Leverage fic: (To Live Would Be) An Awfully Big Adventure
Title: (To Live Would Be) An Awfully Big Adventure
Fandom(s): Leverage
Rating: G
Word Count: 818
Summary: He’d repressed the memories, folded them neatly inside a box labeled Samuel in green crayon in the back corner of his mind, right next to the wood chest labeled Nathan and Maggie in silver calligraphy.
Author’s Notes: Response to the prompt “pots and pans” here.
(To Live Would Be) An Awfully Big Adventure
Sam was good at cooking. Or at least he tried to be, ever since Maggie had fallen asleep during a TV show and Iron Chef came on. As children are wont to do, Sam quickly entered a phase where every other request out of his mouth was something to do with food. He would see an infomercial about some useless item for the kitchen and want it; he would go over to a friend’s house and demand to make dinner for his parents because Mr. Fraser had taught him how to prepare chicken tikka masala. Nate was no expert on Scottish cuisine, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to look like that, except Sam’s face was not to be denied, so his parents obliged half-heartedly.
(It wasn’t terrible at the time, though it did cause them all to be violently ill the next day-Sam promised never to make it again.)
It’s not the dozens of failed attempts at cooking, however, that Nate remembers the most. It’s the smile on his son’s face as he held a too-big stirring spoon in his grubby hand while trying to mash potatoes; it’s the countless utensils and skillets and cookie sheets he’d managed to ruin and the ashamed expression afterwards that made Nate fix him up some ice cream; it’s the flour and cinnamon explosion in the kitchen when he attempted to make cookies; it’s the three of them, he, Maggie, and Sam, lying on the floor of that kitchen covered in the mess and laughing so hard their sides hurt.
One night, that night, Sam saw a vast presentation of smoked salmon and pan-seared scallops with a white wine complement and decided he wanted to do the same. (“Apple cider for you, young man,” Maggie had said.) Nate remembers having to convince him that he had to wait until after his trumpet lessons, needing to explain in gory detail what would happen to the brass if he blew half-masticated food into it, and thusly Sam had sullenly agreed to wait.
(Nate also remembers tearing the raw seafood to bits and churning them through the garbage disposal and smashing the white wine and apple cider over the counter; the kitchen smelled of overripe fruit for days.)
He’d repressed the memories, folded them neatly inside a box labeled Samuel in green crayon in the back corner of his mind, right next to the wood chest labeled Nathan and Maggie in silver calligraphy. There when he wanted to peer into it, which he rarely did.
The team knew to stay away from Nate every year on Sam’s birthday, even Sophie. Or, well, most of them. The first time Eliot had come down was happenstance, and he’d stayed in the opposite corner of the bar nursing some shots and a broken finger. He explained gruffly that the three others would press him about how the injury was doing, and this was refuge.
The second year was a poor excuse, something about Eliot running out of alcohol at his apartment, which Nate knew was entirely false given that the man had taken two cases of beer just three days prior. Eliot could drink anyone under the table, but even for him that was a bit much.
The third year, Eliot sat down a few barstools over but didn’t speak, really, just sat there and waited for Nate to kick him out. Nate couldn’t explain it, but he was somewhat glad for the hitter’s presence. The two of them had always had a certain rapport, a gruff but mutual respect for one another ever since Nate had told IYS he lost the thief for whom he was searching; he hadn’t, of course, told them the truth, that it was repayment for Eliot disarming four goons before they could shoot Nate in the head.
The fourth year, Eliot discovers Nate has barely avoided burning down his entire apartment, and when the smoke clears, Nate murmurs the name of the dish he’d been trying to create. “Sam made it, once,” is his only explanation, and though Eliot can’t claim he’s done the same, he’s pretty good at improvising, and together, in silence, they more or less reproduce the meal. While Nate rummages around for plates, Eliot quickly mixes a solution of saline and puts it in the pot. Nate mentions the saltiness, and Eliot shrugs.
An hour later, they’re both nauseas, and right before they’re forcefully rid of their carefully produced dish, Nate gives Eliot a nod of acknowledgement. Eliot figures a few hours of stomach upset is worth it.
The fifth year, Nate invites the team over for a game of Scrabble, and Nate and Parker are neck and neck but he lets her win because once upon a time he’d done the same with Sam. Parker’s resultant whoop of glee isn’t quite the same, but he smiles, and that’s enough.
