Ficlet: Kilt
May. 27th, 2009 09:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinitydayTitle: Kilt
Fandom: Dark Angel
Character/Pairings: Normal (with hints of Normal/Alec)
Word Count: 261
Written for:![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
comment_fic prompt by yoruichiyoshi12, kilt
Normal vaguely remembered his father telling him once, when he had to do a genealogical project at school, that his ancestors came from Scotland, but as a young boy Reagan never cared. He had been born in America, and so had his father, and his father's father, and he was proud of that. He didn't know how to speak Gaelic, he'd never eaten a sheep's stomach (not even after the Pulse, when the good cuts of meat were hard to come by; some habits were hard to break) and he'd only had two glasses of whisky in his life, thirteen years apart.
Still, he blamed the dream on some kind of genetic memory. How else could he explain the image of Alec, coming over a rugged and green hill wearing a kilt and sporran, his chest bare despite the briskness of the Scottish afternoon. It had been a windy day in the highlands, too, with not a single sheep in sight. He woke up just as Alec was proving that old rumour about what Scotsmen didn't wear beneath their kilts.
The next day at work, he remembered how poorly his Golden Boy had reacted to the gladiator dream, so kept his mouth and instead started plotting ways to get him back into the ring, since that was a more realistic goal.
Still, he thought, after yelling at Missy Miss to get a move on (she threw him a sullen look, but at least started sauntering up to dispatch) maybe he should introduce the degenerates he worked with to Robbie Burns Night.
Fandom: Dark Angel
Character/Pairings: Normal (with hints of Normal/Alec)
Word Count: 261
Written for:
comment_fic prompt by yoruichiyoshi12, kiltNormal vaguely remembered his father telling him once, when he had to do a genealogical project at school, that his ancestors came from Scotland, but as a young boy Reagan never cared. He had been born in America, and so had his father, and his father's father, and he was proud of that. He didn't know how to speak Gaelic, he'd never eaten a sheep's stomach (not even after the Pulse, when the good cuts of meat were hard to come by; some habits were hard to break) and he'd only had two glasses of whisky in his life, thirteen years apart.
Still, he blamed the dream on some kind of genetic memory. How else could he explain the image of Alec, coming over a rugged and green hill wearing a kilt and sporran, his chest bare despite the briskness of the Scottish afternoon. It had been a windy day in the highlands, too, with not a single sheep in sight. He woke up just as Alec was proving that old rumour about what Scotsmen didn't wear beneath their kilts.
The next day at work, he remembered how poorly his Golden Boy had reacted to the gladiator dream, so kept his mouth and instead started plotting ways to get him back into the ring, since that was a more realistic goal.
Still, he thought, after yelling at Missy Miss to get a move on (she threw him a sullen look, but at least started sauntering up to dispatch) maybe he should introduce the degenerates he worked with to Robbie Burns Night.