Primeval: Doing Lunch; Danny and Becker
Title: Doing Lunch
Prompt: Lunch
Characters: Danny Quinn and Hilary Becker
Summary: “You did breakfast,” He said. “I’m doing lunch.”
Warnings: none? cooking men?
Notes: This little ficlet is an offshoot of a fic that is yet to be posted. One of the team had shot Danny, and - no, I'm not going to tell you which, you'll have to read the fic when it's being posted - and after he's recovering, he's moved in with Becker. This little ficlet comes from the period of time when he's staying there.
Danny’s eyes went towards the clock - a quarter past twelve, and breakfast had been too early in the morning for him to survive another minute without something to eat. His eyes going towards the clock must have attracted his flatmate’s attention, because the soldier was standing in the next instant.
The ex-copper sighed. This was the part of this chair that he hated. It would have been simple if they’d let him stay on his own, or if Becker would let him go back to his flat. Not that he particularly wanted to go back to the solitude of his own flat, but doing so at least would have given him a clearer conscience about putting Becker through all of this.
“I’ll make lunch.” The soldier said, already opening the fridge and rifling through it.
“You did breakfast,” Danny said. “I’m doing lunch.”
“You can’t get out of the chair, Danny.” As if, somehow, he’d forgotten and needed the reminder. “Don’t be ridiculous.” The dark haired man was standing in front of the fridge as if it could somehow protect Danny from the horrors of having to reach to the second shelf of it for the jelly.
“Out of the way, or I’ll run over your foot. I will.”
“I’m not moving.” Becker’s resolution came with arms crossed over his chest and a determined expression, but Danny had had enough of sitting in the chair being helpless - thereby giving him the upper-hand on the determination scale. Plus, he had a few tricks up his sleeve. He always did. Life wouldn’t be any fun without just a few unfair tricks, would it?
“Should I start singing again?”
It worked; Becker made a face that clearly expressed he’d rather have put his head in the toaster oven. It was at this point that Danny knew he’d won.
The flatmate situation was working out well, except for the times when it wasn’t. These situations mostly included the fact that Danny couldn’t stand on his own - one of the main reasons for the temporary relocation in the first place - and the helplessness that situation employed. Danny Quinn was tired of being helpless. He could very well make himself and Becker lunch. What did it include, jars, bread, a butter knife? All of those he could reach without standing. The morning breakfast and the actual cooking it had called for had been a different thing. He’d conceded on that, mostly because it had been delicious.
But that was a different story. He was fixing them lunch, and that was the end of it.
He wheeled himself to the fridge as Becker moved away, leaning against the counter with an eyebrow raised. “Make yourself useful, yeah?” Danny quipped, opening the fridge and grabbing the strawberry jelly, before expertly wheeling back and closing the fridge. He’d gotten good at this, better than the day Becker had found him drunk at the bar, lamenting leaving his job and drinking himself into a state of being numb. “Put on the tea kettle.”
He watched Becker go to put on the tea kettle, vaguely amused as he took four slices of bread and set to work. It had been a long time since he’d actually felt useful, and if he was going to be staying at Becker’s flat he might as well not be the bum in the spare bedroom. His job was secure, he knew that, but it was the principle of the thing.
He couldn’t help but laugh - more full-heartedly than he had in awhile - when Becker took the sandwich and gave him the look. The look, the one that meant he was wondering if he was the only one who remembered something from that six hour period of time.
Danny refused to give him the satisfaction.