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Nov. 9th, 2012 10:56 amSo.
Disney World.
In spite of the heat, and in spite of the lines, and in spite of the screaming children that seemed to be everyfuckingwhere, Fletcher, in the end, was quite pleased. He was a bit grumpy the first day, no thanks to the idiots at airport security who insisted on patting him down. The turbulence didn't help, either, and no one told him Florida in October was still so damn hot. He also didn't expect that many families to be there—didn't those kids have school? And what about the parents? Disney is goddamn expensive. Shouldn't they have been working?
...but the hotel was nice, the staff friendly, and then there was the matter of Dylan, whose cheer could not have been more infectious if it had all the characteristics of the plague.
And somewhere, deep deep down, the child in him was flipping the hell out over the prospect of meeting Mickey Mouse. (And he did. And it was awesome. Never mind that it was some poor asshole probably sweating to death in a costume, and fuck you very much if you ever try to burst Fletcher's bubble over this. He may punch you if you try.)
The roller coasters, he thought, weren't so impressive. They were more nauseating than anything, but Dylan seemed to enjoy them, so after a while he started making stupid faces for the ride photos. He went on the teacups, too, and the Dumbo ride, and Space Mountain, and now that he thinks about it he's pretty sure they waited in every line possible, yes, even the two-hour wait for the Tower of Terror. (And he swore Dylan to never, ever, under any circumstances, even if she is tortured for this information, to reveal the fact that he actually screamed and grabbed onto the poor elderly woman next to him when the elevator dropped.)
They wound up at Universal Studios, though he's still not sure how that one happened. They might have caught the wrong bus, or Dylan might have taken advantage of the fact that four days in, he ate way too much ice cream and it was way too hot and he slipped into a sugary delirium. He's pretty sure that explained the giant Pooh bear he woke to find staring at him from the corner of their hotel room the next morning. Anyway, Universal seemed to be much the same as Disney: crowded and overwhelming.
At one point, Dylan grabbed his wrist and took off without explaining where they were going or why she was so excited. She stopped once they reached the entrance to some place called the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, at which point Fletcher squinted and the two exchanged glances.
After wandering the fake cobblestone streets for all of ten minutes, Fletcher grabbed the nearest picture of Harry and loudly declared, "I fuckin' know that kid! Dylan! Don't we know 'im? And her, and that asshole—"
He gestured at a display of Gilderoy Lockhart's books, his gleaming smile flashing from the covers of each.
"Jesus, did we just fall through another rift?"
But it turned out that no, they didn't; they sampled butterbeer (surprisingly good, if tooth-achingly sweet), chocolate frogs (actually just chocolate), and some candy beans that Fletcher almost spit in some poor kid's face (earwax? seriously?), and eventually found their way out.
All in all, it was a good trip, and the first proper vacation Fletcher had had in over a century. They acquired way too much crap while there, though, and Fletch wondered what he was going to do with all the gaudy Hawaiian shirts he needed to buy because he packed all the wrong stuff. Dylan would certainly find a place for all the stuffed animals and other things she bought, all of which were being shipped back to them in Chicago in a very large box (aside from Pooh, who had his own seat on the flight back), and Fletch had plenty of uses for Cinderella's phone number already in mind.
"We should go back next year."
...surprisingly, it was Fletcher who made that suggestion.
Disney World.
In spite of the heat, and in spite of the lines, and in spite of the screaming children that seemed to be everyfuckingwhere, Fletcher, in the end, was quite pleased. He was a bit grumpy the first day, no thanks to the idiots at airport security who insisted on patting him down. The turbulence didn't help, either, and no one told him Florida in October was still so damn hot. He also didn't expect that many families to be there—didn't those kids have school? And what about the parents? Disney is goddamn expensive. Shouldn't they have been working?
...but the hotel was nice, the staff friendly, and then there was the matter of Dylan, whose cheer could not have been more infectious if it had all the characteristics of the plague.
And somewhere, deep deep down, the child in him was flipping the hell out over the prospect of meeting Mickey Mouse. (And he did. And it was awesome. Never mind that it was some poor asshole probably sweating to death in a costume, and fuck you very much if you ever try to burst Fletcher's bubble over this. He may punch you if you try.)
The roller coasters, he thought, weren't so impressive. They were more nauseating than anything, but Dylan seemed to enjoy them, so after a while he started making stupid faces for the ride photos. He went on the teacups, too, and the Dumbo ride, and Space Mountain, and now that he thinks about it he's pretty sure they waited in every line possible, yes, even the two-hour wait for the Tower of Terror. (And he swore Dylan to never, ever, under any circumstances, even if she is tortured for this information, to reveal the fact that he actually screamed and grabbed onto the poor elderly woman next to him when the elevator dropped.)
They wound up at Universal Studios, though he's still not sure how that one happened. They might have caught the wrong bus, or Dylan might have taken advantage of the fact that four days in, he ate way too much ice cream and it was way too hot and he slipped into a sugary delirium. He's pretty sure that explained the giant Pooh bear he woke to find staring at him from the corner of their hotel room the next morning. Anyway, Universal seemed to be much the same as Disney: crowded and overwhelming.
At one point, Dylan grabbed his wrist and took off without explaining where they were going or why she was so excited. She stopped once they reached the entrance to some place called the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, at which point Fletcher squinted and the two exchanged glances.
After wandering the fake cobblestone streets for all of ten minutes, Fletcher grabbed the nearest picture of Harry and loudly declared, "I fuckin' know that kid! Dylan! Don't we know 'im? And her, and that asshole—"
He gestured at a display of Gilderoy Lockhart's books, his gleaming smile flashing from the covers of each.
"Jesus, did we just fall through another rift?"
But it turned out that no, they didn't; they sampled butterbeer (surprisingly good, if tooth-achingly sweet), chocolate frogs (actually just chocolate), and some candy beans that Fletcher almost spit in some poor kid's face (earwax? seriously?), and eventually found their way out.
All in all, it was a good trip, and the first proper vacation Fletcher had had in over a century. They acquired way too much crap while there, though, and Fletch wondered what he was going to do with all the gaudy Hawaiian shirts he needed to buy because he packed all the wrong stuff. Dylan would certainly find a place for all the stuffed animals and other things she bought, all of which were being shipped back to them in Chicago in a very large box (aside from Pooh, who had his own seat on the flight back), and Fletch had plenty of uses for Cinderella's phone number already in mind.
"We should go back next year."
...surprisingly, it was Fletcher who made that suggestion.
