WE THAT ARE A'CHANGIN'
Perspectives
By: Seiferre Quintesce / 2o1o
RATING: T
PAIRING(S): Quaint-shipping (Woody/Bo), eventual BFF-shipping
GENRE(S): Romance/Action/Adventure
WARNING(S): Some material not suited for children.
COMMENTS?: Yes, please. R&R to your heart's desire. I'll love you for it.
CONTESTS: None right now.
DEDICATIONS: To all you wonderful reviewers, of course.
DISCLAIMER: 'Toy Story' is © Pixar and Disney. I do not own it, or the characters, and only claim any non-canon characters as my own. This piece of fiction was created for entertainment purposes only, bearing no intent for profit or gain.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: In case you're wondering, this is a retelling of the Toy Story trilogy with Buzz/Woody shipping. PS, HockeyPuck, your cameo is here :3.
So… I don't know what's possessing me to completely retell Toy Story in word form, but… Uhh, I just kinda… Have to. I feel as though I can't write the series I want to write without doing so. Does that make sense? I expect that's why I'm doing this; I just hope you guys enjoy the ride with me. xD As always, if you'd like a personal reply to your review (i.e., an answer to a question or something), you can feel free to send me a message.
TODAY'S FOOTNOTES INCLUDE: Just a little note.
Lansing, Michigan
1956
Crackle. Hiss.
Staticstaticstatic.
"Woody's Roundup… Right here, every day…"
Sssszzhiss.
"Woody's Roundup - come on, it's time to play…"
"Con-flabbed, stupid contraption - " – BANG! – "Work, blast ye!"
"There's Jezz-zzz-zzz-zzz…"
"Pa, stop that. It ain't gonna work if ya keep screwin' with it like that!"
"Fine!" an old, weathered voice wheezed, giving the hunk of plastic and metal a slap on its side for good measure. "Yew work it then. I ain't gonna waste my time with it. It's your fav'rite show, not mine."
A sigh. Small, nimble hands flew to the antenna and adjusted the tongs so that they leaned slightly more towards the left - away from the walls of their small, run down house. The battered black-and-white television suddenly blared to life, given a second wind by the competent boy and his love for Western mysteries. "There, see? It ain't so hard."
" - He's a smart one! Pete, the old prospector, and - "
"Woody, the man himself, a'course, it's time fer Woody's Roundup, he's th' very bes', he's the rootines', tootines' cowboy in the… Wild, wild West! Yee-haw!"
Weathered-Old-Man rolled his eyes to the plaster ceiling and prepared himself for an hour of snores, bores, and beer. His son was cute – bless the boy, he was a godsend to his old bones – but this damned show got his head stuck in the clouds so often that Franklin Davis was often sure that he'd end up flying himself to Texas one day. Ever since that new show – Woody's Roundup, was it? – had been broadcast, no one had been able to tear the boy's awe-filled eyes away from that blasted picture box. It was as if he actually thought that the show was more important than the farm, or his schoolwork. Franklin snorted and downed his favorite bronze beverage in one gulp. He needed it.
Charles – that was his name, although he went more often by 'Cheap-Shot Charlie' now - even went so far as to copy the accent he heard the puppets talk in, modeling it after a mixture of his father's speech patterns, his mother's twang, and the Sheriff's infuriatingly slow speed. It made him look like a doofus in class, his teacher would frankly tell the parents two weeks later, but it didn't seem to bother him any. Indeed, Charlie seemed about as enthralled with the way he was learning to talk as he was with the cardboard box cows that littered his room, or the large paper cacti that he'd glued to the Missus' expensive white wallpaper.
It was a shame such talent was going to waste, in his opinion.
1957
"Pa, how come they never showed what happened 'ta Sheriff Woody?"
"'Cause." He paused. How was he supposed to explain the workings of a television network to a – however perceptive – sensitive and somewhat naïve child? Franklin tapped his chin with the rim of his beer bottle and took a thoughtful sip. Sputnik had all but erased any interest that Americans had in the Wild, Wild, West. Shows like 'Woody's Roundup' were petering out, surviving on the precocious minds of five year olds and declining merchandise sales. He hadn't seen a good Western in a long while, actually. The theaters were filled with movies about weird-looking green men with beady black eyes and men in silver suits. "'Cause Woody took a long trip, son. He ain't comin' back fer a good, long time."
"Why?" Charlie pouted, much to the amusement of his mother Veronica. She smoothed his hair and left to butter the Christmas turkey. "I'm tired'a all these space shows. They're borin'. Woody was better, an' now he's gone! He needs'ta finish jumpin' over the Grand Canyon an' save Jessie an' Stinky Pete – he cain't jus' leave!"
