Roughly On Par with the Cakemaker of Kiev

Another weird weekend and Hardison wasn't entirely sure what to do with it. Being a teen seemed a lot more fraught than being a little kid and that wasn't even taking getting beaten up by a tiny version of his boyfriend into account.

But that wasn't the main issue on his mind right now. Hardison was looking at the howling wasteland that was their kitchen and shaking his head. Tiny!Parker had kindly left some of his sodas behind during her burglary spree, but not much else.

"How'm I supposed to get breakfast?" Hardison asked Val, who was sitting by his feet. "No bowls, no fridge--I'm pretty sure she even stripped the countertops!"

Hopefully she hadn't gotten very far with their belongings, or Eliot was going to have to remodel their kitchen. Again.

[Open! Will pickup pings when I'm conscious again.]

After sending out the email to inform his students that class was most definitely canceled for the day, Hardison managed to pull on a pair of boxers and pad into the kitchen to make some sandwiches. They weren't all fancy, with special onions and homemade aoili or whatever (though there were heirloom tomatoes and dill havarti cheese because Hardison had learned some things over the years, whether he'd admitted it or not), but they were thick and filling. He let Val out into the yard while he prepped, 'accidentally' dropping a shred of turkey on the floor for her to grab on the way out, figuring she might appreciate both the snack and the ability to run around a bit after being housebound more than usual these past two weeks.

She came back in when he whistled, though (possibly because she was hoping for more turkey, but Hardison knew better than to chance it twice), and cheerfully padded along behind him as he carried a platter of sandwiches back to his partners. Sometimes spoiling the ones you loved meant hearty sandwiches on tangy sourdough bread and a puppy to cuddle.

[Open for housemates or phone calls]

It was Thanksgiving! The house smelled amazing too, like roasting turkey and sage and simmering apple cider and baking pies. Eliot had outdone himself in the kitchen this year, whipping up the creamiest mashed potatoes, the fluffiest stuffing, and even the crispiest egg rolls Hardison had ever seen. His own contribution was a platter of the croissant-variety Hot Pockets in various flavors.

Look, his TA had requested them and he was gonna provide, dammit.

Now they were finishing up the last few dishes, setting the table, and preparing for a delicious Thanksgiving meal. Not every member of their assorted families could be here today, but every person who was here was family in their own way. For Hardison, found family was infinitely more precious than people just related by blood. Each person had chosen to be here, to be part of this, and--

Shut up, he wasn't getting all misty-eyed. It was the dust. It got all up in his allergies.

[Up super-early I know, but holiday-related SP expected in a big way and also timezones! Sorry to anyone confused, but this post is definitely set for Thursday, Thanksgiving.]