#my mom said she was about to drop by my place unannounced bc I didn’t answer her calls until later and I texted her back the day before

[dumb-doll-lips]

I don’t know enough people to ask, but if you’re a woman maybe around early to mid 30s, how often do you talk to your mom? Like idk what range of answers even make sense for a survey, surveys feel more fun. I’m sick of feeling like such a bad guy bc i don’t want to talk everyday and would like more space.

[thelastspeecher]

Mission: White Picket Fence - Welcome to Suburbia

I’m taking a short break from grading assignments to post some more Spy AU nonsense.  Bc I clearly cannot control myself.  I can’t stop thinking about this ridiculous AU and premise, and when I can’t stop thinking about something, that’s usually a sign that I’ll just keep writing.  Anyways, here, have Stan, Ford, and Fiddleford meeting some of their neighbors while undercover as part of Mission: White Picket Fence.

              Ford climbed onto his bed and laid down, staring up at the ceiling.  It had been a while since he was so thoroughly dwarfed by a twin bed.  He could see glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling, fitting in with the “space” theme of Nicholas’ bedroom.  Everything that could be patterned was, with stars, planets, astronauts, comets, and nebulae.  This was the room of a young boy with a profound interest in astronomy.  There was a knock on the door.

              “Come in,” Ford said.  He winced, still getting used to high pitch of his voice.  The door opened and Fiddleford peered into the room.  Ford sat up.  “Hello, Fiddleford.”

              “Howdy, Ford.”  Fiddleford padded over to Ford’s bed.  “Space, huh?”

              “Yeah.”  Ford looked around his room.  “Apparently Nicholas wants to be an astronomer.  Or an astronaut.  He hasn’t decided yet.”  Fiddleford joined Ford on the bed, climbing up with clear difficulty.  “What about Ryan?  What’s he like?”

              “Ryan likes dinosaurs,” Fiddleford answered.  “His room is covered in them.  Apparently, he wants to be a ‘dinosaur scientist’.”

              “You mean a paleontologist, correct?”

              “Well, yes.  But Ryan doesn’t know that term.”  Fiddleford idly kicked his short legs against the side of the bed.  “Bein’ a six-year-old is goin’ to be rough.”

              “Being nine won’t be a walk in the park, either.  Luckily, Nicholas and Ryan are very precocious and will be attending a school with similarly intelligent children.”  Fiddleford nodded.  “We start school on Monday.  Two days. Are you ready for that?”

              “Pfft, no,” Fiddleford said derisively.  Ford chuckled.

              “Fidds, Ford!” Stan shouted from downstairs.  “Get down here!”

              “Great, what does he want?” Ford muttered, sliding off the bed.  On his way to the door, he heard a small thump.  He turned around.  Fiddleford was sitting on the ground.

              “Son of a-” Fiddleford muttered.

              “What’s wrong?”

              “I tried to get down, but I misjudged the distance a bit ‘n fell,” Fiddleford mumbled.  He rubbed his eyes.  “Got to get used to bein’ so small.”  He got up. “Let’s go see what Stan is yellin’ at us fer.”  Ford and Fiddleford exited Ford’s room, walked past the small empty room Conner and Laura were reserving for a nursery for their planned third child, and went downstairs.  Stan was sitting on the couch in the living room, watching the National Geographic Channel.

              “Yes, Stanley?” Ford asked tiredly.  Stan looked at Ford and Fiddleford.

              “Angie’s gonna make dinner.  We thought that while she did that, you two might wanna join me on a walk around the neighborhood.  Y’know, familiarize ourselves with the area.”  

              “You said that Angie’s cooking dinner?” Ford said.  Stan nodded.  “I should probably stay, then.  Nicholas helps Laura with dinner each night.”  Stan grinned.

              “That was a test to see if you read the file.  Good work.”  Ford shrugged.  “What about you, Fidds?”

              “Ryan’s too young to be trusted around knives and hot surfaces,” Fiddleford said.  “So, I s’ppose I’ll come with.”

              “Great!”  Stan got up from the couch.  “Ford, you don’t have to help Angie cook, but it might be nice if you sit in the kitchen and read a book or somethin’.  That way you can act like you were helping, if any neighbors drop by unannounced.” Ford nodded and wandered over to the kitchen.

              “Howdy, Stanford.  Plannin’ on helpin’ me?” Angie asked.  

              “I haven’t decided yet.”