Franklin sighed. Tiresome boy. "Try makin' up yer own adventures, son. Me an' yer uncle Howard used to do that all the time. S'a lot more fun than sittin' in front of a box all day."
A reproachful look. "I ain't got a Woody doll."
"Use Dipstick." Dipstick was getting on, and its fur was slowly being loved off – it was an old hand-me-down that all the Davis men passed down from child to child; a simple way of saying "Screw off, I don't want you in my bed whenever there's a storm out at night."
"Naw, Dipstick's too old! He'll be Stinky Pete."
"Well, ya can't have Woody's Roundup without Woody."
Charlie sighed. His parents would never understand – he couldn't use just anyone for Sheriff Woody. He was too important, much too ingrained in the story to be portrayed by anyone else. Besides, he was one of the coolest toys out there – a pullstring with nine different sayings. Nine! It would be just like having his own, personal hero lying around the house. But he'd never get one – they'd stopped selling those in toy stores back in early November. The best that he'd seen in the toy stores lately were some boxed Pete the Prospector dolls, teetering out of the clearance bin as if they were attempting to escape, or begging the children to buy them. The boy reached to rub his eyes and held back a small sniff. He'd really wanted a Woody doll.
His vision, suddenly, was full of dull brown paper and a box about a foot tall. Confusion settled over him as he looked up at his father, who gruffly cleared his throat and said, "Well, go on, open it, ya rascal."
He tore the paper off with gusto; his parents never allowed him to open presents early on Christmas, what was so special about –
And his jaw hung slack.
Reach for the sky…
The string pulled itself effortlessly back into the pucker in his back. It was a wonderful feeling, finally being played with by a child. A real child. The toy knew, as an instinct buried deep down, somewhere past his stuffing, that he could show no emotion – no movement whatsoever, not even a breath – to the youngster who tossed him in the air in an attempt to re-enact 'Woody's Finest Hour'. Still, however, as he landed on a pile of pillows covered with brown sacks that may have perhaps simulated boulders, Woody could have smiled at the enthusiasm displayed to him on a daily basis. It wasn't every day, Dipstick said to him, that a toy would come across a child so rare as Charles Davis. He took care of them all. He loved them all.
Woody trusted Dipstick, oldest and wisest toy that he knew. This was a happy home.
Still young, his hand-stitched limbs were stiff from disuse. The box that the manufacturers stuffed his brothers in certainly weren't comfortable, but what did they care? They were getting paid to make the toys, not to cater to them. That was what he was – not a Sheriff, even though his badge said so. He was a toy. Not a man. Not-man didn't mind, though. He still enjoyed sleeping next to Charlie, listening to Dipstick snore from the other side of the bed. When their owner re-opened his eyes, it would be time for yet another wild ride through his imagination. Charlie would never know what happened after Woody jumped into the Grand Canyon, faithful steed Bullseye acting as his wings, but he didn't care anymore. He could make up a thousand and one ways the show could end with his best friend by his side. It warmed the small pullstring toy's stuffing to be held in such high regards.
He loved to be loved.
"You're my favorite deputy!"
1969
They hadn't seen the sun in about five years.
Granted, being Charlie's toys, they probably should have been grateful that they hadn't been put out for the trash. What could Woody say? He tilted the tip of his brown felt hat down, so that it cast a shadow all along his face. There was no denying it – Charlie had grown up. He called himself Char now, too old to believe in yodeling cowgirls and names like "The Old, Abandoned Mine". The most he got out of talking critters anymore was Lassie, and not even Dipstick understood that.
"I knew this would happen." Snapped a voice, and they all knew who it was. Potato Head, newly appointed leader of the toys, was still trying his best to scrabble out of the box they were contained in. It had been months since he'd last walked around on stable ground, and he was starting to lose it – would he ever be able to move around without stumbling and breaking himself every five seconds? Young, brown eyes observed him, holding a small doll – Clara, Charlie's older sister's Barbie – to his chest. She sobbed dry tears into the folds of his cow-printed vest, like she'd been doing ever since the teenager had put her in the box. At least they were all together, now.
"We'll get outta here. Go somewhere else. Somewhere with a kid. Somewhere we can be played with."
"But what if Charlie wants us again?"
His voice was still soft, lacking the gravel-like quality that he would use some thirty years later, facing a spaceman in a ludicrously painted white and green suit. There was no bite to him. Not yet, for he was still Charles' favorite toy. "We can't just leave. He might open this box and find us gone, and then…"
"Then what? What? Huh? We get tossed around by a lunatic for a couple of years and put back? Sorry, Pal, but I'm the leader here, and I say we skedaddle and make our lives our own. We don't have to deal with sissy boys like Charlie out in the city. I hear there's some great bars there, too."
