I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends.
So, like, charliehey is indulging me by writing me Leverage snippets through e-mail because she knows how bored I get at work and she is also made of puppies and rainbows and love. After she wrote this one, I begged her to let me post it because it is everything that makes me happy. She graciously agreed, so here it is.
Prompt: Team in the living room discussing the new case Hardison wants them to take on: saving Spock aka Leonard Nimoy. Let the Trek/Shatner jokes fly!
Title: The Vulcan Job
Author: charliehey
"And that is why we need to take this on."
For a moment, all was quiet. Then, a lone, brave voice spoke up. "Dammit, Hardison, we're not going to take on every last problem just because you're a nerd."
"Geek," Hardison said, pointing at Eliot with his remote. "I am a geek, get it right."
Eliot glowered, mumbling something vitriolic under his breath, but Parker raised her hand before it could devolve into further bickering. "Does this mean we all… have… to… talk… like… this?" she asked eagerly, swinging her legs back and forth.
Hardison gave her a withering look, for a moment utterly mystified at the lack of cultural knowledge within the team, and said, "No, Parker, that's Shatner. Shatner's got nothing to do with this. This is Leonard Nimoy. Damn, do any of you people watch anything good at all?"
Parker lowered her hand, frowning pointedly. Eliot rolled his eyes. Nate opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Then, closed it again.
Sophie looked between all of them, then cautiously said, "That's Spock, right?"
"Thank you!" Hardison cried, throwing his hands up.
Sophie grinned, pleased with herself, and Parker reached behind Eliot to give her a high five.
"Okay, Hardison," Nate finally said, standing up and sighing. "We'll take this one on. We could use an easier case."
Hardison frowned and shook his head. "No, no, I'm not letting you treat this like a vacation. Mr. Nimoy is getting screwed over by his lawyers, and this is very important, and you don't even understand, I did the Vulcan hand salute in my yearbook picture, this is vital."
Nate looked at him for a moment, a gamut of fatherly affection and confusion running over his features, before he finally clapped his hands together and said, "Okay. Let's go steal ourselves an Enterprise."
I'm good for the rest of the day now.
Addendum: More joy in ficlet-sized chunks.
Title: The Pretzel Metaphor
Author: charliehey
Parker sat cross-legged in the middle of the couch, a bowl of popcorn in her lap, a cartoon on screen, and a quietly amused Hardison a few feet behind her.
"Parker," he said, walking around the couch, revealing that he was carrying a white paper bag. She looked over at him, blinking several times, and then her eyes fell on the bag, and she put the bowl aside, instantly intrigued.
"Did you steal something?" she asked, hopefully, and when he shook his head and sat down beside her, she frowned. "Why not?"
"Because..." he started, then realized he didn't have an answer for her, and instead, he shook his head. "I just didn't. Here, open it." He handed the bag over to her, and cautiously, she opened it. And slowly, she extracted the secret from the bag: a pretzel the size of her hand, still warm from the cart Hardison had bought it from minutes earlier.
"A pretzel!" she exclaimed, turning it over in her hands several times, examining it like she was looking for its serial number. Hardison watched her expectantly, waiting, but no further exclamation came, and finally, he sighed.
"It's for you. To eat. They're much, much better than those little crunchy bar pretzels, I promise," he explained patiently, and she looked at him, a half-smile on her face.
"But I like the little crunchy bar pretzels," she said, gently poking his shoulder. He grinned for a moment before thinking a bit more, and his grin fell.
"What are you saying?" he asked suspiciously.
"What?" she asked, confused.
"What what? What are you saying about little crunchy bar pretzels?"
"I like them?"
They stared at each other for a moment, and then tentatively, Parker tore the pretzel in half, watching as steam rose from the chewy insides. She handed one half to Hardison, and said, "Pretzel?"
Slowly, Hardison took a bite, and then, seemingly remembering exactly who he was dealing with, grinned again.
"What do you think?" he asked, watching her nibble at her half. "Pretty good, huh?"
"Yes," Parker agreed, picking off a small cube of salt to eat separately.
"They're good for you," Hardison said loftily, relaxing back into the couch, tearing off bite-sized bits of pretzel to eat at his leisure.
"No they're not," Parker laughed, slapping his arm. "They're all salty and sugary and wheaty."
"Wheaty? Seriously?" he asked, then shook his head. "No, I mean, they're good for your heart." He thumped himself on the chest with a smile, and Parker furrowed her brow, looking closely at him.
"Really?"
"Yeah, like, they make you feel good?" he said, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh," she said, turning that over in her brain for a minute. Then, with a small smile, she reached over and stole one of the pretzel chunks from Hardison's fingers, popping it into her mouth with a triumphant glee. He watched her chew for a moment, then chuckled and shook his head.
"You're something else, Parker," he said, giving her a smile to show her that he meant it as a compliment. She smiled back.
"You're not really a cardiologist," she said, settling a little closer to him, waving her pretzel at him.
"That's true," he said with a laugh. "I am not a cardiologist."
Her smile grew even wider.
Title: The Lunch Conundrum
Author: charliehey
Nate woke to the very distinct aroma of garlic permeating his brain. He appreciated garlic as much as the next guy, but it wasn't the most pleasant thing to wake up to.