              “Either way, it’s just nice to have the company.”  Stan and Fiddleford made their way to the front door.  

              “All right, Fidds and I will be back in half an hour, at the latest,” Stan called.

              “See ya then, hon!” Angie said.  Stan opened the door.  He and Fiddleford exited the house.  Fiddleford looked up at Stan.  Stan’s demeanor had changed immediately upon stepping outside.  His back was straighter, he had a relaxed, warm smile on his face, and there was an air of excitement about him.  Stan caught him staring.

              “What is it, Ryan?” Stan asked.  Fiddleford was again startled by the change from Stan’s voice to Conner’s.  Fiddleford opened and closed his mouth silently.  “Do you want a piggyback ride?”  Fiddleford paled.  He thought back to Ryan’s biography.  Ryan Young loved piggyback rides from his dad.

              “Y-yes,” Fiddleford said reluctantly.  Stan crouched down.

              “Hop on board, then.”  Fiddleford climbed onto Stan’s shoulders and wrapped his arms around Stan’s neck. Stan gripped Fiddleford’s legs firmly. “Let’s go check out the new place, eh?” Stan stood up.  “Which way do you want to go first?”

              “That way,” Fiddleford said, pointing down the street.

              “All right!”  Stan took off, whistling a jaunty tune.  Fiddleford surveyed the houses they passed.  It was a nice, upper middle class neighborhood.  The lawns were well-kept, he could smell someone grilling, and there were children playing outside, enjoying the nice weather.

              “Hang on,” a voice called after them.  Stan stopped.  “Sir, I haven’t seen you around here before.”  Stan turned around.  The person speaking to them was a woman supervising her two children as they colored their driveway with chalk.

              “Just moved,” Stan said.  The woman’s eyes lit up.

              “Oh!  Into that nice house at the end of the block?”

              “That’s the one.”

              “We were wondering when you’d show up.”               “Who’s ‘we’?”

              “The rest of the neighborhood, of course.”  The woman approached them.  She held out her hand.  “I’m Lisa Bachman.  My husband Rich is grilling up some turkey burgers in the backyard right now, otherwise he’d like to meet you, too.”  Stan shook the offered hand.

              “Dr. Conner Young.  This here’s my youngest son, Ryan.  We thought we’d take a walk and get to know the area a bit while my wife and oldest son work on dinner.  Can’t stay inside watching National Geographic in this weather.  Right, son?”

              “Mm-hmm,” Fiddleford said, nodding.  Lisa beamed at him.

              “Ryan, how old are you?”

              “Six,” Fiddleford said quietly.

              “My daughter, Itasca, is six, too.  I bet the two of you would get along great.  Maybe we should set up a playdate.”  Fiddleford froze.  Stan rubbed Fiddleford’s leg in a comforting manner.

              “Eventually, sure.  But right now, Laura and I are focused on making sure our boys get settled in. They’ve never lived in the US before. It’s a pretty big change for them, especially since they both can be a bit shy.”

              “You don’t look like a foreigner,” Lisa said warily.  Stan chuckled.

              “I’m not.  I was born in Monmouth, Illinois, and my wife’s from Boston.  But we met in El Salvador, where we were both doing postdoctoral work.”

              “Your wife has a doctorate, too?”

              “Yep.  In entomology.”

              “So you’ve lived in El Salvador since then?”

              “Nah.  We bounced around Central America a lot.  Ryan here was born in Costa Rica, and his big brother Nicholas was born in Panama.  But Laura and I decided it was about time we went back to the States and settled down so our boys could have a steady home.”

              “Ryan, what do you think of America so far?” Lisa asked Fiddleford. Fiddleford buried his face in Stan’s hair, acting the part of a shy child.

              “It’s okay, buddy,” Stan cajoled.

              “It’s nice,” Fiddleford mumbled.  “I like the house.”

              “And you were telling us something else on the way here,” Stan said.  “About school?”

              “I’m excited to go to school.”

              “We homeschooled our boys, ‘cause we didn’t stay in one place for long,” Stan explained to Lisa.  Lisa nodded. “Ryan and his brother are excited to experience an American school.  Even if it’s a private one, not a public one.”

              “Your sons got accepted into a private school?  Which one?”

              “St. Luke’s.”

              “Well, isn’t that a lovely coincidence!” Lisa enthused.  “Itasca goes there, too!  Maybe she and Ryan will be classmates.”