"Tate," intoned the wooden doll, finally getting up with a dusty little sigh. "We can't. Just. Leave. There's no way Charlie would forgive - "
"I ain't lookin' for his forgiveness, Woody! Damnit!" Tate had arrived cynical and grouchy, but he'd always liked Woody. Well, he had up until they'd been put in the box together. Friendships wore thin, then. Mr. Potato Head picked up his pieces and re-assembled himself for the seventeenth time that evening. "I'm lookin' to get us outta here before your voice box stops. Before Dipstick loses all his fur. Before Clara's hair starts fallin' out. You can stay if you want, but I'm takin' my family away from here, hear me? Now give me a boost."
Woody could do nothing but obey, but they didn't get anywhere. As some force of gravity lifted the toys up, up and up, they twisted and tumbled over each other, hoping that wherever they were going, it wasn't the trash.
1989
"Where is It, where is it… Ahh, here you are…"
The Sheriff didn't remember much, but he remembered that voice.
"…Woody."
Boy, had he changed. And yet Woody, who knew every facet of Charles Davis' face and then some, could see no difference between the Charlie of old and the thirty-nine-year-old man who now cradled him in his arms, all nostalgia and amusement. He didn't speak in a Texan accent anymore, but he still had that funny twang in his voice from years and years of practice.
Potato Head was gone; he didn't know where, but it wasn't something he concerned himself with anymore. When he left, he'd taken Clara and Dipstick anywhere-but-here, but the ever loyal cowboy knew where his heart lay. Curled up in a cardboard box for more than twenty years, alone and starving for a child's love – that was all he remembered of his life anymore, except for this man. Through all the heartbreak, all the emotional turmoil, all that he'd done to better himself and to prepare for the time where he would face the sun once more, he'd dreamed of this moment.
"Oh my God. You kept it all this time?" A woman's voice. That was new. He didn't like her, because Woody hated being called 'it.'
"Well, sure. Didn't you keep any of your old toys? Could'a sworn there were more in that box…"
"I almost did." Remorse colored the feminine accent now, and the cowboy doll could do nothing but hold himself still, try to rein in the desire to swivel his eyes to see just who his aged owner was talking to. "I had the Jessie doll. You know the one. But I gave her away, put her in a Charity box. I should've kept her… But there's that lamp that Mom gave us for the wedding, does that count?"
Woody could have smiled. He knew that lamp. It was very pretty and had the nicest voice. Had he been of a better state of mind, they might've been enjoying each other's company right about now.
"Hey," and now he was being shifted around and Woody could see shoulder-length blonde hair and he was being pressed against an obviously pregnant stomach, "maybe we'll find another one. Come on, let's go downstairs. I'll cook tonight."
Sheriff Woody was walked downstairs, chancing one small glance out the window as he, his old owner, and his owner's wife climbed steadily down the attic stairs. In a flash of relieved exultation, the cowboy saw the moon and contained his triumphant laughter. That hell was finally over.
"Wah! WAAAH!"
Woody was there for the birth.
"Hey there, little guy…" There was a nervous tone in Char's voice that he'd not heard before, something like a mix of awe, wonder and fear. Was that how fathers sounded? He tried not to blink at the bawling, bleeding mess that was slowly obscuring his vision and hoped that, for his vest's sake, it was going to be cleaned up before Charlie held it. "I'm your dad. Daddy. Da-ddy."
"Char, he can't talk yet…" Emily, tired but still amused, shook her head back and forth against the pillow and cuddled her son to her chest. After five grueling hours of labor, he was still a little angel to her eyes. "Andrew Franklin… Does that sound good to you?"
"Honestly, no." Char grinned at her from his position on the hard plastic chair, and Woody stifled a laugh. "But whatever you want, honey. You know, we could name him 'Woody'…"
A flash of irritation briefly shadowed Woody's eyes. This… Child was not going to be his replacement.
"No." She shot him a look and wiped some baby hairs away from the tiny boy's face. Charles chuckled and bent over his son, waggling the lifeless doll at him. Andrew reached for the toy, instantly in love with the soft feel of him, and the kind brown eyes that seemed like they were watching every move he made. "Hey there, Andy… This is Woody. He's going to keep you company while I go to work, okay?"
Andy cooed sleepily and nestled into his mother's breast, tired from his excursion. Emily kissed her husband and watched him leave, observing the Woody doll and bestowing a fond smile upon him. What more could she ask for?
