mug of something hot and strongly alcoholic into Donald's hands. “Go on, kid.” Cautiously, Donald took a sip and coughed. Coughed again.
“Smooth,” he gasped. Tomlinson chuckled and retrieved the mug to knock back a mouthful. Donald wiped his nose on the back of his hand.
“Dom fuckin' Perignon it ain't, but it'll get ya drunk as shit,” Tomlinson said appreciatively.
“True enough,” Murtaugh said as he reached across Donald for the mug. “And it'll make my Christmas a Hell of a lot brighter.”
“Nah, I'm just glad I'm here,” Garcia announced, taking a long pull from his flask. Donald looked at him curiously. “If I was home, my abuelita would be screeching about how the goddamn tree was crooked and making enough tamales to feed most of New Mexico. D'you know what tamales smell like before you eat 'em?” Donald shook his head as Murtaugh handed him the mug again. He sipped idly - managed not to cough this time.
“They smell like socks. Really old sweat socks. And my brother would bring all 5 of his kids. Christ, those little fuckers break a lot of shit. Up at 0600 every fucking day screaming “Es la manana! Feliz Navidad! Queremos regalos! Tengo hambre!” on and on and on when all the grown-ups want is to sleep until the sun actually rises . . .” Garcia trailed off, staring into the flames. He took another pull from his flask and sighed. “No, better to be here.” Tomlinson saluted him with the reclaimed mug.
“I hear that,” Tomlinson announced. “If I were home, my wife would insist on her mother coming down for the holidays. And probably her crazy-ass sister. And Jesus, they fight all the damned time. Then they cry, and when I try to help they slap me. I don't get it, you know? If they hate each other, why do they spend every damned holiday at my house?” Murtaugh snorted another laugh.
“What about you, kid?” Garcia called, leaning closer to the dancing flame. Donald licked his lips thoughtfully.
“Last year, Mom got this enormous tree. I scratched my arms all to Hell dragging it in the house. And my sister brought her boyfriend to Christmas lunch,” Donald started.
“Lunch?” Garcia demanded. “Who the fuck has Christmas lunch?” Tomlinson smacked his arm. “No seriously, what the fuck?”
“My mother always has Christmas lunch because Christmas night she throws this enormous party for all of her friends. She spends weeks getting ready for it. People start talking about it right after Thanksgiving. It's a big deal. Dancing, talking, incredible food,” Donald explained. “She puts the tree in the front window so you can see it from outside and pipes Christmas music through the whole house.” Tomlinson's face had gone soft and slightly dreamy. Garcia looked impressed.
“You hang a lot of mistletoe for the chiquitas?” he asked. “Get a little Christmas loving?” Donald laughed loudly. He took another drink of whatever was passed his way.
“God no,” Donald replied. “I spend the entire day down the street with the Walters. Lord knows I don't want to get between my mother and her decorating. Ruthie and Rebekkah and I make latkes and matzo and eat until we can't stand up. Sometimes Mr. Walters will play the guitar. Noah and I skateboard. Once I got to light one of the candles on the Menorah.” Murtaugh had a highly speculative look on his face.
“They Jewish?” Tomlinson asked, confused. Donald nodded.
“Those girls must've been hot shit for you to bail on a party for them,” Garcia mused. Donald shrugged a shoulder.
“They talked to me,” Donald explained. “And last year we made this army of snowmen across their back yard. We even tipped one over on its side and scooped pieces out of it like the others had killed it or something. Mr. Walters wasn't all that impressed, but we thought it was funny as Hell.”
“Christ. Snowmen? How old are you, kid? Twelve?” Garcia laughed.
“I'll be nineteen in June,” Donald said defensively. Silence fell for a long moment. Finally, Murtaugh clapped a hand on Donald's shoulder.
“It sounds like a real nice Christmas, kid,” Tomlinson said quietly. He passed Donald the mug.
“It was,” Donald replied. He lifted the mug, tipped his head back and drained it. He managed to set the mug on the ground before he exploded into another coughing fit. “But this isn't bad.” Tomlinson slapped his thigh and reached for the mug.
“Now you're gettin' it,” Murtaugh said. Garcia tossed a flask over the fire to plop at Donald's feet.
“Try that shit on for size, kid! It'll put hair on your chest,” he called. Donald picked up the flask and looked around. Around him, people laughed and passed drinks back and forth.
“Come on! Man up!” Garcia shouted. Donald tossed the flask back.
“You first, amigo,” he replied. Garcia laughed, opened the flask and took a slug. He gasped and wiped at watering eyes. Donald crossed his arms and slouched back against his pack.
Not bad.
=+++=
1980 (A Baby Just Like You)
1982 (White Christmas Makes Me Blue)
1992 (Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas)
1998 (God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen)
1999 (I Wonder as I Wander)
2000 (Frosty the Snowman)
2002 (Coventry Carol)
2004 (Walking in a Winter Wonderland)
2005 (Holly, Jolly Christmas)
2006 (Do You Hear What I Hear?)
2009 (All I Want for Christmas is You)
2047 (Aspenglow)