The wind whipped around the corner forcing the wet and cold through the thin material of Clint's jacket in ice tipped needles. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself in a mostly vain attempt to protect himself from the ongoing meteorological assault.

Moving to the lee of a dingy building he stuffed his hands deep into his jeans pockets, hoping that this time some money would magically appear. All he needed was a couple of dollars to buy some coffee. It would give him an excuse to linger in one the run down diners he'd spotted earlier in his wanderings. Even if it tasted like battery acid and chewed his stomach to pieces at least he'd be warm. The trade off would be more than worth it.

"Are you hungry, friend?" Clint startled, looking around wildly at the nondescript older man who appeared to have materialized in front of him. "There's a soup kitchen just down the street. The menu is pretty humble, but the heater works well."

Clint shivered, longing coursing through his body at the thought of food and a chance to defrost if only for the space of a meal. He wasn't stupid though, he's heard the stories about what happened to people who blindly trusted strangers.

The man smiled, gentle yet with none of the naivete Clint had seen from other do gooders he'd run across. "My name is Phil. Phil Coulson." He offered Clint a plain business card that read,SHIELD Soup Kitchen and Men's Shelter. Phil Coulson - Director. At the bottom was an address that was less than two blocks away. "When you're ready. We'll be waiting." He smiled again then turned to walk away.

He'd gone two less than two feet when Clint called out. "Please. Please, I want to go."

Looking over his shoulder, Phil gestured for Clint to join him. "Good." He said, waiting for Clint to catch up before starting off again. "I appreciate you saving me the trouble of having to walk all the way back here."

Lucifer hovered behind Trixie uncertainly. "Should you be doing this? Should you even know how to do this?"

Trixie cast him an imperious look he recognized all too well from her mother, and then she cracked an egg into the fry pan. "Humans need to eat to survive, and Mommy said you weren't allowed to cook anything."

Lucifer sometimes ate food because it tasted good, but it was true, he often went for ages without it, because he didn't need it. He'd never bothered to learn to cook, because he didn't need petty charms to lure lovers into his bed.

"Do you need me to hold something? Help you?"

Trixie actually turned her nose up at him and fired up one of the burners with a whump and a sudden appearance of blue flame. "You don't even know how to cook."

Lucifer stared at her for a long moment, then said, "Teach me."

Children were frighteningly good at detecting insincerity, and Trixie gazed at him fiercely for a moment before she finally said, "Fine, but you have to wear the pink apron." She pointed to a drawer, and Lucifer fetched the apron, put it on. "How do you like your eggs?"

"Er..."

"Let's start with scrambled. It's hard to screw that up. Get me some cream from the fridge, and also some salt and pepper."

"Cream? But it's eggs."

"Don't you want them fluffy? Get me the cream."

Lucifer obeyed.

Trixie was right. A dash of cream really did make them fluffy.

“Wakey wakey.”

Sam groaned, “Go 'way,” eyes firmly shut.

(It was her first Mother's Day with the boys literally lightyears away and she fully intended to sulk from morning until night.)

“See, I'd let you stay here, all sad and pathetic, but unless you get up now, you're going to miss the annual Chef Rodney Berating.”

Awake in a nanosecond, both eyes locked on his, “What?”

Jack grinned at her. “Mazel tov, you've got three sons.”

But he grabbed her hand as she threw back the covers and tried to jump to her feet. “They wanted it to be a surprise—which I'm sure you realize since there was no leave request that came through your office, should talk to Chuck about that—so...”

“So we stick to tradition.”

And the pair of them, smirking like sneaky teenagers, padded their way from bedroom to staircase. Where they crept to the first landing, listening in on the standard O'Neill Triplets Mother's Day Argument #4 with Pegasus Variation.

“The shallot. No, not green onions. Shallot. Those are cocktail onions. Are you being purposely dense?”

“If you want to get technical...”

“Johnny, please don't get him started.”

There was the sound of a knife slicing through something, the scratch of the knife on the chopping board.

“Aw, but Danny, it's so easy.”

“That's it, neither of you get to eat brunch today.”

There was a sudden sizzle. Presumably Rodney had just set his choppings into the pan; the faint scent of butter and shallot floated up the stairs.

“You know, you say that every year and yet we still get the tasty, tasty fruits of your labor.”

“Not this year. There's some MREs in the basement. You can eat those.”

“Dad's twenty year old MREs? Are you trying to poison us?”

“I think he is.”

“See if I taste test your food next time there's a party.”