It took another five minutes of confused recumbency before he realized that cooking garlic meant there was a cook, which meant someone else was in his apartment when they shouldn't be. Of course, it was one of the team, and probably Hardison, too. And everyone knew that Hardison was banned from cooking anywhere near other people after the Shrimp Incident.
So with great internal complaint, Nate dragged himself out of bed and pulled on his robe, promising himself that he wouldn't be too hard on Hardison. Just this one time. He was feeling charitable.
As he walked downstairs, though, instead of seeing Hardison rifling around his kitchen, his trusted bottle of orange soda nearby, there was a very different sight greeting Nate's tired eyes: Eliot stood at the stove, back to the rest of the apartment, an apron tied around his waist and a wooden spoon in his hand.
For a minute, a good solid minute, Nate stood on the stairs, watching, his whole world view temporarily askew. Of course they all knew about Eliot's talent with food, but only when he was pressed and had to do it in a con, right?
Slowly, Nate descended the rest of the way, and when his foot landed on the floor, Eliot's shoulders tensed, and he said, "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."
Nate thought of several things he could say, but none of them seemed to fit, so instead he dragged himself to the bar and sat down, watching as Eliot swirled a saucepan, scraping the bottom of it with the spoon. There was a large pot on the burner beside, and Nate wasn't sure but he thought the oven was in use, as well.
"Eliot," Nate started, mindlessly patting the bar because if anything called for a drink, it was this whole situation, "are you baking?"
Eliot had no response for that other than a grunt. He lifted the saucepan from the stove, pouring its saffron-colored contents into a serving dish sitting nearby.
Nate looked over at the clock, noted that it was noon, and then looked back at Eliot.
"You like lobster, right? Parker said she doesn't like lobster," Eliot said, still not having turned around, and he made an additional noise of contempt at the idea that Parker wouldn't like lobster.
"I'm sorry, what?" Nate asked, looking at the now explained pot on the stove.
"You know how Parker is," Eliot said, finally looking over, his brow knit and a smudge of flour on his cheek. "Said she doesn't eat bugs."
Then he turned back around, and Nate sat up, studying him with an unfathomably deep well of confusion.
"I do know how Parker is," he murmured, wondering if this was secretly an attempt to assassinate them all with garlic butter sauce, or, and this was somehow impossibly more likely, if this was in fact Eliot's way of apologizing for keeping them in the dark.
Considering his own problems with just that, Nate had to smile, and instead of letting his confusion continue to speak, he said, "I love lobster, Eliot."
Eliot made an approving noise, and bent to check whatever was in the oven, and Nate shook his head in utter wonder and fascination at what his life had become.
Prompt: Team in the living room discussing the new case Hardison wants them to take on: saving Spock aka Leonard Nimoy. Let the Trek/Shatner jokes fly!
Title: The Vulcan Job
Author: charliehey
"And that is why we need to take this on."
For a moment, all was quiet. Then, a lone, brave voice spoke up. "Dammit, Hardison, we're not going to take on every last problem just because you're a nerd."
"Geek," Hardison said, pointing at Eliot with his remote. "I am a geek, get it right."
Eliot glowered, mumbling something vitriolic under his breath, but Parker raised her hand before it could devolve into further bickering. "Does this mean we all… have… to… talk… like… this?" she asked eagerly, swinging her legs back and forth.
Hardison gave her a withering look, for a moment utterly mystified at the lack of cultural knowledge within the team, and said, "No, Parker, that's Shatner. Shatner's got nothing to do with this. This is Leonard Nimoy. Damn, do any of you people watch anything good at all?"
Parker lowered her hand, frowning pointedly. Eliot rolled his eyes. Nate opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Then, closed it again.
Sophie looked between all of them, then cautiously said, "That's Spock, right?"
"Thank you!" Hardison cried, throwing his hands up.
Sophie grinned, pleased with herself, and Parker reached behind Eliot to give her a high five.
"Okay, Hardison," Nate finally said, standing up and sighing. "We'll take this one on. We could use an easier case."
Hardison frowned and shook his head. "No, no, I'm not letting you treat this like a vacation. Mr. Nimoy is getting screwed over by his lawyers, and this is very important, and you don't even understand, I did the Vulcan hand salute in my yearbook picture, this is vital."
Nate looked at him for a moment, a gamut of fatherly affection and confusion running over his features, before he finally clapped his hands together and said, "Okay. Let's go steal ourselves an Enterprise."
I'm good for the rest of the day now.
Addendum: More joy in ficlet-sized chunks.
Title: The Pretzel Metaphor
Author: charliehey
Parker sat cross-legged in the middle of the couch, a bowl of popcorn in her lap, a cartoon on screen, and a quietly amused Hardison a few feet behind her.
"Parker," he said, walking around the couch, revealing that he was carrying a white paper bag. She looked over at him, blinking several times, and then her eyes fell on the bag, and she put the bowl aside, instantly intrigued.
"Did you steal something?" she asked, hopefully, and when he shook his head and sat down beside her, she frowned. "Why not?"
