"You're going where?" Dash asks from the depths of the flannel blanket cocoon he's already determined he's not leaving for any reason. Certainly not the one he thinks he's just heard Marshall explain. Then again, it might have been the sleep deprivation talking. With the sudden increase in business this winter solstice, Dash feels like he's been awake for days.
"Carol service, with my parents," says Marshall. He's in front of the mirror in his boxers, shrugging into one of the sport coats he's had tailored to conceal at least eight different occult weapons and various anti-weirdness paraphernalia.
Not an audio hallucination then. Marshall's giving up the warmth of their bed to go to church.
"I didn't know Marilyn and Edgar were into organized religion," Dash says, snuggling deeper into the covers he's not giving back, even if Marshall does come to his senses.
"They're not," says Marshall. "But one of the couples down the street invited them. Dad has fond memories of these sorts of things from when he was a kid and Mom's been talking about wanting to make friends with the neighbors again." He shudders as he picks at a spot on his right sleeve. "The dry cleaners didn't quite get all the entrails out after Mrs. Oglesby's funeral," he mutters. Then, to Dash, "You can probably wear that one suit from your flood insurance scam."
Oh. So Marshall's going to blatantly ignore that at no point in this entire conversation has Dash ever once used the word "we."
"And why are you and Simon going again?" Dash asks, with emphasis.
"Because it's at that church that suddenly appeared on the vacant lot at the end of Hawthorn Street last month," Marshall replies, shrugging out of the blazer. "And because apparently some of the carols come from an ancient hymnal their choir leader unearthed from the basement of the Eerie Library. And because it's solstice weekend."
Oh.
Dash considers the odds of Marshall letting him go back to sleep again without arguing. Then contemplates the amount of work finding a new living situation's going to be if he wins this one and his quasi-in-laws wind up getting eaten by whatever vengeful deity, demon, Christmas spirit, or malevolent force of weirdness the congregation winds up summoning.
"Please tell me you at least found a way we get paid for this," he mutters as he rolls out of bed.
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timeasmymeasure
Carol Service, Quadruple Drabble, Ten Years Later, Mars/Dash, rated G
Date: 2017-12-02 07:05 pm (UTC)"Carol service, with my parents," says Marshall. He's in front of the mirror in his boxers, shrugging into one of the sport coats he's had tailored to conceal at least eight different occult weapons and various anti-weirdness paraphernalia.
Not an audio hallucination then. Marshall's giving up the warmth of their bed to go to church.
"I didn't know Marilyn and Edgar were into organized religion," Dash says, snuggling deeper into the covers he's not giving back, even if Marshall does come to his senses.
"They're not," says Marshall. "But one of the couples down the street invited them. Dad has fond memories of these sorts of things from when he was a kid and Mom's been talking about wanting to make friends with the neighbors again." He shudders as he picks at a spot on his right sleeve. "The dry cleaners didn't quite get all the entrails out after Mrs. Oglesby's funeral," he mutters. Then, to Dash, "You can probably wear that one suit from your flood insurance scam."
Oh. So Marshall's going to blatantly ignore that at no point in this entire conversation has Dash ever once used the word "we."
"And why are you and Simon going again?" Dash asks, with emphasis.
"Because it's at that church that suddenly appeared on the vacant lot at the end of Hawthorn Street last month," Marshall replies, shrugging out of the blazer. "And because apparently some of the carols come from an ancient hymnal their choir leader unearthed from the basement of the Eerie Library. And because it's solstice weekend."
Oh.
Dash considers the odds of Marshall letting him go back to sleep again without arguing. Then contemplates the amount of work finding a new living situation's going to be if he wins this one and his quasi-in-laws wind up getting eaten by whatever vengeful deity, demon, Christmas spirit, or malevolent force of weirdness the congregation winds up summoning.
"Please tell me you at least found a way we get paid for this," he mutters as he rolls out of bed.