“I never ask you to taste-test my food!”

“Brotherly service! Making sure you don't get lemon-ed.”

“That's not a word! Danny, tell him that's not a word.”

One of the burners clicked until it lit and a pan scraped over it, then settled; there was the click of a utensil against the sides of a bowl—whisking of eggs.

“In this family, it is.”

“You two are the reason I'm balding, you know.”

“Me? It's all Danny.”

“Please. It's you and your heroics.”

“My heroics? It's your inability to stay with your team!”

There was a pause, then, Daniel spoke again. He sounded smug as he told Rodney, “You're not really balding. John's been gaslighting you about it thinning in the back.”

Another period of silence.

Then.

“Daniel George O'Neill, I am going to kick your ass.”

“Gotta catch me first!”

Sam and Jack leapt up, barely missing being run over as Daniel raced up the stairs with John a step behind.

“Morning, Mom!” Daniel shouted as he passed their parents.

“Happy Mother's Day!” John added. “Get over here, culus!”

“Oh, the curses you learned!”

“Dampnas iustum!”

Danny doesn't know why it's this that finally breaks him. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, the fact that their neighbor Ruth automatically assumed they were gay when Steve said he was Danny's partner, or just the frustration that comes from being around Steve 24/7 and isn't born entirely out of irritation.

Maybe it's five goddamn years of holding every feeling, every forbidden desire back and not being able to contain it anymore.

But Danny is secretly grateful that his partner decided to microwave an omelet so he has the disgusting smell of that to focus on instead of how hot Steve looks in that apron. And maybe if he concentrates on the workbook and crosses his legs, Danny can refrain from jumping his partner.

But the stupid workbook is making him think of Steve, and that's the last thing Danny wants. He needs to stop thinking of Steve entirely, at least in this way.

Danny knows there's something really wrong with him for wanting Steve so badly just because he put on an apron. Weirdly enough, it never bothered Danny that his eyes may have lingered on Steve too long whenever he took his shirt off. He could just attribute that to being not completely straight and not being blind either. It makes sense that Danny would notice Steve's muscles and tattoos. It also never bothered him that he noticed Steve when he wore a suit. The man did look like James Bond after all, and Danny could acknowledge that.

But Danny knows that he wouldn't find that purple, Hawaiian-print apron attractive on anyone other than Steve, and that's freaking him out more than a little. Because finding an admittedly good-looking man attractive in a suit or without a shirt is practically generic in how common it is, but this is strangely specific to him and Steve. And the fantasies the apron is conjuring in his mind aren't even that sexual. They're mostly sappy and domestic, actually. Seeing Steve in the apron makes Danny want to wake up with Steve every morning, eat breakfast with the guy (though hopefully something better than microwaved eggs), and watch him putter around their house in tacky aprons better suited to old cat ladies named Agnes.

Danny realizes what he just thought. Their house. Fuck, he wants to live with Steve, and for real this time, not just because Danny is looking for a better apartment or because they're stuck on a stakeout together. Hell, he basically wants to marry the guy, and he would have been more than willing to "pretend" to be gay with him and not just to protect their cover, and that means...

Shit, shit, shit! Danny is so royally fucked. The eggs, right! Danny can complain about the microwaved eggs.

Through the rising tide of panic, he manages to start a conversation with Steve about the eggs and the quiz in his "Perfect Partners" handbook. He mentions the next question, which is what Steve's passionate about. He's still freaking out about his recent revelation too much to make his typical jokes about Steve's love of grenades or whatever. He recalls Steve's excuse for the microwaved eggs and says that Steve is passionate about protein.

"Wow, you, uh, really peered into my soul there." And then Steve grins at him before taking a sip of his coffee, and Danny's heart races in his chest, way, way too fast. He feels like he can't breathe, like he's about to die in this apartment with Mr. Pickles and Steve.

Steve's smile disappears, and Danny's fear only spikes when he realizes that he probably just gave everything away with his face. He puts down his coffee and walks into the living room. He kneels in front of the couch and looks up into Danny's eyes with this concerned expression that makes Danny want to cry (although he's at least able to avoid doing that, thank God). "Hey, Danny, what's going on?"

Danny shakes his head quickly. "I'm fine, really. Go back to eating your gross excuse for a breakfast."

Steve frowns. "You don't seem fine. What's wrong?"

Everything. But Danny can't say that, so he just bites his lip and hopes that Steve gives up and goes away. Inside, he's laughing at himself, at how he's usually the one who would accuse Steve of being unwilling to open up about his feelings, and now he can't even talk about his. The role reversal is ironic and kind of depressing.

