the_water_clock (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_water_clock) wrote2011-05-31 01:09 am
the_water_clock) wrote2011-05-31 01:09 am
Entry tags:
FIC: We'll Make It Up As We Go Along (Carly/Amanda, PG)
Author: Clio
Title: We'll Make It Up As We Go Along
Pairing: American Idol RPF: Carly Smithson/Amanda Overmyer
Rating: PG
Summary: Memorial Day, 1965, in a little town outside San Francisco, and the one non-veteran in the family remembers.
Length: 700 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Based on the 40's AU established by A Dream That Could Not Last. Fulfills the "summer holiday/festival" square on myschmoop_bingo card. Beta'd by the always-awesome lillijulianne.
While there are certain aspects that are small-town fantasy, there are many more that are based on the small town I grew up in, where between scouts and marching band I marched in every Memorial Day parade from the age of eight until I was about to graduate from high school. And Carly in some ways is an homage to my own beloved (lesbian) Girl Scout leader, who went by the nom de camping of "Bucket."
May, 1965
Amanda fastened the last of the buttons on her jacket, then turned to face Carly. “How do I look?” she asked.
Carly cocked her head. “Twenty-three again. Blake will have to beat them back with a stick and embarrass the children.”
“Aww, go on,” Amanda said, but standing there in her old Army Air Corps uniform she did look almost the same as when Carly had fallen so hard for that suit-wearing girl, back in London all those years ago. Twenty-five years, to be exact, and Richardsons and Lewises were celebrating by joining the Robinsons in the fall on a family trip to London for their joint anniversary.
How they’d managed to hide in plain sight for so long, Carly wasn’t sure, but this little town outside of San Francisco surely had something to do with it. It had always been an arts colony full of radicals and free thinkers, even sheltering those fleeing the Red Scare witch hunts fifteen or so years back. Compared to them, two couples sharing a large farmhouse and raising their children together, so close the folks in town often mixed up who was actually married to whom, must have seemed tame in comparison. Chris even taught Sunday school at the Unitarian church.
They walked through the connecting door to the other bedroom, where Blake was tying his shoes. Chris was polishing his wooden cane to make it parade-ready. He didn’t need it often, but on days like this where he’d be on his feet for so long, it was best to have it handy. “Kids all set?” he asked.
“Yes, husband,” Carly replied, grinning. They were all marching today, between the veterans, the school band and the scouts—Carly would be with their younger daughter’s Girl Scout troop, of which she was one of the leaders.
They all piled into the big station wagon, four adults and four children, and went to the staging area behind the grocery store. The parade made its way to the town square for the wreath laying ceremony, which always gave Carly chills. Even though she knew that the ghostly echo of “Taps” was just a member of the marching band hidden from view, it still made her think of the friends they had lost in the war, like Chris Daughtry and poor newly-wedded Paula.
After the parade everyone was to go home to change and pack up for the big picnic. Carly had made a big sheet of chocolate potato cake, and Chris had fried two chickens the night before. Even Blake, who was not usually allowed in the kitchen, was obliging with a three bean salad; dumping a few cans and some bottled Italian dressing into a large Tupperware bowl was just about his speed.
Amanda rounded up the kids—teenagers, really—and herded them back to the car. “Come on now,” she said. “Mama’s gotta get her biscuits in the oven.”
Carly glanced at Blake and could tell he was biting his lip not to make an inappropriate remark, but wasn’t surprised as she might have been to see that devilish gleam in his son’s eye as well. Eighteen and off to Berkeley in the fall. Where had the time gone?
As they drove home Carly thought again how small town America—the sort of place where her spouses had been raised—wasn’t as different from Irish village life as she would have thought. True, it was a peculiar small town, but then, they were peculiar people, and it suited them just fine.
And though it was still Amanda who shared her bed, Amanda to whom she was fiercely attached, Amanda who stirred her loins (particularly now, in her uniform), Chris and Blake had a part of her heart, too. She wasn’t sure she and Amanda would have lasted this long without the others to turn to, to balance them, and she was fairly sure the boys felt the same.
When they got home Amanda dashed upstairs to change, and Carly trotted up the stairs after her, shutting the bedroom door behind them.
“Hello there,” Carly said, wrapping her arms around Amanda from behind.
