For anonymous

There are still times when Archer misses home.

Like now, the howling blizzards endlessly blasting against the castle walls, the windows revealing only suffocating white. Archer feels trapped.

While Bennet and all of the other Euphonians are completely unruffled.

Then Bennet says, “Come here,” and bundles him up in furs by a fireplace.

“I wasn’t cold,” Archer harrumphs.

“No, but you needed to feel cozy.” Bennet cuddles closer. The room is lit only by the fire.

It maybe does feel cozy.

“Will it ever stop snowing?” Archer asks.

“Yes. I promise.”

Okay, then, thinks Archer. Think of it as cozy.

For anonymous


The snow is everywhere. Heaped on their kitchen counters and piled in drifts along the river hallways. Arthur even finds it in his closet – although their bed has been spared.

“What is this?” he asks Eames. Their slightest movement sends synthetic sparkles drifting up into the air.

“Christmas decorations,” Eames answers distractedly, already on to greenery.

Arthur considers what to say. “It’s everywhere.”

“There was a blizzard.”

“It’s fake snow.”

“A fake blizzard.”

“It’s all over the kitchen counters. We use those.”

Eames gives him a look, says, “Do we, darling?” and runs off with arms full of pine boughs.

For rifleman_lincoln


Oliver studies the nativity closely. “I understand the baby and the parents and that one there is clearly a shepherd but who are those people?” He points.

“The three kings,” John answers. “Or the three wise men. Same thing.”

Sherlock snorts. “As if kings are ever wise.”

“You would say nobody is wise,” John retorts.

“I would be right.”

“What are they doing there?” Oliver asks.

“Bringing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”

Oliver says, “Those are stupid gifts for a baby, they’re clearly a pretense for their plan to murder him.”

Sherlock suddenly gives the nativity his full attention.

For kageillusionz

Eames is frowning in a way that Arthur has never seen before. Arthur tries to imagine what could cause that expression on Eames’s face. Eames is cool, calm, and collected no matter what shit is going down. The world must be ending somehow. A nuclear missile strike, the final ice sheets collapsing into the sea, something like this.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, stomach already sinking in dread.

“I have been invited to my niece’s sixteenth birthday party.” Eames brandishes the apparent invitation thunderously. “When the fuck did sixteen years go by! Impossible!”

Arthur doesn’t even try not to laugh.

For postynotemusing .

Matt says, “It’s a very unfortunate thing for me that, if I want to get this internship, I need references, and the only people I can use for a reference are…not exactly people.”

Brem looks at him without comprehension. “What’s a reference?”

Matt sighs. “Spoken like someone who has never had to have a job.”

“I have many jobs,” Brem retorts. “I have to help save the universe a lot. It’s a big job.”

“Doesn’t require references to vouch for how good you are at it.”

“I suppose I could line up a couple of Daleks. A Cyberman or two.”

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“I think,” says John, “that it’s a bad idea.”

“Of course it’s a bad idea,” Mycroft agrees drily.

Sherlock keeps fiddling around with his creation. “You always want me to be more festive. You always ask me to participate more in the family traditions.”

“I don’t ask that,” Mycroft denies. “Mother asks that.”

“And now I have finally taken an interest in the Christmas festivities.”

“Yes, but the Christmas festivity in question is lighting the pudding on fire,” John points out. “Using a special compound you developed yourself.”

“It’s a little experiment.” Sherlock shrugs. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

For anonymous.

“It’s the latest thing, Arthur,” Eames says. “It’s all anybody wants this year for Christmas.”

Of course Eames would know all about the hot gift, thrusting it into Arthur’s lap.

He studies it in confusion. “It’s…a weird monster stuffed animal holding…makeup?”

“Collectibles with skincare, darling.”

“You know I don’t approve of makeup yet,” Arthur grumbles, constantly resisting this aging shit.

“Not makeup, skincare.”

Arthur gives Eames a look.

“Anyway, she’ll be the most popular girl at school with one of these. Can’t find them anywhere.”

Well. That’s a telling sentence. “Where did you get this?” Arthur asks suspiciously.

Eames grins.