              “Hear that, buddy?  You might be in class with one of the neighbor kids,” Stan said to Fiddleford. Fiddleford nodded.  “The wife and I were so proud of them when we got the acceptance letter.”

              “Makes sense!  St. Luke’s is a tough school to get into.  We’ve been sending in applications for Huron since he was five, but he hasn’t gotten in yet.”

              “And how old is he now?”

              “Ten.”

              “Ah, well, it’s not the worst thing to not get into St. Luke’s,” Stan said.  “There are plenty of public schools around that are great.  What matters is that kids enjoy learning.”  Lisa shrugged.

              “We won’t stop trying to get Huron into St. Luke’s.  But, I suppose you’re right.  He’s still getting good grades at the public school.  That’s what’s important,” Lisa said.  Stan’s expression became carefully guarded.

              “Uh-huh.”

              “Dad!”  Stan turned around.  Ford walked up to him.

              “Hey, Nicky.  Is dinner ready?”

              “Yep.  Mom sent me out to go find you and Ryan,” Ford said.

              “Nicky, this is Mrs. Bachman, one of our neighbors,” Stan said.  Ford nodded.

              “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Bachman.”

              “It’s nice to meet you too, Nicky,” Lisa said with a smile.

              “She’s got a daughter that’s Ryan’s age, and a son that’s about your age,” Stan continued.

              “Oh, how old are you, Nicky?”

              “Nine.”

              “Your dad’s right.  My son, Huron, is ten.”  Lisa beamed at Ford.  “I bet you’d be a good influence on him.  Your dad tells me you’re a world traveler.”

              “I dunno if some countries in Central America count as the world,” Ford mumbled.

              “It’s more countries than Huron’s been to.”  Lisa tapped her chin.  “Hmm, maybe we should go somewhere over the summer.  Some experience outside the country might finally persuade St. Luke’s to accept him.”

              “It was nice meeting you, Lisa,” Stan said.  “But the boys and I should get going.”

              “Of course.  It was nice meeting you, too.  All three of you.  We’ll have to have you come over sometime.”

              “We’ll take you up on that offer,” Stan said.  “Say goodbye, boys.”

              “Bye, Mrs. Bachman,” Ford said.  Fiddleford waved at Lisa.  She waved back and returned to the chair she had been watching her children from. Stan, Ford, and Fiddleford began to head back to the house.  “She was…” Ford started.

              “What I expected, to be honest,” Fiddleford said softly.  Stan scowled.

              “I didn’t like her,” Stan said firmly.

              “You hid those feelin’s well,” Fiddleford said.

              “Thanks.”

              “Why didn’t you like her?” Ford asked.

              “First off, she named her kids after lakes.  What kinda person does that?”

              “Well-off white suburban parents,” Ford mumbled.

              “…Whatever.  Second, the way she kept talking about her son not getting into some snobby rich kid private school.  Like it was the end of the world!  That kid’s gonna grow up thinking school is the only thing that matters.  His priorities are gonna be all screwed.”

              “You’re fired up about this,” Ford remarked.  “Why do you care so much?  I’ve never seen you get this worked up over that kind of parent before.” Stan sighed.

              “Ever since Angie and I started talking about having a kid, I’ve been thinking about what good parents do.  Mostly I just think about what Pops did.  I figure the opposite of that is the right thing.  And what Lisa was talking about, saying that the only thing that mattered was that her son got good grades, that’s closer what Pops would say than…well, the opposite of what Pops would say.”

              “You’ll be a good dad,” Fiddleford said quietly.

              “I agree,” Ford said.  Stan froze.

              “Do- do you mean that?” Stan asked.

              “You’re thinking about how to be a good father before Angie’s even pregnant,” Ford said.  “That’s the hallmark of someone who cares deeply.”

              “He’s right, Stan,” Fiddleford said.

              “Thanks,” Stan said softly.  A grin fought its way onto his face as he started walking again.  “And now I’m getting some practice, too.  With pretending to be your dad.”  Stan ruffled Ford’s hair.  Ford shoved Stan’s hand away.

              “‘Pretending’ is the key word there, Stan,” Ford said.

              “Pretending is the key word, Dad.”