By then, the old toy was entranced. He took in the boy's soft brown hair and his tiny stub of a nose – Charlie's, his mind supplied through the subdued shock – and watched as the boy reached up and tugged at the fabric he had been swathed in. Sheriff Woody wasn't sure that he was all that fond of babies – Children, sure, but babies? That was a whole different rodeo – but he would look after Andy. He'd do it for Charlie.
So it was that when the young boy grew, child and toy loved with everything they had. Andy's father wasn't around much, and the only male around the house was an inanimate cowboy doll who said strange things when his string was pulled. To his imagination, though, this was more than sufficient. He could tell Woody anything and not feel stupid (Because he would feel stupid - he was supposed to, if being beat up over crying about being hit was any indication).
And sometimes, when things were too horrible that not even he, as practiced a toy as he was, couldn't stay mute, the old Sheriff would climb up to Andy's shoulder and sing softly in his ear, adopting an age-old accent that he barely used anymore to sing about friends and forever and being there for each other. He remembered Charlie when he sang, and now he would remember Andy, too.
1996
He could never fill Dipstick's shoes, but then again, did he want to?
He'd been a passive old Dalmatian, but that needed to change. In a world where competition ran high and newer, fancier toys were being manufactured every day, there was no room for them to be complacent in their lives. They needed a leader, and neither the loyal slinky dog nor the plastic dinosaur that Charlie had picked up from the local Al's Toy Barn was up to the job. It was, then, upon his shoulders that they should be guided. He was the most level-headed one. For, even though Tate had returned (With a new piggy bank and some straggling toys, which the new boy's parents accepted after finding them in a pile of second birthday presents), he came back a defeated man with nothing but pride and old grudges to his name.
He looked a little looser around the edges. Woody made sure to accommodate him as best was possible, even if the old grouch picked on him more than he ever had before.
Their relationship was strained, not broken. He would tell himself this time and again, one staff meeting after another where the Potato Head would make hurtful jokes and wisecracks he should've learned to deal with thirty years ago. He missed the days when they didn't bicker, "Where's-Dipstick-Where's-Carla-What-Did-You-Do-You-Should-Have-Stayed", or "I-Don't-Know-I-Was-Looking-Out-For-Myself-Leave-Me-Be-You-Moron". But those days were far, far gone, and the pullstring toy had given up hope that they would ever return. Tate was in Hamm's hands, now. The piggybank had an odd sense of humor, but he was loved amongst the toys.
Andy wasn't old enough to move out of the country quite yet, but Char's income was stable enough to allow them a bigger, better house nearer to Canada, where he had been transferred five years ago. The aged toy, the loyal wife, and the estranged son rarely saw him. He was a memory now, but a happy one. Someday, hoped the wooden doll, he would return. He could no more father Andy than his youngest sister, Molly, could. (Molly, an almost-happy-accident, had been a blessing in disguise. She'd brought that pretty pink lamp down from the musty old attic. Woody saw her peeking at him out of the corner of her eye every now and again.)
Now, a week before the move, he was busy organizing all the toys into an attempt at order from chaos. He didn't want anyone to have to spend an eternity trapped in a dank house with no one except that horrible child next door for company. It would be enough to drive even the sweetest of them all insane. His was a long, languorous battle, but he was winning – sort of like the games of Checkers he played with Slinky.
He was like a newer version of his old, canine friend. Loyal, trusting, sharp… He knew what he was getting into, and it had been a solid friendship from the start. Woody could no more imagine life without him than he could with the boy who was currently positioning boxes around his brightly-colored room, preparing for another one of his adventures with Sheriff Woody and One-Eyed Bart. New and old, old and new – it seemed like it was quickly becoming a reoccurring theme in the toy's life, but he had learned to accept it a long time ago.
Potato Head was picked up and given a small, bright green squirting gun that he held suspiciously fast to. Molly watched intently as Andy prepped the toys for their newest adventure, lined up perfectly in the order that they would be needed. Woody, as he always had been and always would be, was clutched in his right hand. He would be the One-Eyed Bart's downfall this time, that time, and every time after that.
Andrew Davis was no Charlie, even Woody could admit to that. But the imagination, the pure happiness that they brought to him was all the same. The games were all the same. The love was all the same, and so the not-man-but-toy named Woody was content to live his life, one way or another, as long as he and his new family were loved.
"All right everyone, this is a stickup! Don't anybody move!"
FOOTNOTES: What did you guys think? :3 I hope you enjoyed it; this will lead into a complete, total retelling of the Toy Story trilogy and then, after I've set up the re-canoned canon (xD), I'll start in on a series of my own. I hope you'll join me on that long journey, and I hope to see you there. Reviews and critiques, I would remind you, are always welcomed.