Fandom(s): Leverage
Rating: G
Word Count: 818
Summary: He’d repressed the memories, folded them neatly inside a box labeled Samuel in green crayon in the back corner of his mind, right next to the wood chest labeled Nathan and Maggie in silver calligraphy.
Author’s Notes: Response to the prompt “pots and pans” here.
(To Live Would Be) An Awfully Big Adventure
Sam was good at cooking. Or at least he tried to be, ever since Maggie had fallen asleep during a TV show and Iron Chef came on. As children are wont to do, Sam quickly entered a phase where every other request out of his mouth was something to do with food. He would see an infomercial about some useless item for the kitchen and want it; he would go over to a friend’s house and demand to make dinner for his parents because Mr. Fraser had taught him how to prepare chicken tikka masala. Nate was no expert on Scottish cuisine, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to look like that, except Sam’s face was not to be denied, so his parents obliged half-heartedly.
(It wasn’t terrible at the time, though it did cause them all to be violently ill the next day-Sam promised never to make it again.)
It’s not the dozens of failed attempts at cooking, however, that Nate remembers the most. It’s the smile on his son’s face as he held a too-big stirring spoon in his grubby hand while trying to mash potatoes; it’s the countless utensils and skillets and cookie sheets he’d managed to ruin and the ashamed expression afterwards that made Nate fix him up some ice cream; it’s the flour and cinnamon explosion in the kitchen when he attempted to make cookies; it’s the three of them, he, Maggie, and Sam, lying on the floor of that kitchen covered in the mess and laughing so hard their sides hurt.
One night, that night, Sam saw a vast presentation of smoked salmon and pan-seared scallops with a white wine complement and decided he wanted to do the same. (“Apple cider for you, young man,” Maggie had said.) Nate remembers having to convince him that he had to wait until after his trumpet lessons, needing to explain in gory detail what would happen to the brass if he blew half-masticated food into it, and thusly Sam had sullenly agreed to wait.
(Nate also remembers tearing the raw seafood to bits and churning them through the garbage disposal and smashing the white wine and apple cider over the counter; the kitchen smelled of overripe fruit for days.)
He’d repressed the memories, folded them neatly inside a box labeled Samuel in green crayon in the back corner of his mind, right next to the wood chest labeled Nathan and Maggie in silver calligraphy. There when he wanted to peer into it, which he rarely did.
The team knew to stay away from Nate every year on Sam’s birthday, even Sophie. Or, well, most of them. The first time Eliot had come down was happenstance, and he’d stayed in the opposite corner of the bar nursing some shots and a broken finger. He explained gruffly that the three others would press him about how the injury was doing, and this was refuge.
The second year was a poor excuse, something about Eliot running out of alcohol at his apartment, which Nate knew was entirely false given that the man had taken two cases of beer just three days prior. Eliot could drink anyone under the table, but even for him that was a bit much.
The third year, Eliot sat down a few barstools over but didn’t speak, really, just sat there and waited for Nate to kick him out. Nate couldn’t explain it, but he was somewhat glad for the hitter’s presence. The two of them had always had a certain rapport, a gruff but mutual respect for one another ever since Nate had told IYS he lost the thief for whom he was searching; he hadn’t, of course, told them the truth, that it was repayment for Eliot disarming four goons before they could shoot Nate in the head.
The fourth year, Eliot discovers Nate has barely avoided burning down his entire apartment, and when the smoke clears, Nate murmurs the name of the dish he’d been trying to create. “Sam made it, once,” is his only explanation, and though Eliot can’t claim he’s done the same, he’s pretty good at improvising, and together, in silence, they more or less reproduce the meal. While Nate rummages around for plates, Eliot quickly mixes a solution of saline and puts it in the pot. Nate mentions the saltiness, and Eliot shrugs.
An hour later, they’re both nauseas, and right before they’re forcefully rid of their carefully produced dish, Nate gives Eliot a nod of acknowledgement. Eliot figures a few hours of stomach upset is worth it.
The fifth year, Nate invites the team over for a game of Scrabble, and Nate and Parker are neck and neck but he lets her win because once upon a time he’d done the same with Sam. Parker’s resultant whoop of glee isn’t quite the same, but he smiles, and that’s enough.