“Baby, I gotta get to baking,” Amanda protested, but she was smiling.
“Just one kiss,” Carly replied. “You know how mad I am for a girl in a suit.”
Title: We'll Make It Up As We Go Along
Pairing: American Idol RPF: Carly Smithson/Amanda Overmyer
Rating: PG
Summary: Memorial Day, 1965, in a little town outside San Francisco, and the one non-veteran in the family remembers.
Length: 700 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Based on the 40's AU established by A Dream That Could Not Last. Fulfills the "summer holiday/festival" square on my
schmoop_bingo card. Beta'd by the always-awesome lillijulianne.While there are certain aspects that are small-town fantasy, there are many more that are based on the small town I grew up in, where between scouts and marching band I marched in every Memorial Day parade from the age of eight until I was about to graduate from high school. And Carly in some ways is an homage to my own beloved (lesbian) Girl Scout leader, who went by the nom de camping of "Bucket."
May, 1965
Amanda fastened the last of the buttons on her jacket, then turned to face Carly. “How do I look?” she asked.
Carly cocked her head. “Twenty-three again. Blake will have to beat them back with a stick and embarrass the children.”
“Aww, go on,” Amanda said, but standing there in her old Army Air Corps uniform she did look almost the same as when Carly had fallen so hard for that suit-wearing girl, back in London all those years ago. Twenty-five years, to be exact, and Richardsons and Lewises were celebrating by joining the Robinsons in the fall on a family trip to London for their joint anniversary.
How they’d managed to hide in plain sight for so long, Carly wasn’t sure, but this little town outside of San Francisco surely had something to do with it. It had always been an arts colony full of radicals and free thinkers, even sheltering those fleeing the Red Scare witch hunts fifteen or so years back. Compared to them, two couples sharing a large farmhouse and raising their children together, so close the folks in town often mixed up who was actually married to whom, must have seemed tame in comparison. Chris even taught Sunday school at the Unitarian church.
They walked through the connecting door to the other bedroom, where Blake was tying his shoes. Chris was polishing his wooden cane to make it parade-ready. He didn’t need it often, but on days like this where he’d be on his feet for so long, it was best to have it handy. “Kids all set?” he asked.
“Yes, husband,” Carly replied, grinning. They were all marching today, between the veterans, the school band and the scouts—Carly would be with their younger daughter’s Girl Scout troop, of which she was one of the leaders.
They all piled into the big station wagon, four adults and four children, and went to the staging area behind the grocery store. The parade made its way to the town square for the wreath laying ceremony, which always gave Carly chills. Even though she knew that the ghostly echo of “Taps” was just a member of the marching band hidden from view, it still made her think of the friends they had lost in the war, like Chris Daughtry and poor newly-wedded Paula.
After the parade everyone was to go home to change and pack up for the big picnic. Carly had made a big sheet of chocolate potato cake, and Chris had fried two chickens the night before. Even Blake, who was not usually allowed in the kitchen, was obliging with a three bean salad; dumping a few cans and some bottled Italian dressing into a large Tupperware bowl was just about his speed.
Amanda rounded up the kids—teenagers, really—and herded them back to the car. “Come on now,” she said. “Mama’s gotta get her biscuits in the oven.”
Carly glanced at Blake and could tell he was biting his lip not to make an inappropriate remark, but wasn’t surprised as she might have been to see that devilish gleam in his son’s eye as well. Eighteen and off to Berkeley in the fall. Where had the time gone?
As they drove home Carly thought again how small town America—the sort of place where her spouses had been raised—wasn’t as different from Irish village life as she would have thought. True, it was a peculiar small town, but then, they were peculiar people, and it suited them just fine.
And though it was still Amanda who shared her bed, Amanda to whom she was fiercely attached, Amanda who stirred her loins (particularly now, in her uniform), Chris and Blake had a part of her heart, too. She wasn’t sure she and Amanda would have lasted this long without the others to turn to, to balance them, and she was fairly sure the boys felt the same.
When they got home Amanda dashed upstairs to change, and Carly trotted up the stairs after her, shutting the bedroom door behind them.
“Hello there,” Carly said, wrapping her arms around Amanda from behind.
“Baby, I gotta get to baking,” Amanda protested, but she was smiling.
“Just one kiss,” Carly replied. “You know how mad I am for a girl in a suit.”