"Because..." he started, then realized he didn't have an answer for her, and instead, he shook his head. "I just didn't. Here, open it." He handed the bag over to her, and cautiously, she opened it. And slowly, she extracted the secret from the bag: a pretzel the size of her hand, still warm from the cart Hardison had bought it from minutes earlier.
"A pretzel!" she exclaimed, turning it over in her hands several times, examining it like she was looking for its serial number. Hardison watched her expectantly, waiting, but no further exclamation came, and finally, he sighed.
"It's for you. To eat. They're much, much better than those little crunchy bar pretzels, I promise," he explained patiently, and she looked at him, a half-smile on her face.
"But I like the little crunchy bar pretzels," she said, gently poking his shoulder. He grinned for a moment before thinking a bit more, and his grin fell.
"What are you saying?" he asked suspiciously.
"What?" she asked, confused.
"What what? What are you saying about little crunchy bar pretzels?"
"I like them?"
They stared at each other for a moment, and then tentatively, Parker tore the pretzel in half, watching as steam rose from the chewy insides. She handed one half to Hardison, and said, "Pretzel?"
Slowly, Hardison took a bite, and then, seemingly remembering exactly who he was dealing with, grinned again.
"What do you think?" he asked, watching her nibble at her half. "Pretty good, huh?"
"Yes," Parker agreed, picking off a small cube of salt to eat separately.
"They're good for you," Hardison said loftily, relaxing back into the couch, tearing off bite-sized bits of pretzel to eat at his leisure.
"No they're not," Parker laughed, slapping his arm. "They're all salty and sugary and wheaty."
"Wheaty? Seriously?" he asked, then shook his head. "No, I mean, they're good for your heart." He thumped himself on the chest with a smile, and Parker furrowed her brow, looking closely at him.
"Really?"
"Yeah, like, they make you feel good?" he said, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh," she said, turning that over in her brain for a minute. Then, with a small smile, she reached over and stole one of the pretzel chunks from Hardison's fingers, popping it into her mouth with a triumphant glee. He watched her chew for a moment, then chuckled and shook his head.
"You're something else, Parker," he said, giving her a smile to show her that he meant it as a compliment. She smiled back.
"You're not really a cardiologist," she said, settling a little closer to him, waving her pretzel at him.
"That's true," he said with a laugh. "I am not a cardiologist."
Her smile grew even wider.
Title: The Lunch Conundrum
Author: charliehey
Nate woke to the very distinct aroma of garlic permeating his brain. He appreciated garlic as much as the next guy, but it wasn't the most pleasant thing to wake up to.
It took another five minutes of confused recumbency before he realized that cooking garlic meant there was a cook, which meant someone else was in his apartment when they shouldn't be. Of course, it was one of the team, and probably Hardison, too. And everyone knew that Hardison was banned from cooking anywhere near other people after the Shrimp Incident.
So with great internal complaint, Nate dragged himself out of bed and pulled on his robe, promising himself that he wouldn't be too hard on Hardison. Just this one time. He was feeling charitable.
As he walked downstairs, though, instead of seeing Hardison rifling around his kitchen, his trusted bottle of orange soda nearby, there was a very different sight greeting Nate's tired eyes: Eliot stood at the stove, back to the rest of the apartment, an apron tied around his waist and a wooden spoon in his hand.
For a minute, a good solid minute, Nate stood on the stairs, watching, his whole world view temporarily askew. Of course they all knew about Eliot's talent with food, but only when he was pressed and had to do it in a con, right?
Slowly, Nate descended the rest of the way, and when his foot landed on the floor, Eliot's shoulders tensed, and he said, "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."
Nate thought of several things he could say, but none of them seemed to fit, so instead he dragged himself to the bar and sat down, watching as Eliot swirled a saucepan, scraping the bottom of it with the spoon. There was a large pot on the burner beside, and Nate wasn't sure but he thought the oven was in use, as well.
"Eliot," Nate started, mindlessly patting the bar because if anything called for a drink, it was this whole situation, "are you baking?"
Eliot had no response for that other than a grunt. He lifted the saucepan from the stove, pouring its saffron-colored contents into a serving dish sitting nearby.
Nate looked over at the clock, noted that it was noon, and then looked back at Eliot.
"You like lobster, right? Parker said she doesn't like lobster," Eliot said, still not having turned around, and he made an additional noise of contempt at the idea that Parker wouldn't like lobster.
"I'm sorry, what?" Nate asked, looking at the now explained pot on the stove.
"You know how Parker is," Eliot said, finally looking over, his brow knit and a smudge of flour on his cheek. "Said she doesn't eat bugs."
Then he turned back around, and Nate sat up, studying him with an unfathomably deep well of confusion.
"I do know how Parker is," he murmured, wondering if this was secretly an attempt to assassinate them all with garlic butter sauce, or, and this was somehow impossibly more likely, if this was in fact Eliot's way of apologizing for keeping them in the dark.
Considering his own problems with just that, Nate had to smile, and instead of letting his confusion continue to speak, he said, "I love lobster, Eliot."
Eliot made an approving noise, and bent to check whatever was in the oven, and Nate shook his head in utter wonder and fascination at what his life had become.