[itsnewstome]

Thanksgiving Prep? More Like Doomsday Prepping

@newsiestober: Day 25 (rarepair) & 30 (Underrated character)

this is basically a twofer, because I didn’t get my Albert piece done in time ;-;

Rating: T+ for mild swearing

Pairing: Elmer/Albert | Elbert? idk that’s what i’ve been calling them, with mentions of Jack/Kath/Davey

Summary: Race is tasked with making sure his grandfathers Elmer and Albert make the family favorite cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving

Or: wherein Elmer knits, Albert is protective of his ice cream, hates store-bought pies, and Race eats like 5 yogurt cups

Read It On AO3

Notes to help any confusion: honestly, all you need to know is that Elmer and Albert are two old geezers in love. Jack is their adopted son. Jack is in a beautiful, loving relationship with David and Katherine, and they have a son named Race. Also, I didn’t make Elmer knit just bc he’s a grandpa. Race knows how to knit, too. and so does Jack. I might make this a series and explore their family more *shrug*

     Elmer settled into the couch cushions, enjoying the warmth the fireplace gave the room. Albert shifted in his lap every now and again, and Elmer just knew that there would be angry red sleep-lines tattooed on his cheeks when he awoke. But still, Elmer didn't shift, nor wake up his husband. His fingers were occupied, working tirelessly with the knitting needles he held.

He'd stop every now and again, to stretch out his hands, but then he would get right back to work.

After another good hour or so of working on his knit, Elmer sighed and dropped it to the arm of the couch. He leaned tiredly back in his seat and ran his fingers through Albert's silver-specked hair. Albert hummed in his sleep and shifted lightly. He cracked an eye open to peek up at Elmer. He smiled sleepily.

"Am I dead? 'Cause you're a bonafide angel."

Elmer laughed and tugged at a small strand of hair behind Albert's right ear. "You're senile."

"Some would call it love," Albert grumped, burrowing down into Elmer's lap again.

Elmer laughed.

He took up his needles again and was sure at work again when there was a knock against the glass pane of the front door. The visitor didn't wait for anyone to answer the door, just strode on in. Elmer looked behind the couch, trying to crane his neck so he could see around the corner to the doorway. Really, it could only have been one of two people: their son Jack, or their grandson Race. Literally anyone else would have had the decency to know.

"It's your grandson," Albert said, not even looking up.

Elmer looked down at him, startled. "My grandson?" he parroted.

"Yep. Yours. He isn't my grandson when he comes in unannounced. I taught him better than that."

"You used to sneak into my apartment when you needed a place to cool off, or you got in trouble with your mom," Elmer pointed out. "I didn't even know you had a key."

"That's because I didn't," Albert said. He looked up at Elmer, grinning brilliantly. "I'm good with a pin."

Elmer flicked his nose petulantly.

"Granddad? Gramps?" came a call from the kitchen.

"The living room," Albert called. "Told you," he said, smirking. He basked in his smugness for all of six seconds before he jumped up to a sitting position. Well, as fast as Albert's age would allow him. He looked over the back of the sofa, eyes narrowed in a glare. "You stay out of the freezer, young man. That stuff isn't yours."

Elmer heard Race sigh loudly.

"Gramps, you know that you ain't gonna eat all that ice cream."

"Sure as hell ain't gonna stop me from trying," Albert shot back.

"Fine." Elmer heard the fridge door shut, but the tell-tale rattle of the silverware drawer opening. Race made his appearance with a yogurt cup-in hand, a spoon tucked behind his ear as he worked the aluminium lid off of the plastic container. "I'll stay out of your stinking hoard of ice cream."

He came around to the back of the couch and wrapped his arms around Elmer, mindful of his yogurt.

Elmer hugged him tightly and sighed into his shoulder.

Race pointedly ignored Albert, and Albert grumbled about "spoilt grandkids, these days."

"How's your dad?" Elmer asked as Race moved around to plop down into the recliner to their right.

"Still sick," Race said. "He's lost his voice now. Which is hilarious, because he'll try to paint, and then he'll take a sip of his paint water, bringing on this whole rant about how people keep moving his coffee cups and replacing them with his water mugs. And it's all croaky and shit, because of his throat." He laughed and stirred up his yogurt. "He's going senile."

"Taking after his dad." Elmer grinned down at Albert who made a face. With a great effort, Albert maneuvered himself to stand, placing both feet flat on the ground before he could levy himself up.

"You two are awful mean to me," he declared.

"Dunno how you keep him around," Race joked. He crossed one ankle over his knee and relaxed into the recliner as Albert stalked across the room, back towards the kitchen.