(follow up from yesterday's ficlet)

The smell of coffee pulled Timmy from a deep sleep and he surfaced slowly to find Dr. Watson curled up against him. Despite the fact that the dog knew better than to be on the bed Timmy patted him. He lay for a moment just drowsing until the sound of Donald's slippers on the stairs brought even more awake.

Silently the door swung open and Donald backed into the room, a tray carefully balanced in his hands. He set it down on the dresser then crawled onto the bed to kiss Timmy. "Good morning, beautiful."

When the kiss broke Donald gestured for Timmy to sit up while he retrieved the tray. Once it was settled he grinned then hurried out of the room, the words I'll be right back drifting after him.

Timmy had barely gotten the pillows arranged behind himself when Donald reappeared, a carafe, two coffee mugs and a bottle of syrup in his hands. He set them on the night stand before gently pushing Dr. Watson out of his space and down towards the foot of bed.

"You made pancakes." Timmy leaned back into the pillows he was using to prop himself upright and smiled as he reached for his glasses. "You should have woken me up. I would have helped."

"You do so much for me I wanted to do something nice for you. Besides, you looked too cute, I didn't have the heart."

"Oh, Donald." Timmy leaned in the for a kiss then reached for his fork. "Just being with you is the nicest thing."




Edited at 2017-02-08 06:28 am (UTC)

Filled here http://fan-flashworks.livejournal.com/774449.html

Elizabeth had always suspected they'd come out.

She just hadn't expected it to be in quite so spectacular a fashion—Medical Emergency! Dr. McKay's quarters!—or quite so public.

(“Elizabeth, I don't like this any more than you do.”

“So stop it.”

“I can't.”

“Then neither can I.”)

She also hadn't expected it to be so divisive.

---

“Are they... are they protesting?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, that is absurd.”

John shrugged in answer and Rodney looked back at the men and women on the pier, grumbling, “Where the hell did they find oak tag?”

---

The kitchen staff was closing up when Sheppard had come strolling in, all slouch shoulders and little-boy grin and Maartens caved when he asked, “Got anything left in the fridge of the chocolate variety?”

“I might, but it'll cost you, sir.”

He leaned in. “Oh?”

She leaned closer; behind her Anders rolled his eyes and shoved a cellophane wrapped bowl into the cooler. Maartens whispered, conspiratorily, “Lorne. I've been trying to get something from him for weeks.”

“If it's a date, I'm not sure I can help you.”

“No, sir. Chocolate chip macadamia cookies. I want his recipe.”

Sheppard's grin went lopsided. “That's a pretty hard request, but I think I can talk him into peanut butter jelly thumbprints.”

“Cinnamon oatmeal.”

“Cranberry pecan shortbread.”

Maartens stopped. “Oh, that is tempting,” she said, appeared to think it over, then added, “Deal. Let me go find the chocolate cookies.”

When she returned and passed him the plate, crinkle cookies piled neatly, he asked, “Nothing weird in these, right?”

She laughed. “No, sir. No Athosian berries this time, I promise.”

“Good. I think plain old chocolate is good enough tonight.”

---

---

“So... do we run?”

“Run, Rodney?”

“Well, I don't think anyone here wants to see him courtmartialed! So, yes, run—a 'jumper is all we'd need and a couple of allies and I can keep him safe until...”

Elizabeth glanced toward the door to her quarters, willing Radek to show up sooner rather than later. Then, interrupting him, she reminded him, “We're not runners.”

And Lorne murmured, “We're fighters,” as Ronon's barred teeth and Teyla's whiteknuckled grip on his arm spoke to their agreement.

John's surprise was equally as written on his face.

---

Rodney hated recovering from anaphylaxis: his head felt like it was filled with cotton and his throat ached, his hands itched from the epinephrine used to keep his heart beating.

He groaned as he forced his stiff neck to move, looking to the left then the right for either John, Carson, or water. The latter two floated into his blurry vision after a moment, and Carson told him, “I am outfitting everyone in three mile radius of you with epi-pens,” as he elevated the head of the bed.

“Ugh.”

“John's with Elizabeth. I'll call him down once you can speak proper English.”

Rodney growled, “Grghr.”

Carson pushed an ice chip into his mouth. He waited politely until it was melted before he asked, “How long have you and John been together?”

Wide eyes locked on his.

Edited at 2017-02-09 03:25 am (UTC)