"A mystery even to me." Elmer laughed. He picked up his knitting needles and clicked away.

"Huh." Race swivelled back and forth in the chair, eating his yogurt in peaceful silence. After a moment, he made a little sound and straightened up, pointing at his grandfather with his spoon. "I was sent over here with a purpose."

"Of course you were," Albert grumped, still in the kitchen.

Race rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Mom wanted to know what y'all are bringing for Thanksgiving. The... Hang on." He paused and dug his phone out of his jacket pocket and looked at it intensely. "Okay. Turkey's taken care of, so's the stuffing and potatoes. They mainly want you to bring a side dish, you know?" He set his phone face-down on his knee. "Dad #2 says that you can't say you'll decide when it gets time, because that's the worst and it makes him want to pull his hair out. Also, Dad #1 says that if you forget to make the cranberry sauce like last year, then he's putting himself up for adoption."

Elmer snorted. "I'd like to see him try."

Race shook his head sullenly. "He'll do it, Granddad. Don't test him. Cranberry sauce is no joke."

"It's true," Albert agreed. He came out of the kitchen and sat back down on the couch. His bowl held a generous two scoops of peppermint ice cream and Race leered at him for it. "It's been his favorite ever since he was seven."

"Exactly." Race nodded firmly.

"Put us down for the cranberry sauce, then." Elmer shrugged. That wasn't a problem.

"Nu-huh."

Elmer frowned, looking up at his grandson. "Why?"

"Didn't think it'd be that easy, did you?" He snorted. "Dad #2 already put you down for the cranberry sauce. Mom wants to know what you're making in addition to it."

Elmer groaned, setting down his knitting.

"Creamed corn?" he asked.

Race blanched. "Nobody eats that. Sorry, Granddad, it's the honest truth. We've all given up trying to stomach it. That's the dish that no one touches; it doesn't even get uncovered. It just sits there under the foil and cries. It cries, Granddad"

"Christ," Albert muttered under his breath. Elmer agreed.

"We could... buy a pie?" Elmer said. He was grasping at straws, he knew.

Albert glared at him. "Fuck you, we aren't buying a pie. They never taste as good as the homemade ones, and their crusts are disgusting. They're overpriced, sometimes you have to cook them in the oven yourself-,"

"Okay. No corn and no pie, then."

"You can have pie, you can't just buy it!" Albert tried to cut in.

Elmer went right on. "Race, have any suggestions?"

Race shrugged. "You could make that green bean casserole that Mom likes," he suggested.

Albert crinkled his nose. "No one likes that but her."

"She told me to bring it up," he told them.

More possibilities came and went, all of them were tossed out to the proverbial garbage fire. Half an hour later, all seated around the kitchen table, Elmer had fully taken over his husband's ice cream, and Race was in the kitchen again, this time making himself a cup of coffee. He had gone through three more yogurts.

It was then that Albert straightened, a gleam to his eyes. "Wait. Hold on. Who has the bread?" he asked.

Race palmed his phone from his pocket and looked at the little chart. "Uhm. Okay. Dad #1 voted that we just buy the rolls." He frowned, his distaste of that option obvious. "And Uncle Tommy is considering making them."

Albert hummed, a gleam in his eye. "Has Tommy confirmed it?"

He shook his head. "Nope."

His grandfather grinned wolfishly. "Then fuck Tommy. We're doing the bread," he declared.

Racer grinned and went back to his phone, presumably to text his mother with the plan. "Dope. I've got you down for the roles and the cranberry sauce."

Elmer sighed as he stood, popping old joints as he stretched. "You've got me down for the cranberry sauce. Your grandfather over there will be the one dealing with the bread, I've got no part in it."

Albert snorted. "I'll be fine," he assured him. "Besides, what are grandchildren for, if not to help you with the physical labor having to do with kneading bread dough?"

"Hardy har, nice joke," Race laughed sarcastically. He took two sips of his coffee and put it down on the counter. "And wouldya look at the time, I gotta split."

He barely took the time to throw away his latest yogurt cup, and to dump and wash out his coffee mug before he was saying his farewells, giving quick hugs and bolting out the door.

Elmer took Albert's ice cream bowl to the sink, shaking head in amusement.

"I swear, we should start calling Thanksgiving preparations Doomsday Preparations. That's what it feels like."

Albert laughed behind him, and Elmer smiled at the sound.